Song of Oestend (15 page)

You gotta learn to be stronger than your fear.”

“Everybody will hate me,” Frances said. “And I don’t blame them.”

Simon shrugged. He leant back in his chair, letting his long legs stretch towards the fire as he did. He seemed to be relaxing now that Frances was talking. “Some of them,” he said.

“Maybe. Thing is, most men in that barracks probably got a story too. I got one of my own, but you notice I told you Garrett’s and not mine. The men that can’t forgive you, they’re probably the ones still haven’t forgiven themselves. And if any man out there doesn’t have his own tale like yours yet, trust me when I say, they will. It’s only a matter of time.” He shrugged. “It’s a hard land, kid. It’s a hard job. But you don’t got to let it beat you.”

“You’re saying I should stay?”

“You got anyplace else to go?” Simon asked, and it was clear he already knew the

answer. “I’ll tell you what. You stay here with Aren again tonight. I think that’s wise.

Tomorrow morning, Deacon’s headed into town. If you go, it’ll be me, Calin, and Red going SONG OF OESTEND

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with him. But if you stay on here at the ranch, it’ll be Sawyer, Calin, Aubry and Garrett.

They’ll be gone near a week. That means if you stay, it’ll just be me and you and the twins here at the ranch. The twins won’t be no nicer to you than they were before, but they won’t be no worse either. Miron’s death don’t mean squat to them. Several days on the trail, Deacon and Garret can put those other boys in their place while you get your feet back under you here. By the time they get back, things will have shifted.” The doubt in Frances’ face was mirrored by the doubt in Aren’s heart, but Simon nodded at him. “Trust me,” he said.

Frances looked at Aren, and Aren shrugged. “It’s up to you,” he said.

Frances looked back at Simon, but Simon had apparently said all he felt he needed to.

He stood up, putting his hat back on his head as he did. “You think about it,” he said.

“Tomorrow morning, you can either go back to town with Deacon, or you can stay here with me. You got to learn to live with what you did,” he said. “My feeling is, you may as well do that here as someplace else.”

Aren followed Simon to the door and out onto the front porch, closing the door behind him so that Frances couldn’t hear. The day was bright and windy, dust flying through the air like it had somewhere to go.

“Miron won’t last more than another hour,” Simon said, turning towards him. “We’ll

bury him this afternoon. Best if you can make Frances be there. I know he won’t want to, but men will respect him more if he faces it, even if he’s crying like a babe while he does. It’s turning his back that’ll bring him trouble.”

“I’ll make sure he goes,” Aren said.

“Good.” Simon pushed his hat farther down onto his head and hunched his shoulders

into the wind. He was halfway down the steps when Aren called after him.

“Does Deacon know you came?”

Simon glanced back at him with a grin. “Deacon’s the one who sent me.”

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The burial wasn’t as bad as Aren had anticipated. Although Sawyer and Calin glared at Frances, the rest of the attendants were stoical. And although tears continued to stream down Frances’ bruised and battered face, he didn’t blubber. He didn’t try to hide it by wiping them away, either. He stood stiff and silent next to Aren, the wind drying his tears nearly as fast as they came.

After it was over, Aren steered Frances back towards the house, deliberately avoiding Deacon even though he saw the wary look the big man gave him. He stopped in the kitchen long enough to beg more food from Olsa before taking Frances back home.

It was nearly dark when the knock he’d been dreading finally came. He left Frances in the living room, and rather than allowing Deacon into the house, he joined him on the front porch, hugging his thin jacket tightly around him against the wind. He refused to look at Deacon. He stared instead at the swiftly-falling sun, bright against the horizon. He concentrated on the gentle song of the wind—the rustle of the swaying grass and creaking of the trees.

“I know you’re mad,” Deacon said, then stopped short, as if he didn’t know what else

to say.

Aren didn’t answer.

“I’m glad you’re helping him.”

Still, Aren kept his silence.

“Is he gonna go or stay?”

Aren sighed. He’d hoped to put off dealing with Deacon until after he’d returned from his trip to town, but it seemed Deacon wasn’t going to accommodate him, and Aren

supposed giving the man the silent treatment wouldn’t solve anything, either. “He’s decided to stay.”

“That’s good,” Deacon said. “I’m glad.”

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“You’re
glad?
” Aren said, finally turning to face Deacon. “You beat him up, you humiliated him in front of everybody, you made him feel weak and worthless and pathetic, and you’re
glad
he’s decided to stay?”

Deacon’s cheeks turned red at Aren’s words, but he didn’t turn away. “Look, Aren, I

know you think I was harsh—”

“Ha!” Aren laughed bitterly at the understatement. He turned back to the sunset,

turning his back on Deacon.

“The thing is, I’m their boss. I have to be like that. It’s my job to make sure they toe the line. I need them to be more afraid of me than of some damn bull.”

“You need to prove you’re strong, and the best way to do that is to make men like me

and Frances look weak.”

Deacon was silent for a moment, and Aren wished he could see his expression, but it

was easier to have this conversation if he didn’t have to face him.

“You’re not weak, Aren,” he finally said, his voice quiet and strained. “Maybe he is, but you’re not. You’re nothing like him.”

“I’m exactly like him.”

“I don’t…” His voice trailed away, and Aren forced himself to turn around again and

face him. The confusion on Deacon’s face was clear. “I don’t know why you think that,” he said.

Aren couldn’t answer. He couldn’t tell him the one thing that really made him and

Frances the same.

“Aren,” Deacon said again, and Aren was surprised at the grief he heard in his voice.

“I’ve seen a hundred hands come and go. Maybe more. Every one of them needs to fear me.

Every one of them needs to respect me. But not one of them needs to like me.”

“Good thing,” Aren said, “because none of them do.”

Deacon winced at that. He shoved his hands deep in his pockets and looked down at

the grey boards of the porch, allowing the wide brim of his hat to hide his face. “I don’t have the luxury of being their friend,” he said quietly. “Only person I have that luxury with is you.”

The words hit Aren hard, not least of all because he knew how hard it had been for

Deacon to say them. He closed his eyes, trying to hang on to his anger. He wanted to keep his SONG OF OESTEND

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indignation. He wanted to make Deacon pay for what he’d done. And yet, deep down inside, he wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t all about Frances. Aren recognised he was taking a great deal of his own anger at himself and his past and men like Professor Birmingham, and he was trying to make Deacon pay for it all. Although it pained him to admit it, he knew he wasn’t being entirely fair.

Still, he couldn’t quite let it all go yet, either.

“You’re asking me if we’re still friends?” he said at last.

He wasn’t surprised it took Deacon a moment to answer. He wasn’t surprised at the

way he kept his head down and his face hidden. Friendship and loneliness weren’t things men like Deacon discussed. When he finally responded, his voice was so low, Aren barely heard him over the sound of the wind. “Yes.”

Aren turned again to the sunset. It was now only a blush of light on the distant plain. It was nearly dark, and Aren knew they’d both be wise to get back inside. He crossed the porch to his front door, but he stopped short of going inside.

“How long will you be gone?” he asked.

“Five or six days.”

“I used most of my good whisky on Frances,” he said. “You bring me more, and maybe

I’ll forgive you.”

“I’ll bring you the best they sell,” Deacon said. Aren could hear the relief in his voice.

He finally risked another look back over his shoulder. Deacon was looking at him again, almost smiling, and despite everything, Aren almost smiled back.

The men left early the next morning, driving a herd of cattle ahead of them. Shortly

afterwards, Simon was knocking on Aren’s front door.

“Come on, kid,” he said to Frances. “Time to face the world. There’s plenty of work to be done with them others gone.”

Frances didn’t exactly look confident, but he followed Simon out of Aren’s front door and back towards the barracks. Aren watched them go. The house suddenly felt emptier than it ever had before. He thought about breakfast, and the fact that Deacon wouldn’t be there.

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He had a sudden, irrational urge to call Simon and Frances back, but he knew it was foolish.

They had chores to do.

He went inside and closed his door, and for the first time since his arrival at the BarChi, he felt completely and utterly alone.

He walked over to the main house and into the kitchen. It seemed strange to sit there by himself, without Deacon at his side. Olsa puttered around, humming to herself and ignoring him except to hand him his food. He found it was hard to remember what being angry with Deacon felt like.

He wandered back to the house, and after a few hours of working on the books—and

confirming for the tenth time that yes, they could afford to hire a tenth ranch hand—he found himself upstairs in his studio.

He’d stretched a new canvas a few days before and it sat on his easel, awaiting his

attention. He hadn’t known at the time what he was going to paint. He stared at the canvas and realised he still didn’t.

He had no idea what to do with himself. Eventually, he made his way back to the barn

where he helped Simon and Frances with chores until it was time for supper. Since there were only the five of them, he ate with the hands. Ronin and Red talked only to each other and ignored everybody else. Frances kept his head down and didn’t talk to anybody. Aren attempted to make small talk with Simon, but in the end, his awkward attempts at conversation seemed to only make the rest of them uncomfortable, so he lapsed into silence, lost in his thoughts.

He missed Deacon.

He told himself he was a fool. He told himself to grow up. But that evening, as he sat alone in his tiny living room in front of a roaring fire, he could not deny he missed the big cowboy’s company.

Finally, he built the fire up to help keep the house warm through the night. He went out to the back and started the generator, and he climbed the stairs to his bedroom.

The pounding on the cellar door started, and Aren lay in his bed, thinking.

He found himself wondering about the men going into town. He hoped they’d made it

safely to the McAllen farm. He wondered what they were doing.

Then, he realised he
knew
what they were doing.

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They were at the McAllen farm, where the only women who were to be found for miles

around lived. Undoubtedly they were each being ‘tucked in’ by one of the maids tonight.

And that, of course, made him think of Deacon. He thought of when they’d been there

together, of listening to Deacon a few stalls down as he rolled with a maid. He thought of the things he’d heard and of masturbating alone in his stall to the sounds of their pleasure.

And suddenly, he had a raging hard-on.

It had been far too long since he’d had sex. Not since the onset of puberty had Aren

gone so long without a partner. During his years in boarding school, there’d always been
somebody
to alleviate his sexual frustrations with. He’d never loved any of them, except perhaps Professor Birmingham later on at university. He hadn’t even liked a great many of them. But when they’d found their way into his bed in the quiet of night, he’d almost always enjoyed it. He might have been ashamed later. He might have had regrets. But when it came down to choosing between his pride and his sexual desire, his pride never did win.

He no longer tried to chastise himself for it. He liked sex. He liked to be fucked. He longed for the freedom to do more, to have time with a man to really explore what pleasure could be. He wanted to know how it felt to be the one with his cock inside another man, instead of always being the one with his legs in the air.

He could have had it. With a groan, he thought about Frances and the proposition the

boy had made. The logical part of Aren’s brain knew he’d done the right thing by telling Frances no, but his throbbing cock certainly didn’t care. He could not help but wish he’d taken what Frances had offered. He missed sex. He missed the release and the sated laziness that came after. And yes, he could masturbate—he had masturbated, in fact, far more in the past few months than at any other time in his life—but the satisfaction was nowhere near the same.

He wondered how long he could go on without a sexual partner without losing his

mind.

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The next few days were much the same. Aren watched Simon and Frances together,

and he could not deny that Frances was doing better. The swelling was gone. The bruises had begun to fade. And just as Simon had predicted, Frances was starting to regain his confidence. He still kept quiet far more often than not. He still had a hard time looking most people in the eye. But on a few occasions, as Simon helped him, Aren thought he even saw a hint of a smile on the boy’s face.

“He’ll be fine,” Simon told Aren when they had a few minutes alone. “He’s stronger