Song of Oestend (18 page)

He was awake early the next morning. He always met Deacon for breakfast, but after

what had happened at supper, he was reluctant to venture outside. He pictured Tama, Beth and Alissa crouched in the grass, waiting to pounce on him as soon as he emerged. He pictured Fred McAllen showing up in the kitchen with his dowry offers written like auction bids on paper.

They leave tomorrow morning. I just have to get through this one day.

He was surprised, again, by a knock on his door. It was the thunderous pounding that

could only be Deacon, but Deacon never came to the house before breakfast.

Aren opened the door a crack and peeked outside. Deacon was standing on his front

porch, grinning at him. He was holding a bundle wrapped in cloth.

“If there’s a girl in that package, I’ll never forgive you.”

Deacon laughed. “No girl,” he said. “Only breakfast.”

“Thank the Saints,” Aren said, letting him in. “I was wondering if I could survive

without food until they leave tomorrow.”

“Not sure such drastic measures are necessary,” Deacon said as he put the bundle on

the table and opened it. “But I thought you might prefer to stay in.” Inside the cloth were biscuits, a piece of ham, and some of Olsa’s cheese.

“Cheese, too?” Aren asked. “Olsa must have been in a good mood.”

“She said to tell you you’d be happy about it in the end.”

“About what? Having those girls here? Or having cheese for breakfast?”

Deacon shrugged, smiling. “You think I ever know what she’s talking about?”

He turned to leave, and Aren resisted the urge to beg him to stay. He fully expected one of the McAllens to show up at his house eventually, and he thought he could have handled it better with Deacon at his side. “Is there anything I can help with today?” he asked hopefully.

Deacon didn’t laugh, but the amused look he turned on Aren told him he knew exactly

why he was asking. “You could do the barn, but I’m sure those gals will find you there as easy as here.”

SONG OF OESTEND

Marie Sexton

120

“Anything else?”

“The rest are herding, and you can’t ride a horse.”

Aren sighed. “It was worth asking.”

Deacon shook his head at him, smiling. “I never seen anybody so dead set against

having a wife.”

“Hello, pot? It’s me, kettle.”

Deacon laughed, shaking his head as he turned to leave. “Nice thanks I get for bringing you breakfast.”

Aren’s next visitor was Jeremiah, who arrived barely an hour after Deacon had left.

“Fred sent these,” he said, handing Aren two pieces of paper that had barely intelligible scribbles on them.

“Great,” Aren muttered, hoping he sounded less sarcastic than he felt. “Thanks a lot.”

“I take it you’d just as soon not have another supper like last night?”

“I’d rather be thrown to the wraiths.”

Jeremiah laughed. “I don’t blame you,” he said. “That was damn awkward. Still,

marriage ain’t so bad. I’d give anything to still have my Caspa with me.”

It had never occurred to Aren to ask about Jeremiah’s wife. “I’m sorry,” he said, for lack of anything better.

“I would have had a daughter, too,” Jeremiah said. “But Caspa died birthing her. Baby died, too.” He turned to look out of the window at his ranch. “Can’t imagine having a daughter here, with all these randy hands running around. Especially if she’d been as pretty as her momma. I imagine I would have had my hands full.”

Aren didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure Jeremiah expected an answer at all.

“A man sometimes feels better knowing he has a legacy,” Jeremiah said, turning to look at him again. “You might worry less about the girl, and think more about what it means to have a son.” He shrugged. “Or a daughter.”

Aren didn’t want kids. He was absolutely sure of that. All he wanted was time to spend his own way, a space to spend it in. A chance to paint. Maybe somebody to share it all with.

But whoever that somebody was, he was sure it wasn’t Beth or Alissa McAllen.

“I appreciate your advice,” Aren said, smiling in an attempt to lighten the mood. “I

appreciate even more your willingness to allow me to avoid another supper like last night’s.”

SONG OF OESTEND

Marie Sexton

121

His attempt at banter worked. Jeremiah laughed. “I’d prefer not spend any more time

with Fred than I have to, either.”

Shortly after midday, his next guest arrived. This time, it was Alissa. Although he

didn’t want to marry either of them, Aren found Alissa far less threatening than her sister.

“I’m sorry about supper last night,” she said as he let her in. “I know my father can be…” She stopped, fumbling for a word.

“Disconcerting?” he asked her.

She blinked at him, obviously unfamiliar with the term. “I suppose,” she said. She

looked down at the floor. She took a deep breath, and Aren braced himself for her onslaught.

“I know I’m not pretty like Beth,” she said, and when Aren opened his mouth to protest that her looks weren’t an issue, she held up her hand to stop him. “It’s fine,” she said. “I know what men like.”

Not men like me.

“The thing is, I’d be a good wife. I can cook for you. I can sew. I can keep your house. I can…” She seemed to have run out of things she thought she could do, and she bit her lower lip nervously, looking around the room as if she might find something else to offer.

Aren couldn’t help but think the entire thing was insane. They’d now met exactly three times. How could she be so willing to throw herself on the mercy of a man she barely knew?

“Why do you want to get married?” he asked her.

She looked up at him, her eyes wide. She twisted her hands together, as if she might be able to wring an answer out of them. “Nobody’s asked me that before.”

“Well, I’m asking you now. Why do you think you want to marry
me?
Be honest. This isn’t me fishing for compliments. I truly want to know why you think you want this.”

“I want to leave home,” she said. “I want to be away from my daddy, and away from

the hogs, and away from Be—” She stopped short.

“Away from Beth?”

She nodded. “Tama’s always been my best friend. I just want to be here with her.”

“And if being married to me is the price, then it’s a price you’re willing to pay?”

“You seem nice.”

He laughed, hiding his eyes behind his hand. “I’m not the marrying type.”

SONG OF OESTEND

Marie Sexton

122

“I don’t know that I am, either,” she said quietly. “But maybe that would work in our favour.”

It was perhaps the most honest thing she’d said since walking through his door. He

dropped his hand, looking over at her, trying to really see her. She looked less nervous than before.

“You don’t have to love me,” she said. “Maybe we could be friends.”

“But still be married?”

She hesitated, then gave him a slight nod.

He liked her. He liked that she was honest. He liked that she wasn’t trying to use her body to change his mind. He felt as if he understood her.

But he still didn’t want to marry her.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “I can’t promise I’ll marry you. But I promise if I choose a wife, it won’t be your sister.”

She smiled. It was a mischievous smile, almost childlike, and he couldn’t help but smile back. “I must be petty,” she said, “because I think that’s good enough for me.”

It was just after supper time when the visitor he’d been dreading most of all arrived.

He saw Beth coming across the grass. Her hips swayed. The sun shone on her golden

hair. Red, Ronin and Calin, who were chopping wood near the barn, all stopped what they were doing to watch her pass. She was extremely attractive.

Beth was all smiles when he let her inside. He noticed her bodice seemed a bit too tight.

The apron that daughters and wives so often wore was gone. Her dress accentuated the soft curves of her body.

She was pulling out all the stops.

“We’ll be leaving early, but I wanted to see you before we go.”

“I hope you had a pleasant visit,” Aren said. He knew it was a mundane nicety, but he truly had nothing else to say. “May your journey home be safe.”

She smiled. “You’re so polite,” she said. She edged closer to him. “You don’t have to be.”

SONG OF OESTEND

Marie Sexton

123

“I’m sorry. You’d prefer I be rude?”

She took another step closer, and Aren instinctively took a step back. “When you were at our farm, you chose to stay in the barn,” she said. “There’s only one reason a man does that.”

“It’s not what you think. I just didn’t know the Oestend customs yet, and—”

“You don’t have to lie.” She stepped closer still. Aren tried to back up, but ran into the wall behind him. “I know what men like.”

Not men like me
, he thought for the second time that day.
You’re so, so wrong.

Her soft, white fingers landed on his chest, fingering the top button of his shirt. “I can be like them,” she said, her voice soft and sultry. “I can do what they do.”

“Beth, this isn’t a good idea.”

“Are you worried I’m not pure?” she asked. “Because I am.” She smiled, inching closer.

Her breasts pushed against his chest. “Pure enough.” Her hand began to slide towards his groin. “You could be my first.”

Aren blocked her hand as it reached his belt. “I think you should go,” he said, although it came out as more of a squeak. “Really, this is a bad idea.”

She pressed harder against him. She smelt like vanilla. One pale arm snaked around his neck. They were almost the same height. “Close your eyes,” she said, and he did. He didn’t know why. It was partly the irrational hope that when he opened them again, she’d be gone.

“That’s right,” she whispered.

He felt his pants being untied, then he felt her hand slide inside. He was tense. He was opposed to the whole idea. He was sure it was the most awkward moment of his entire life.

But more than anything, he was so undeniably horny.

After months of feeling nobody’s touch but his own, even Beth’s soft, feminine fingers felt like heaven. He moaned, and she gripped him tighter. “See?” she said. “Don’t you like that?”

Don’t talk
, he thought.
Don’t ruin it.
Because he did like it. It was a warm hand on his cock, and it felt unbelievably good. But he didn’t want her talking, because as her hand moved on him, he wasn’t thinking about her at all. He was thinking about men—not any one man in particular, but a parade of men. Men he’d known, men he’d seen, men who only lived in his dreams. Men who would suck him, or fuck him, or beg him to fuck them instead.

SONG OF OESTEND

Marie Sexton

124

He thought of Frances. He thought of Deacon. He even thought of Dean. He thought of

rough hands and stubbly cheeks, the smell of their musk and the taste of their cum. “Oh, Saints,” he breathed as the hand on his cock squeezed his tip. “Yes!”

He thought of strong, muscular thighs and hairy chest. Heavy, pendulous scrotums,

and thick, hard cocks. He thought of men bent over in front of him, their entrance greased and ready for him to push inside. He thought of—

His erotic fantasy was interrupted by lips brushing over his. Soft, smooth lips, and a tiny, feminine moan.

The illusion shattered. Beth’s hand still moved on him, but his reaction began to

reverse. His eyes snapped open, and he noticed she’d undone her top button. She let go of his cock long enough to take his hand and place it on her breast, and he felt his erection start to fail.

Why?
he thought.
Why can’t I enjoy this?

Of all the men on the ranch who would have killed to be where he was, men who

would have given anything to have a woman as attractive as Beth touch them at all, let alone jerk them off, why was he different? Why couldn’t he just relax and enjoy it?

Her hand was moving on his cock again, but he was barely half-erect. “What’s wrong?”

she asked.

Everything.

Everything was wrong. She was soft and smooth and smelt like vanilla. She was creamy

and curvy and everything most men would want in a woman. But of course, that was just it—she was a woman.

“I can’t do this,” he said, trying to push her off. “I need you to leave.”

“You’re doing great,” she purred, pushing harder against him. “Just relax. I know what to do.”

“No! Please!”

“You can undo my blouse.”

“No—”

“You can touch me anywhere you want.”

“Oh, Saints—”

“You can lift my skirt whenever you’re ready.”

SONG OF OESTEND

Marie Sexton

125

“I don’t want—”

“Or I can finish for you like this.”

Her hand moved again on his now-limp cock, and Aren wavered. Could he close his

eyes like before? Could he pretend she was a man?

Boom, boom, boom!

Aren almost jumped out of his skin, and Beth looked with alarm towards the door.

It was Deacon! Aren knew the knock. It was, he realised, about the time Deacon usually arrived at his house after supper.

“Thank the Saints,” he said in relief, before he could help himself. He didn’t miss the hurt look on her face, but he didn’t care. “I need you to leave.”

He saw the series of emotions in her eyes—first confusion, then anger, then the guise of complacency. “I understand,” she said. “It’s noble that you want me to come to our marriage bed—”

Aren didn’t bother to listen. He went to the front door and pulled it open. “Thank the Saints you’re here,” he hissed as he pulled Deacon inside. “I was almost eaten alive.”

He pushed Deacon into the living room, where Beth stood with her skirts rumpled, her

top button undone, and her mouth hanging open.

“Goodbye, Beth,” Aren said. “Have a safe journey home.”

Her mouth opened and closed once, then again, as she fumbled for something to say. It seemed she found nothing, because on the third time, it snapped closed, and she turned and stalked out of the room, slamming the front door behind her.