Song of Oestend (14 page)

“In town—” Aren started to say, knowing even as he said it that it was foolish.

“That’s two days from here. Even if we left right now, we couldn’t make it to the

McAllen farm before nightfall. Soonest we could leave is tomorrow. He’d never make it anyway.”

“But—”

Aren’s words were cut off by a horrible, heart-wrenching sound from Miron. It was a

sound of pain—a wet sound, more than a moan, not quite a scream.

“This is all that’s left,” Deacon said. “One of two things will happen now. Either he spends the rest of the night crying and begging and screaming while we lie to him and tell him everything will be fine, or he’ll realise what’s happened and ask for mercy.” Deacon’s gaze was piercing, his grip on Aren’s arm still painfully tight, and Aren wished he could escape. He wished he could run away. He wished he could erase the entire day from his life.

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Anything but face what Deacon was saying. “If that happens,” Deacon said, “who do you think has to do it?”

The full impact of what those words meant hit him hard. It was too much. Aren felt his eyes filling with tears, felt his whole body start to shake. He didn’t want to cry in front of Deacon, but he couldn’t handle what he was being told. “There must be a way,” he said weakly, his words breaking on the lump in his throat. “There must be…”

But there wasn’t. He knew that. He blinked hard, trying to make the tears stop, but they only came faster.

He looked up into Deacon’s eyes, expecting to see disgust now on top of the anger, but he saw only sadness. All of Deacon’s rage seemed to have drained away. “Go home, Aren,”

he said, finally letting go of his arm. “Go back to your paint.”

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Aren didn’t go straight to the house. He stopped first to help Frances up from the ground.

“Come on,” he said gently. “You can come home with me.”

The kid was a mess. There was no other way to put it—in physical pain from the

beating Deacon had given him but also racked by guilt. Twice on the way to Aren’s house, they had to stop while Frances vomited into the grass.

“I’m sorry,” he sobbed over and over. “I’m so sorry!”

Aren couldn’t tell him that everything was all right. A man was dying, and it was

largely Frances’ fault. But he couldn’t muster any anger towards the boy, either, and berating him more would do no good. So Aren didn’t say a word. He waited silently at Frances’ side until he was ready to start walking again.

Once they were inside, Aren poured a hefty shot of whisky into a glass and handed it to Frances. He wondered if they at least had that much to give to Miron. Ronin and Red always had plenty of alcohol. He hoped they’d spare some for the dying man. Maybe that mixed with Olsa’s tea would help numb the pain, a little at least.

Aren fetched a rag and a pail of water, and while Frances sat on one of his hard wooden chairs, hiccoughing as he tried to stifle his tears, Aren began to clean his wounds.

Frances’ nose was broken. Aren didn’t know how to set it right and feared any attempt would only cause Frances unnecessary pain. It was going to be crooked, but not badly so.

Frances’ lip and eyebrow were both split and swollen, but the bleeding had stopped. The bruises were starting to form. As violent as the attack had been, Aren realised Deacon could have hurt him much, much worse.

Aren sighed. He wasn’t sure if he understood Deacon’s rage or not. He wasn’t sure if he could forgive him or not.

Frances’ face would heal. That was the important part. That was what Aren tried to

keep in his mind as he wiped away blood and tears.

“I can’t go back to the barracks,” Frances whispered as Aren worked.

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“Sure you can.”

“No.” He shook his head. “I can’t face them.”

“Will you go home?”

“I can’t go there, either.”

Aren didn’t ask why. He knew the reason didn’t matter. There was no going back for

him, either. This was his home now. He tried to imagine what he’d do if he suddenly had to leave the BarChi.

Frances’ blue eyes were huge, filling again with tears. The left side of his face was quickly turning an ugly shade of purple. He was so young. Aren reached up and wiped the tears away. He brushed his finger over Frances’ swollen lip. He heard Frances’ breath catch in his throat. “We’ll figure something out,” Aren told him.

He saw the glint of hope in Frances’ eyes, the way he suddenly lowered his lashes,

biting on his already-split lip. He recognised the signs, and although his cock jumped to life at the thought, something in his chest rebelled. Some small piece of his heart turned cold at the thought.

“I could stay with you,” Frances said, his voice barely a whisper.

“I only have one bed,” Aren said, deliberately refusing to acknowledge the kid’s point.

Frances smiled, although the effort obviously pained him. He put his hand on Aren’s

chest. “I’ll sleep with you,” he said as his hand started to migrate south. “I’ll take care of you.

Just let me stay.”

It was a tempting offer. Aren’s heart was pounding in his chest. His cock was hard and straining against his pants. The thought of having sex again almost made him dizzy. But still, there was that piece of him, that tiny part of his heart screaming at him that this was wrong.

Frances’ hand moved lower. His fingers brushed the bulge in Aren’s pants, and Aren

moaned despite himself. He felt his resolve slipping. His hips seemed to push towards Frances’ hand of their own accord.

“I’ll do whatever you ask.”

Aren couldn’t help but imagine Frances bent over in front of him. He thought about

how good it would feel to grab hold of his ass and push into him from behind. He felt a surge of excitement at the prospect of finally being the one in the control.

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“Anything you want to do to me,” Frances said, and that might have been the turning

point—that might have been the moment when Aren’s body won its battle with his

conscience, finally ending his long streak of celibacy—if only he hadn’t been watching Frances’ face when he said his next words. “I’ll let you,” he said, and as he did, his eyes filled with tears.

Aren’s heart ached for him. He was young, and lost, and horribly confused. Aren

remembered men from his own past, men who had taken advantage of him when he was at

his weakest. He didn’t want to be one of those men. Taking Frances to his bed would be the worst thing he could possibly do to him.

Aren reached down and gently removed the boy’s hand from his groin. “Don’t turn

your body into a commodity,” he told him. “That’s a hard place to come back from.”

Frances’ tears began to fall again, coming faster this time. “It’s the only thing I have to give you.”

“Frances, you don’t owe me anything—”

“You’re the only friend I have. I know I’m a mess right now,” he said, tentatively

touching the bruised side of his face, “but I won’t always be. Maybe once the cuts heal—”

“This isn’t about the way you look,” Aren said.

“Then what’s wrong with me?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Aren told him. “But I know what it’s like to feel as if your body is the only thing you have to offer. I’ve traded my own for far less, and I remember very clearly the way I always felt the next morning.”

Frances’ eyes started to fill with tears again. He nodded, looking down at his lap. “I wouldn’t feel that way with you.” But the tremor in his voice hinted otherwise.

“Maybe not,” Aren said, because it wasn’t a point worth arguing, “but I don’t want to take that chance.”

“I’m afraid to go back there.”

“You can stay here tonight,” Aren told him. “But I don’t want you to think you have to spread your legs for me in return.”

They were interrupted by a knock on the door and although Aren was a bit relieved to

be given an escape from their awkward conversation, he was tempted to not answer it.

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to face the ranch hand yet. The knock came again, and Aren sighed, realising his folly.

Deacon wasn’t the type to be easily dissuaded.

He was both surprised and relieved to find it wasn’t Deacon at the door after all. It was Daisy.

“Olsa told me to bring you some food,” she said without preamble as soon as he

opened the door. She was carrying a basket, and she pushed past him into the house. She barely glanced at Frances as she set it down on the table. She reached inside and pulled out three small packets—they looked like tiny brown pillows. “She sent these, too. She said to soak them in cold water for fifteen minutes, then put them on his face. She said it would help with the swelling.” She tossed them down on the table and turned to leave.

“How’s Miron?” Frances asked.

“Not dead yet,” she said, before the door slammed shut behind her.

The rest of the afternoon passed in awkward silence. Aren helped Frances put Olsa’s

packets on his face, and later they shared a cold supper from Olsa’s basket. Afterwards, Aren tried to convince Frances to sleep in his bed while he slept on the floor, but the boy curled up on the rug in front of the fire instead, and before Aren could argue, he was fast asleep. Aren hadn’t even thought to warn him about the ghost, and he hoped she’d be quiet for the night.

“Everything’s going to be fine,” he said to Frances’ sleeping form as he spread a blanket over him. He was glad Frances couldn’t hear him, though. He wasn’t sure his words were true.

There was enough food left in the basket to eat for breakfast the next morning, too, but not for lunch or dinner. Frances wasn’t ready to face the other hands yet. Aren wasn’t sure he was, either. He was debating walking across the lawn to the main house and begging Olsa for another hamper of food when someone knocked on his door.

He feared it was Deacon. He hoped it would be Daisy with more food. Instead, he

found Simon on his front porch, his hat pushed down and his jacket collar turned up against the wind.

“I need to see him,” he said.

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Aren couldn’t imagine any good could come from making Frances face one of the ranch

hands. He stood in the doorway, refusing to let Simon enter. “He feels guilty enough

already,” he said. “The last thing he needs is a lecture from you.”

Simon sighed in obvious frustration. “That’s not why I’m here.”

“I don’t think—”

“Let him in,” Frances called from the living room.

Aren still hesitated. It was one thing to defy Simon while he stood outside in the wind and Aren was inside, but somehow, allowing him into the house felt like letting his guard down. But he also knew he and Frances couldn’t hide forever. He opened the door and stood aside to allow Simon to enter. He followed him into the living room, where Frances sat staring into the fire, unable to meet anyone’s eyes.

“How you doing?” Simon asked.

Frances shrugged but didn’t speak.

Simon sat in the empty chair that Aren thought of as Deacon’s, opposite Frances in front of the fireplace. He took his hat off and put it on the table next to him. He put his elbows on his knees and leaned towards Frances. Frances continued to stare into the fire. He was chewing on his lower lip. His chin trembled a bit, and Aren felt sure he was fighting back tears.

“Look, kid,” Simon said, “I know you think what happened was your fault—”

“It was.”

“Maybe,” Simon said. “Maybe not.”

“How can you say that? You saw what happened. I was scared. I dropped the line—”

“I saw. The thing is, this a rough job. It’s a rough country. People die out here every day.”

“Maybe,” Frances said, “but it’s not the same.”

Simon didn’t answer at first. The room was silent except for the soft crackle of the fire and Frances’ quiet sniffles. Frances continued to stare at the fire, and Simon stared at Frances, seemingly looking for the words he wanted to say. Finally, he took a deep breath and began.

“Here’s the thing, Frances. I been in Oestend ten years now. I worked the mines a

couple of years. I did some trappin’. I been a hand on four different ranches. And every single job I worked, I saw men die. Lots of ‘em. Sometimes it was their own fault. Sometimes SONG OF OESTEND

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an accident like what happened yesterday. But no matter how it happens, there’s one thing the same—there’s always someone left behind to carry the guilt.”

Frances still wasn’t looking at Simon. He still wasn’t responding. But he was listening.

Aren could see the words were sinking in. He no longer appeared to be on the verge of tears.

“First year I knew Garrett was on a ranch. Foreman sent him and two other hands up

into the hills with a herd of sheep. Had a shack up there, should’ve held them all safe for a month while the sheep got fat. Second week there, those boys got drinking. Middle of the night, Garrett wandered out to the outhouse like a fool. Walked right through the night and not a wraith touched him. Locked himself in the outhouse and passed out cold sitting on the hole. Didn’t realise till morning he’d left the door to the shack open. Found both other hands dead on the floor. Wraith-killed.”

Frances finally raised his eyes to look at Simon.

Simon kept talking, his voice low and calm and steady. “Guilt’s a hard thing. Garrett buried those men. Told me later he spent the next three days trying to get up enough courage to kill himself. But in the end, he couldn’t do it. He finished his month on the hill and drove those sheep back down the trail alone. He feels guilty to this day. And maybe he should.

Thing is though, Frances, he learnt from it. Garrett hasn’t had a drop to drink since that night. He knows, now, he’s got to be stronger than the alcohol. It’s the same with you, kid.