Song of Oestend (3 page)

his head. “If it’s dark, the wraiths can come. Only a fool relies on the moon to protect him.”

“But we’re safe as long as we’re indoors?”

“Might be safe enough if everything’s locked down tight, but the only way to be sure is to be inside the net.”

“What net?”

“You seen the wards, right? Over the doors and windows?”

“Yes.”

“Used to be the wards was enough. But over the years, they stopped working. Don’t

ask why,” he said, glancing at Aren. Aren snapped his mouth shut on the words, which had already been halfway out of his mouth. “Nobody rightly knows. But then along came a man figured out how to fix it.”

“By making a generator?”

“Exactly. The generator connects them all. Makes a net the wraiths can’t get through.”

“Like a fishing net?”

“Well, you can’t actually
see
the damn thing, but I guess it’s the same idea.”

“So as long as the generator’s on, it’s safe to walk outside between the buildings?”

“Wouldn’t recommend it,” Deacon said. “They say wraiths can get through the net if

they want to. They just don’t like it. Long as we’re all indoors, they got no reason to bother.

But you go walking around in the dark, they may just decide it’s worth a try.”

“What do the wraiths look like?”

“Can’t really say. Never seen one. If you watch out a window, you can’t see much.

Things blowing around in the wind, dust devils. Some people think they’re in the wind.

Some people say they’re invisible.” He shrugged. “I only know they’re there. Seen enough people they’ve killed to know it ain’t a story.”

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“How do they kill you?”

“Can’t really say that, either. Never any blood or wounds. Bodies are blue, like they suffocated, or froze to death.”

“What about animals?”

“What about them?”

“How do you keep the cattle safe? Do you have to bring them all in each night?”

“Wraiths only kill people.”

“Why?”

“Saints, I don’t know!” Deacon said, although there was something in his voice that

made Aren wonder if he was telling him the truth. “That’s just the way it is.”

The maids returned with cold ham sandwiches and a jug of milk. Once Deacon and

Aren had eaten, the flirting recommenced. Aren quickly realised he would have been better off taking his chances with Beth and Alissa. Now that he had effectively classified himself as closer to Deacon in social standing, and the daughters were out of sight, the maids seemed to have decided he was fair game. Deacon was still their first choice, he could tell, but the two who seemed to be getting the least attention from the tall, handsome ranch hand had turned their efforts towards Aren. And they were frighteningly aggressive.

“Really,” Aren tried to tell them, “I can’t do this.”

“Sure you can,” the bolder of the two said. She was unbuttoning his pants, and the

other was undoing yet another button on her own shirt.

“No, honestly, I’d rather just go to sleep.” He was trying to block their wandering

hands, but between the two of them, he couldn’t seem to fend them off fast enough. “Ladies, I think—”

“The ‘ladies’ went inside,” the other girl told him, as he blocked yet another attempt at his groin. “It’s just us here now.”

“Lacy and I can do it together, if you want,” the first one said.

“No. I can’t—”

He gasped as he felt bare fingers push into his pants and fondle his mostly limp cock.

Lacy looked up at him in surprise. “Don’t you like us?” she asked.

“Of course!” Although he wasn’t sure that was entirely true. “But I can’t do this—”

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“I thought you meant you’d taken an oath or something,” Lacy said, still trying to coax his penis to life. Of course, now that their attention was on it, it seemed to be shrinking. Aren wasn’t sure if he was relieved or dismayed. “Did you have some kind of accident?”

“Yes!” he said, suddenly seeing a way clear of them. “Yes, a horrible accident. It’s really embarrassing—”

“You poor thing!” the other cooed, kissing his neck. “Maybe if we try a bit harder—”

“No!” he said, then worried he’d sounded a bit too relieved. “No,” he repeated, this

time with more solemnity. He did his best to look sad and embarrassed. “It’s a terrible reminder of what I’m missing. It’s depressing, really, and I’m very tired.”

“Well,” Lacy said, and both girls looked over to where Deacon was still flirting with one of the maids. The other had apparently given him up as a lost cause. “If you’re sure…”

“Very sure!” he assured her. “Thank you, really, but it’s not a possibility. You

understand.”

As ridiculous as the ploy had been, it worked. The girls had obviously lost interest in him already. They let him go, returning to Deacon’s side, much to the obvious annoyance of the girl who thought she’d secured her prize. Aren sighed with relief and took himself as far away as he could get within the confines of the McAllen barn.

He fell asleep quickly, but was awakened some time later, although at first he couldn’t figure out why. The night before, the wind had been howling like crazy, but tonight there was only the low whine of the generator, and Aren quickly started to wish the wind would start to blow again.

A few stalls down, Deacon was obviously being entertained by one of the maids. Aren

could hear them. He could hear their heavy breathing, Deacon’s moans and the girl’s little gasps of pleasure. He tried for a while to ignore them. He didn’t want to eavesdrop. He didn’t want to be aroused by the sounds of their lovemaking. But it seemed the more he strained to
not
hear, the more he
did
hear, and whether he wanted it or not, the sounds were turning him on. His cock was hard, aching, straining against his pants. Aren tried not to think about the last time he’d had sex, at university nearly two months before. He tried not to think about being blindfolded, bent over a table, having one man’s saltiness shooting into his throat as another man pounded into him from behind. He tried not to think about the shame SONG OF OESTEND

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of going to classes the next week, wondering which of the professors had been there,

wondering how many of them had used him.

It seemed it had always been that way—men using him, and him letting himself be

used. At boarding school, the boys who were so inclined had quickly discovered Aren’s proclivities. In the light of day, in the crowded hallways of the school, those boys had always scorned him. But in the black of night they’d be there, groping their way into his bed. Once he was at the university, it had been the same. It hadn’t taken Professor Dean Birmingham long to learn the same thing those boarding-school boys had known—Aren was an easy lay.

But Aren didn’t want to think about university. He didn’t want to think about how

many times he’d lain there with his legs over some man’s shoulders, loving it, yet hating himself at the same time. He especially didn’t want to think about Dean.

Aren thought instead of Deacon. He listened to the deep moans coming from the other

stall as he released his cock from his pants and stroked himself. He tried not to think about whichever maid Deacon was with or whether she had her legs wrapped around him. He thought only of Deacon’s body, and his cock, and the way his dark eyes probably looked when he climaxed. Aren turned onto his stomach, thrusting into his own hand against the clean straw. The straw was rough and itchy, but his hand was warm and soft. The sensation of pushing through his own fist into the cool straw was a new one, and Aren revelled in it.

“Harder,” Deacon’s maid called out, and although she wasn’t talking to him, Aren

obliged her. He thrust harder into his fist, imagining Deacon underneath him, imagining as he so often did what it must feel like to be on the giving end instead. And when he heard Deacon’s cry of release, Aren spent himself into the straw, breathing hard.

It wasn’t until long afterwards that he stopped to wonder if Deacon and the maid had

been able to hear him, too.

They left early the next morning, mostly because Aren hounded a very amused Deacon

each step of the way.

“Why you in such a hurry to get away?” Deacon asked. “That Daughter didn’t propose

already, did she?”

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“No!” Aren said. “And I’d just as soon not give her another chance, if you don’t mind!”

“Maids’ll be around later, too,” Deacon said with a wink. “Seems like you changed your mind about one of them last night. Sure you don’t want to take one more roll before we go?”

“Quite sure!” Aren said, and even though he knew he was blushing, he didn’t turn

away. “Will you please finish hooking up those damn horses already?”

“Keep your pants on!” Deacon said, then laughed at his own joke. “Guess that’s the

point of cutting out so early, isn’t it?”

Aren bit back a sigh of frustration. “If you’re so desperate to lift one of their skirts again—”

“Calm down!” Deacon pushed his hat further down on his head and turned away. Was

he actually embarrassed? Aren was surprised and more than a little pleased that he’d

somehow managed to make Deacon uncomfortable. “We’ll be set to go in no time, if you quit nagging me.”

Aren breathed a sigh of relief when they finally left the McAllen ranch behind. He’d

never in his life imagined finding himself in a place where he had to fend off women.

“Is the BarChi like that, too?” he asked Deacon.

Deacon shook his head. “BarChi’s a male ranch.”

The phrase made Aren think of corrals full of young men, and he laughed out loud. He

could never hope to be
that
lucky. But the thought bloomed in his imagination, as thoughts often did, turning into a picture on canvas—buff, tanned cowhands like Deacon, standing naked in the corral, chewing on straw. Was there a market for cattle like that? Aren laughed again and Deacon turned to him in surprise, causing him to quickly bite back his laughter.

“I’m sorry,” he said, making an effort to compose himself. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“McAllens have daughters. Five of them total, but one died and one they got married

off to one of Jeremiah’s Sons at the BarChi, and the third one’s still awful young, which is why she wasn’t out courting you last night like the other two were. With daughters around like that, a man’d be a fool to keep too many ranch hands around. One of those daughters would be bound to end up in a bad way. Ranch hand can’t afford to keep a family, but a father can’t marry her off to any respectable son after she’s proved to not be pure. Best she could do is convince the man who knocked her up to run off to the mines with her, and that ain’t much of a life, from what I hear. So a man with daughters hires maids to work the SONG OF OESTEND

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ranch. They can’t work as hard as men, but they don’t get as much pay either, so he can afford to hire more of them. And that way, he sure don’t have to worry about any unwanted grandchildren to feed, either.”

“But the BarChi is different?”

“Jeremiah’s got all sons. Not many men with that kind of luck. ‘Course, they’re all

married now, and their wives are there with them at the BarChi, and Jeremiah got nice dowries for them all, I’m sure.”

“But you’re not married?”

“I don’t own any part of the BarChi. I’m just a ranch hand, and hands don’t marry

daughters.”

“But you can marry the maids?”

Deacon shrugged, which Aren was realising was one of his primary forms of

communication. “I suppose,” he said. “But can’t afford to support a family on what Jeremiah pays me and don’t have a house to keep a wife.” Another shrug. “Marrying a maid would be more trouble than anything.”

“So the maids at the BarChi—”

“You don’t listen.” Deacon pushed his hat back to glare at Aren. “There’s no maids at the BarChi. Just like a man with daughters is better off with no hands around, a man with sons is better off with no maids around. ‘Cause if one of his sons gets a maid in a bad way, father’s got an extra mouth to feed and no dowry to make it worthwhile. Only women at the BarChi are the son’s wives, and old Olsa.” He shook his head and chuckled. “A man’d have to be in a pretty bad spot to roll with Olsa. She must be near eighty years old by now.”

“What if a man has both sons and daughters?”

Deacon laughed. “I guess he’s in a world of trouble, then,” he said. “Have to weigh

pregnant maids against pregnant daughters.” He shook his head. “I’m no father, so I can’t say which is worse.” Deacon looked over at Aren appraisingly. “Every man with a daughter to marry off will be looking at you, waiting to see what happens.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like I told you yesterday—waiting to see if you last. ‘Cause if you do, good chance

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build one as part of the dowry. You stick around and don’t go running off scared, you’ll be the most eligible bachelor around.”

“Holy Saints, that sounds like hell.”

Deacon laughed. “I suppose,” he said. “Still, a man can get pretty lonely. A few months with no women, you might be surprised what you’ll decide to do.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“What’s that mean?” Deacon asked.

“I’ve managed on my own this long. I think I can take care of myself a bit longer. My hand doesn’t pay me a dowry, but I don’t have to build a house for it, either.” He was surprised to find he could say those words to Deacon without blushing, and he was pleased when Deacon laughed. Deacon was handsome enough normally, but he was absolutely gorgeous when he laughed. His eyes crinkled and his teeth flashed white against his dark skin. And sitting there next to him, bumping down a rutted dirt farce of a road in a creaky old wagon, Aren realised he felt good. More than that—he felt
free
. He wasn’t sure he’d ever felt so light before. It made him laugh out loud. He felt giddy, almost drunk. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so
present
, or been so pleased to be wherever he was, doing exactly what he was doing. The prairie stretched out endlessly on every side. The sky somehow seemed bigger and bluer than it ever had before. The sun was bright and felt warm on his face. For the first time, Aren started to think maybe he’d made the right decision after all.