Song of Oestend (28 page)

Aren had stopped shovelling, stunned by Deacon’s words. “I’ve never heard any of

that.”

“‘Course you haven’t. Don’t think those people at your fancy Lanstead school ever

stopped to ask the Ainuai how they felt about it.”

It made Aren ashamed, even though there was nothing he could have done about any

of it. “Go on,” he said.

“Well, towards the end, when the warriors was all but gone, the ones who was left got together. And they sang a song to the ancestors. They made marks on their skin to block them from the path to the sacred land. They promised to forsake their souls for the right to take vengeance on their enemy.”

“The settlers?”

“Yup.”

“So you’re telling me the wraiths are actually the damned souls of your ancestors?”

Deacon’s cheeks turned red. He ducked his head, pushing his hat down low. “Of Olsa’s

ancestors, yes.”

“And the wraiths don’t kill Annia—” He stumbled on the unfamiliar word. His tongue

didn’t even want to form the sounds.

“The Ainuai,” Deacon said. “Right. They don’t harm their own.”

“And that’s why they didn’t harm you?”

“I don’t know!” Deacon said with obvious annoyance. “Like I said, it’s just folk tales!”

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“But—”

“My ma was Ainuai. But nobody knows who my father is. No matter what Olsa says.

No matter what Jeremiah says. Nobody knows for sure.”

“Why else would the wraiths have taken Garrett and left you?”

Deacon shrugged. “No telling. But it ain’t the first time it’s happened. There’ve been men caught out in the dark on cattle drives, and some were taken and some weren’t, and every one of them was as light-skinned as you.”

Aren thought about that. He thought back on the story Simon had told Frances. “Simon

said that once Garrett walked right through the night to the outhouse. The men he was with were killed, but he wasn’t touched.”

“Exactly,” Deacon said, seemingly relieved that Aren understood. “Just ‘cause they left me once don’t mean they’ll do it again.”

Aren went back to shovelling straw and manure so he’d have an excuse to look away

before asking his next question. “Is there any chance somebody else can go?”

“I guess they could,” Deacon said, “but I’m the one knows what needs to be done.”

Aren heard Deacon’s footsteps on the floor of the barn as he came up behind him. He

wrapped his arms around Aren from behind and buried his face in Aren’s neck. “Hey,” he said quietly, “when was the last time you had a bath?”

Aren laughed. “Way too long ago. Why? You telling me I need one?”

“I know I do,” Deacon said. “There’s a great spot in the river on the far side of the south pasture.” One of his hands slid down Aren’s stomach to graze his groin, and Aren’s breath caught. The idea of bathing together was undeniably arousing. “What do you say?”

“Shouldn’t I finish this first?”

“Yes,” Deacon said. He reached around Aren and tried to take the pitchfork from his

hand. “But it’ll take you all blessed day.”

“You don’t need to do my work for me,” Aren protested, refusing to let go of the handle. He hated Deacon to think he was weaker than the other men.

“I know I don’t,” Deacon said as his lips brushed the back of Aren’s neck, “but we’ll get to the river a lot sooner this way.”

Aren laughed despite himself. “Fair point.” He let go of the pitchfork and turned to

look up at Deacon. “I can meet you there before supper?”

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“I’ll be there.”

Aren didn’t mind leaving the barn behind, but as he walked out of the door, he

wondered what he’d do in the hours before he was to meet Deacon. He was caught up with Jeremiah’s books. He could paint, but he knew there was other work to be done. Garrett had been one of the few hands who did more than his share of the work. Ronin and Simon were the only men who were as good as he had been, and grief had stolen some of Simon’s energy.

Aren knew the man would find his feet again eventually, but until he did, it felt like they’d lost three hands rather than one.

After the gloom of the barn, the warm sunlight that bathed his face seemed unusually

bright. The wind was blowing as it ever did, and the long grass swished and rustled like a song. The breeze came from the south and was warmer than usual. It smelt sweet, and Aren breathed deep, savouring the feeling of liberation that Oestend stirred in him. It still caught him by surprise every so often.

Aren heard laughter and the unmistakable sound of an axe on wood coming from the

side of the barn. He had no desire to go back inside on such a glorious day. He rounded the corner to find Ronin and Sawyer chopping wood. Red was probably supposed to be gathering the split pieces and carrying them to the shelter that kept the BarChi’s firewood dry. Instead, he was leaning against the side of the barn, watching his brother and Sawyer work.

“Looky here!” Red said when his eyes landed on Aren. “It’s the city boy!”

Aren laughed. The twins had been more friendly towards him since the incident with

the bull. Ronin was actually polite. Red, on the other hand, liked to goad him, but Aren had realised it was meant to be friendly. He wasn’t exactly sure when or why the twins had decided to be nice to him, but he certainly didn’t mind.

“You guys need a hand?” Aren asked, eyeing the pile of wood that Red still hadn’t

carried to the pile.

“Not from you,” Sawyer said.

Aren turned to him in surprise, but Ronin laughed. “Don’t listen to him, Aren,” he said.

“He’s had his knickers in a knot all blessed day.” He turned to look at Sawyer. “What’s your problem, anyway?”

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Sawyer didn’t answer, but Red did. “I think that cow he favours finally kicked him

when he tried to sneak up behind her,” he said, and he and Ronin laughed. Sawyer’s cheeks turned red and his jaw clenched. Aren felt himself blushing at the crude joke and was glad the twins were too engrossed in ribbing Sawyer to notice.

“Not like it’s big enough she’d notice when you slipped it in,” Ronin said. “Must have been you slapping her on the ass when you came that did it.”

Aren’s cheeks burnt hotter than before. Red, who was standing next to Aren, was

doubled over with laughter. Sawyer drove his axe through a log with a muffled curse, which only caused the twins to laugh harder. Aren tried to will the blush away from his cheeks, wondering if he’d lose what respect he’d managed to earn from Red and Ronin if he simply walked away.

He looked away from Ronin, who was still laughing, and Sawyer, who was still

furiously chopping wood, and he saw what nobody else did—Dante, who had just rounded

the corner of the barn and was walking up to them, his face livid, and his strides long and determined.

Ronin and Sawyer had their backs to him, but next to Aren, Red said, “Speaking of

somebody whose knickers are in a knot.”

Ronin and Sawyer barely had time to turn before Dante reached them.

“What’s up?” Ronin asked Dante, still smiling.

Dante didn’t answer. He raised his right hand and Aren’s heart skipped a beat when he saw the gun in it.

Boom!

The barrel of the gun had been a mere inch from Sawyer’s forehead. His head jerked

back. The back of his skull exploded in a mess of blood and tissue. Next to Aren, Red’s face was a mask of surprise as he was splattered with gore. There was a dull thud as Sawyer’s lifeless body hit the ground.

“Mother fuck!” Ronin swore. Red was cursing and spitting, trying to wipe the mess

from his face and neck.

Deacon rounded the corner of the barn at a run. He stopped short, his eyes quickly

taking in the scene—Ronin and Dante standing over the body, Red cursing, and Aren

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standing in numb shock. “What happened?” Deacon asked. His voice wasn’t normal. It was far shakier than usual.

“Same thing that always happens,” Dante said. He didn’t even look at Deacon. He

turned and walked towards the house, the gun at his side.

Deacon took a deep breath as if to steady himself, and Aren wondered if he was the

only one who noticed how much the shooting had shaken him.

“Red,” Deacon finally said, “all you’re doing is making it worse. You’ll need water.”

Aren glanced at Red and felt his bile rise. The man’s face was covered in blood. His

attempts to wipe it away had only smeared it further. Aren looked quickly away, willing his stomach to behave. He didn’t want to be the one man who retched.

“Ronin,” Deacon went on, “start digging the grave.”

“You got it, boss.”

Red and Ronin walked away, both shaking their heads. Once they were gone, Deacon

leant back against the side of the barn. He covered his face with his hands, and as he did, Aren saw how they shook.

“Are you all right?” Aren asked. He was surprised that Sawyer’s death would rattle

Deacon so much.

“I thought it was going to be you,” Deacon said, his voice muffled by his hands. “You walked out of the barn door, then I saw Dante walk by and I heard the shot…” He leaned over and put his hands on his knees, as if he was about to be sick. “I thought for sure I was going to find you lying in the dirt.”

“I haven’t been rolling with Daisy,” Aren said. “He has no reason to hate me.”

Deacon laughed shakily, standing up straight again to look at Aren. “You’re giving him too much credit. He ain’t always rational.” He reached out and grabbed Aren’s arm to pull him closer. He put his hand behind Aren’s neck and put his lips against Aren’s forehead.

“Blessed Saints,” he whispered, “you have no idea how scared I was.”

Was it horrible to feel a small rush of joy at Deacon’s words while a man lay dead on the ground behind him? Aren wasn’t sure.

People were coming from the house. The barn blocked them from sight, but Aren could

hear their footsteps against the hard earth as they ran across the courtyard. Deacon

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apparently heard them, too, because he let Aren go, stepping away from him, turning to face Jay, Daisy and Tama as they came around the corner.

“It’s Sawyer,” Deacon said, and Aren saw that the big cowboy’s eyes were dead on

Daisy as he said it. The woman barely flinched.

Tama also turned to look at Daisy, but whether it was disgust or pity or condemnation in her eyes, Aren wasn’t sure. She turned quickly away and headed back to the house.

“I sent Ronin to start digging the hole,” Deacon said to Jay. “Get done quicker if you help him.”

Jay nodded, his gaze still lingering on the body on the ground. “No problem.” He

turned and followed his wife.

Only Deacon, Aren and Daisy were left. Deacon turned to Aren. “See you before

supper?” he asked quietly. “Where we said?”

“Yes,” Aren said. He found it hard to believe their conversation about a bath had been only minutes before. It felt as if ages had passed since they’d been standing in the barn together. Aren had no great love for Sawyer, but he’d rarely seen death close up.

“You all right?” Deacon asked him.

Aren shook himself, trying to find his footing. He looked down at the body, only a few feet away. Sawyer’s eyes and mouth were both open, a look of mute horror frozen on his face. Although his head lay in a giant pool of blood, from the front there was only a small, red hole to testify to the means of his death.

“Aren?” Deacon asked.

“Yes!” Aren said, tearing his gaze away. He forced himself to look at Deacon. Deacon, who was alive and warm and who had come running for fear it would be Aren he’d find on the ground with the hole in his head. Deacon, who seemed to care about him in a way nobody ever had before. “I’m fine,” Aren said, and as he said the words, he knew they were true. “I’ll see you at the river.”

Deacon hesitated for a moment, watching Aren as if trying to determine whether or not he was lying. Finally, he nodded and walked away.

Aren watched him go. Next to him, he heard a sniffle. He turned to find Daisy looking down at the body. There were tears on her cheeks, but if she was racked by grief or guilt, there was no hint of it in her manner.

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“Did you love him?” Aren asked.

Her head snapped up. She looked at him for a moment as if she’d forgotten he was

there—as if she had no idea who he was—then she shook her head. “No,” she said. “He was a means to an end.”

Her cold detachment caused anger to stir in his breast. “To
this
end?” he asked. “Is this what you wanted?”

“Of course not,” she said. “I had no reason to want him dead.”

“But knowing it could end this way wasn’t enough to stop you from fucking him.” It

was more a statement than a question.

Her gaze on him was level and although she looked sad, there was no apology in it.

“Have you ever loved someone who didn’t love you back?”

Had he? Aren wasn’t sure himself. At one point, he’d thought he loved Dean

Birmingham. He’d hoped Dean loved him, too. Now, in hindsight, he wasn’t sure he’d been correct on either count. “No,” he told her.

“Wait until you have before you judge me.”

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Sawyer was already in the ground by the time Aren met Deacon for a bath. The river

water was too cold to stay in for long, and certainly too cold to allow proper functioning of critical body parts, but despite the horror of the day—or maybe because of it—they had fun.

Deacon unbraided his hair and they washed each other as quickly as they could. They should have climbed out of the pool then, but instead they played like boys, dunking each other until they heard the supper bell in the distance, calling them home. They dried off as well as they could while shivering, and finally walked back to the kitchen for supper.