Whiskey Dreams (2 page)

The journey to Brom’s farmhouse was short, and as he rode at a slow pace with John walking at Torben’s side, they made light conversation. Brom learned that John had been born and raised in Connecticut, and told him that he’d been born in New York, and that most of the time he’d spent outside the state had been on the battlefield. They were soon interrupted by a slight female figure, a farmwife from the property that bordered Brom’s.

“Good morning, Mrs. Linden,” Brom said, dismounting at the edge of his own property. “What brings you here?” he asked, though it was obvious – she carried a large basket, and a mouth-watering smell drifted from inside.

She beamed at him, raising her snowy white brows. “My usual errand. I’m afraid I’ve baked one too many pies again, and if I don’t find someone to enjoy it, it will spoil.”

Brom was careful to maintain a neutral expression as he nodded, as if he actually believed that Mrs. Linden had accidentally gone through the effort of baking something she and her husband couldn’t possibly eat. Ever since the recent death of Brom’s mother, several of the nearby farmwives had taken it upon themselves to supply him with a fairly steady stream of food. Mrs. Linden had been among the first to do so, and had taken to pretending that he was doing her a favor by accepting her offerings. He knew better, but she’d been stubborn when he’d tried to say so and thank her, so he simply accepted the charade. “It smells delicious; you can rest assured that it won’t go to waste.” He smiled at the naturally petite woman, who’d been made even smaller by age.

She beamed back at him before handing over her basket and turning to John, surveying him with an undisguised expression of curiosity. “And who might this be?”

Brom nodded toward John as the basket warmed his hands. “Mrs. Linden, allow me to introduce you to John Crane, the new schoolmaster.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Linden.” John took her hand and made a small bow, all charm as he introduced himself and engaged in polite small talk with Mrs. Linden, who nodded frequently, her dark eyes sparkling as they chatted. When she finally concluded their conversation, she hurried in the direction of her home with speed that belied her age, doubtlessly eager to start spreading the word that the new schoolmaster had arrived.

Brom stalled Torben and welcomed John inside his home, silently thanking God for Mrs. Linden and her transparent acts of charity. The only other food Brom had in the house was a crude stew that hung over the fire, one he’d made himself. Fully aware that his culinary skills were in dire need of improvement, Brom scrounged up a few utensils, and he and John sat down at the rough wooden table in the kitchen, the pie between them. John must have been famished, for he ate like a man who’d skipped the past several meals. “Amazing,” he said, extending his tongue to lick away a crumb from his lower lip.

Brom nodded as John started on his third slice, not trusting himself to speak. God, but the man’s lips were perfect. And the sight of his tongue peeking from between them, pink and glistening…

Brom gripped his fork and shoved one last bite of pie into his mouth as the curious feeling he’d experienced at the blacksmith’s gripped him again; as he watched John, he felt in imminent danger of giving in to the ache of desire inside himself and doing something foolish. “You’ll have to excuse me; I’ve much to do,” he said, rising quickly and forcing his chair backward. “You’re welcome to rest in one of the spare rooms upstairs, and to help yourself to anything in the house.” There wasn’t much to be had, other than the pie, but there was no time to explain that. Brom scarcely waited until John had nodded his understanding to exit through the kitchen door, stepping outside where he was buffeted by a light spring wind as he made a beeline for the barn.

Inside, the cool air and deep shadows were a welcome sanctuary. Brom leaned against the door of an empty stall, squeezing his eyes shut and drawing a deep breath as he ran a hand over the front of his breeches, incredulously confirming the hardness he could feel growing beneath, throbbing with each slightly-elevated heartbeat. He was thirty-one years of age – far too old to be sent running into the shadowed privacy of the barn by a spark of heat and a set of perfect lips.

 He pulled his hand away from his cock, grasping blindly along the wall at the pieces of tack that hung there from hooks. When he opened his eyes, he held a leather bridle, the steel bit cool as it brushed his thigh. He’d work a while with the green two-year-old horses in his charge – all day, if he had to. The new schoolmaster – John – would be gone by the time he returned to the house, and he could retire into its familiar emptiness, as always.

****

Brom made good use of all the day’s light, returning from the stable only when the sun had sunk low, streaking the sky with pink and purple stripes. The house felt overly-warm compared to the cool spring evening outdoors – stiflingly hot. He loosened his cravat as he crossed the kitchen and climbed the stairs, eager to shed it and his waistcoat before he sat down to supper. In his bedroom, he tossed it aside, unbuttoning his waistcoat and throwing it onto the bed. There was a wash basin in one corner, and he used it to rinse his face and hands, washing away the dirt and scent of horses that lingered on his skin. It had been a productive day – he’d compensated for sleeping late. Why, then, did he feel so ill at ease?

An undeniably melancholy feeling plagued him as he stood, looking toward the window and watching the sun set in a slow blaze of colorful light. Unbidden, the image of John, with his full lips and grey eyes, rose to the surface of his thoughts. He’d been suppressing thoughts of him all day, refusing to contemplate his instant attraction to the man, or to relive that moment when he’d sat across from him at the table, watching him blithely lick his lips. Of course, John had no idea that the simple motion had awoken feelings within Brom that he hadn’t felt in over two years – at least, not outside of his dreams.

For a moment, Brom resisted the urge to reach down and pull open the drawer of the bedside table. It wasn’t long before he succumbed, seizing the handle and revealing the pathetic treasure inside.

 He picked up the green ribbon and stroked its surface, the silkiness of it unbelievably soft against his calloused palm and fingertips. He refused to allow the memories it conjured to come back to him in any semblance of clarity; instead, he let them build into a vague sense of dull anger and unsatisfiable desire. As he clutched the ribbon, a distinct
thump
sounded from somewhere within the house.

Brom tensed, closing his fist so tightly that his short nails dug into his palm, hard crescents biting into rough skin. The silence was absolute, until it was broken by more noise – a slight rustling, and then, a second
thump
. He quickly returned the ribbon to its hiding place and shoved the drawer shut before slipping out of the room, entering the hallway without making a sound.

The noise had come from somewhere on the second floor. There were two other bedrooms besides Brom’s – whoever had made the sounds had to be in one of them. Brom’s muscles tensed involuntarily, and a sense of anticipation made his skin prickle. Who was lurking in his house or what they wanted, he had no idea, but it had been a long time since anyone had occupied either of the rooms, and the sound of it was unsettling. His hands were clenched into hard fists, and as he approached the door of the first spare bedroom, he raised them.

The door swung inward with a faint creak, revealing the empty chamber that had belonged to his mother. A slightly stale scent met his nostrils, the subtle odor of a room purposely left closed and never entered. As Brom surveyed the abandoned quarters, his heart slowed just a little. Nothing had been touched; this was the first time anyone had been inside the room since she’d died a month ago. Turning on his heel, he made his way toward the last bedroom. There, he’d come face to face with the intruder.

He gripped the cold steel knob and turned it, stepping into the room.

A bed took up most of the chamber, and John Crane sat on the edge of it, both of his feet on the floor. He’d shed his waistcoat and shoes, though he still wore the rest of his clothing. At least half of his hair had come loose from the tail he’d tied it into, and he blinked at Brom with eyes that weren’t completely clear. “You’re still here?” Brom said as he tightened his grip on the doorknob.

John stared at Brom for a moment before glancing at the window and the darkened sky beyond, looking mildly abashed. “I took what you said about resting to heart and fell asleep. I apologize if I’ve overstayed my welcome…” He glanced again at the recently descended night and frowned.

“No,” Brom said. “No, you haven’t. It’s only that I didn’t realize you were still here.” It was a good thing John’s eyes were so captivating, because if they hadn’t been, Brom wouldn’t have been able to stop himself from staring at the V of skin revealed by the gaping collar of John’s shirt. Christ, if he’d had any idea that John had lingered, that he’d find him like this …

“I meant to determine where I’ll be staying during my time in Sleepy Hollow,” John said, standing and looking sheepish. “But after that magnificent lunch, I found that the lack of rest I’d experienced since departing Connecticut had caught up with me.”

“You mean the pie?” Brom asked, arching a brow.

John nodded.

“I’m afraid what’s left of it wouldn’t make much of a meal, but I’ve got some stew hanging over the fire if you’d like supper.” He’d made it the day before, a mixture of venison from one of his hunts and a few vegetables. It was a crude recipe, nothing like his mother’s cooking had been, but it was food.

John agreed, and as they descended the stairs together, Brom kept his eyes on the walls, not on the messy, glossy locks streaming over John’s shoulders. John probably had no idea how disheveled his hair was, and Brom wasn’t about to tell him.

Downstairs, Brom ladled stew into two bowls. He didn’t feel very hungry, despite the fact that a single piece of pie was all he’d had to eat all day. As he pulled out a chair and took a seat across from John at the table, he realized that he was nervous. Nervous about sharing dinner with this man, worried he’d inadvertently reveal his attraction. Normally, concealing his preference for men wasn’t an issue. There’d been no one in Sleepy Hollow who’d truly tempted him, until today.

“I noticed your crop fields are rather small,” John said after several long minutes, during which Brom made a careful study of his stew, chewing the chunks of venison and vegetables without really tasting them. Whether that was a mark of how bland his cooking was, or the state of his nerves, he wasn’t sure. “You don’t make your living by farming, do you?”

“Horses,” Brom said, meeting John’s eyes. “I buy, sell and train them.” After returning from his period of service in the Continental Army, he’d spent the next couple of years assembling his little equine empire, making his living with reins in his hands instead of a musket. He liked working with horses, and the animals’ never-ending demands kept him busy and his mind on his work.

“And you live alone?”

“Both of my parents died within the last year. I am unmarried.”

“My condolences.” John laid down his spoon.

Brom nodded, a vague sense of guilt settling over him as he chewed. In truth, he hadn’t mourned his parents as he should have. The sorrow he should have felt over their deaths had never truly struck him; he’d been buffered by a preexisting loss that he still hadn’t managed to shake, even after a couple of years. Maybe if he could let the past remain in the past, he’d mourn his parents in earnest then. But when would that be? Time seemed to have passed both impossibly quickly and torturously slowly since the first loss had eaten a hole inside him, and if it hadn’t healed by now, would it ever? “Thank you.” He scraped the last bite from his bowl.

John had finished his as well.

“Would you like some more?” Brom asked.

“Yes, thank you.” John pushed his bowl across the table, and as Brom reached for it, their fingertips brushed.

Instant heat warmed Brom from the inside, and he forced himself to rise and walk calmly to the fire, where he refilled both bowls. “Can I offer you a drink?” He was no proper host, but he could at least offer the courtesy of a nightcap – after all, it looked as if John would be staying until morning. He tried not to think about how the man had looked, rising hazy-eyed from sleep in the spare bedroom.

“That would be most welcome.”