Song of Oestend (34 page)

As soon as the door had closed behind them, Deacon pulled Aren into his arms, holding him tight.

“Thank you for taking care of her.”

“I did my best,” Aren said as he wrapped his arms around Deacon’s waist, letting

himself relax against Deacon’s broad body. “I’m glad you’re home. I was worried you

wouldn’t make it in time.”

Deacon was quiet and when he spoke again, Aren was glad to hear a hint of a smile in

his voice. “You’re
not
sleeping on the floor.”

“No,” Aren laughed. “I’m not.”

They didn’t undress all the way, for fear they’d be needed on short notice, but they took off their shoes and climbed into the bed. Deacon rested his head on Aren’s chest, although Aren knew it had to mean his feet were hanging out of the other end. Aren slowly unbraided Deacon’s hair and ran his hands through it. He massaged Deacon’s temples. He rubbed his back and shoulders until he felt Deacon’s muscles soften and his breathing slow.

Deacon sighed sleepily. “I wish I had the strength to rip your clothes off.”

Aren laughed. “Tomorrow,” he said. “But tonight, you should sleep.”

And Deacon did.

Aren woke later to pins and needles in his arm. He knew the sun must be up, because

the generator no longer whined. Deacon’s back was snug against his stomach, his head lying on Aren’s arm, which had caused it to fall asleep.

Despite everything else going on in the world, Aren couldn’t help but think how good

it felt to push his morning erection against Deacon’s muscular backside. He longed to slide his hand down Deacon’s stomach, to wake his lover with soft caresses and the gloriously slow torment of a morning orgasm when one’s bladder was full as well.

He refrained, though. Not only was the chance of having somebody catch them too

great, he also felt Deacon needed sleep more than he needed sex.

Still, Aren couldn’t help but hope things would get back to normal soon.

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He took care of his morning toilet. He stopped in the kitchen for some biscuits and milk.

Just being out of the basement, looking through the kitchen window at the sunlight, felt good.

He was coming back down the stairs when Tama came out of Olsa’s room, smiling.

“She’s awake,” she said. “Deacon’s with her.”

Deacon was again sitting in the chair next to the bed, bent over Olsa’s hand as he held it in his own. “I was so scared,” he said, his voice still hoarse from the song.

“You did good,” she told him. “I could feel your heart singing.”

“I thought you were going to die.”

“So did I,” she said.

Deacon let go of her hand. He scooped her thin body up in his strong arms and rocked

her. “Thank the Saints.”

“The Saints had nothing to do with it, boy. If you want to thank somebody, you do it

the right way.”

He held her for a minute, still rocking her, not saying a word. But then he sang. It was a new song. “Sa’ahala nai’alini. Sa’ahala nai’alini.”

“You’re a good boy,” she said. “Now put me down before you break my old bones.”

Deacon laughed, letting her rest again back against her pillows. There were tears in his eyes, and he wiped them quickly away.

“Send Tama or one of the women in here to help me. I have to use the privy.”

Deacon laughed again. “I will.”

“Good. Now go away. You stink like horses and hay and Gordon’s lye soap.” She

waved her hand at him dismissively. “Guess I shouldn’t complain. It’s the first time you come back from the McAllen’s not smelling like cheap perfume and cheaper maids.”

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It was a great relief to leave the sickroom and the main house behind. They went to the river and stripped naked and dived into the deep, cold water. It was even colder than before, and they washed as fast they could, then went back to Aren’s house, which seemed almost as cold after having nobody in it to light the fire for so many days.

Aren dragged a warm, heavy blanket from the bed while Deacon stoked the fire. Then

Deacon pulled him down onto the cowhide rug and they made love in the warmth of the

flickering flames. It was slow and gentle, Deacon’s callused hands caressing him as he whispered in Aren’s ear that he was soft, that he was beautiful, that he was everything he’d ever wanted. Aren wrapped his legs around his lover and let him in, letting him rock them both until they fell breathless and spent into each other’s arms.

Aren felt sated and more at peace than he’d been since before Deacon had left, but

Deacon was already picking himself up off the floor.

“I have to go,” he said. “Been away so long, those lazy hands probably let the place go to hell.” He dressed quickly, then stood looking down at Aren. “I’d rather eat here. I’ll bring supper back with me,” he said.

Aren smiled. “That sounds perfect.”

Deacon left and Aren cuddled down under the comforter, cosy in front of the fire, and he fell fast asleep.

Things at the BarChi returned to normal. Deacon swore Jay had nearly let the ranch fall apart in his absence. Aren knew it was an exaggeration, but only a small one. Frances confided in him that while some of them had done their best to keep up, a select few of the men were always willing to sit back and let others do the work when Deacon was gone.

Olsa returned to the kitchen. She was doing better, but Aren knew she wasn’t as strong as she had once been. He suspected it was only a matter of time before they had to hire SONG OF OESTEND

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somebody to help her. Still, by her fourth day back, she had reverted to snatching Deacon’s food away when he did something wrong.

“You’d think she’d be more grateful,” Deacon said to Aren that night as they sat in

front of the fire with their drinks. “I
did
save her life.” He said it jokingly, as if it weren’t true.

“You did,” Aren said, in earnest.

The smile on Deacon’s face faded. “Not really. It was just good timing.”

Aren didn’t think that was true. He thought Olsa had been saved by the magic of the

song and the power of the symbols.

Symbols had power. That’s what she’d told him.

He thought suddenly of his painting, and the day she’d made him promise to show it to Deacon.

“Come on,” he said, standing up. “I have something to show you.”

“Something upstairs?” Deacon asked, grinning wickedly at him.

“Not like that,” Aren laughed. “A painting.”

“Do I get to show you something afterwards?”

“We’ll see.” Aren took his hand and pulled him up from his chair. “Only if you behave.

Olsa was talking to me a few weeks ago about symbols,” he explained as he led Deacon up the stairs, “and she somehow knew I’d painted something with the BarChi brand. She made me bring her to see it—”

“She’s blind.”

Aren laughed. “You think I don’t know that? Anyway, she said it was important. She

said you had to see it.”

They’d reached the room that was his studio, and he led Deacon inside. The painting

that met them when they walked through the door was the first one he’d done of Deacon in the barn.

Deacon stopped short, staring at it in wonder, and Aren felt himself blush. Having

somebody look at his art was worse than having them look at him. He felt horribly exposed.

“Is that how I look?” Deacon asked, looking over at him in surprise.

Aren felt himself blush more, but he smiled. “That’s how you look to me.”

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Deacon looked back at the canvas, nodding. “Like the bull,” he said, reminding Aren of the day so long ago, when he and Deacon had sat in the grass. “You made me better than I really am.”

“No,” Aren said. “That makes it sound like a lie.”

“But that’s not how I look.”

“It’s more than how you look. It’s how I feel when I see you. I try to mix that in. I want other people to look at it and to see you the way I do.”

Deacon turned again to look at him. “It’s some kind of magic.”

“It’s just art.”

“Same thing,” Deacon said. He reached up and brushed his hand over Aren’s hair. Aren

wasn’t sure Deacon had ever looked at him with such tenderness. “Wish I could do it for you,” he said. “Wish I had the magic, too, so you could see yourself the way I do.”

The sweetness of the sentiment surprised him. Deacon’s ability to say so much while

saying so little amazed him. It made him smile. He wrapped his arms around Deacon’s neck and stood on his toes to kiss him. “You’ll have to find some other way to show me.”

Deacon made a sound—more than a moan, almost a growl—and pulled Aren hard

against him. He kissed his neck. “I’ll show you now if you want,” he said. “I’ll get down on my knees and you can tell me what to do.” His big, strong hands moved down Aren’s back, and Aren shivered. “Please,” Deacon whispered in his ear. “You can tie me up. You can use the crop.”

“Oh, Saints,” Aren moaned. Every part of his body was responding, and he could feel

Deacon’s erection hard against his hip, but his sense of obligation nagged at him. “Wait,”

Aren said, pulling himself free. “You still haven’t seen the one Olsa meant.”

“I’ll see it later,” Deacon said, trying to pull Aren back into his arms.

“No,” Aren said, laughing. “It will only take a minute.”

He took Deacon’s hand and pulled him around to look at the other canvas, and

although Deacon groaned in frustration, he followed.

“This is the one she wanted you to see. She said it was important.”

The moment Deacon’s eyes landed on the canvas, he stopped dead in his tracks, as if in shock. He stood very still, staring at it. He didn’t seem to find it flattering or fascinating the way he had the first one. He seemed unnerved by it.

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“What do you think?” Aren asked.

Deacon didn’t seem to have words. He shook his head, still staring at the painting.

“She said it made the symbol yours, or something like that.” He was surprised at

Deacon’s reaction. The big cowboy looked slightly spooked. “Do you know what she

means?”

Deacon shook his head again. “Folk tales,” he said, but the casualness of his words was belied by the tremor in his voice.

Aren had expected Deacon to laugh, or to shrug it off, or to ask him questions. He found his strange response unsettling. “Hey,” he said, taking Deacon’s arm and turning him away from the canvas. “Forget the painting.”

Deacon grinned at him, although there was still a shadow of uneasiness in his eyes. He put an arm around Aren’s waist and pulled him close. “Is that an order?”

“As a matter of fact, it is.”

And for a while, they did forget. Aren went downstairs to start the generator, then they went into the bedroom. Aren ordered Deacon onto his knees. He tied him face down over the ottoman, and before he’d even finished securing the rope Deacon was begging him to fuck him. Aren found it was more fun to tease him. He greased his fingers and pushed them into Deacon, fucking him hard with his hand while Deacon bucked against the ottoman, crying Aren’s name. When Aren knew neither of them could hold out much longer, he moved Deacon off the ottoman. He lay him down on his back, with his hands still tied, and he took Deacon’s cock into his mouth while shoving his own aching erection deep into Deacon’s throat. Deacon could take his full length now without any problem at all, and Aren fucked himself hard into Deacon’s mouth while sucking his cock. They moved together, thrusting and grinding and moaning together until they were both spent.

Afterwards, they lay side by side on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Aren was heavy with sleep, sated and unbelievably content. He was drifting off to sleep when Deacon spoke.

“I feel like that sometimes,” he said.

“Hmmm?” Aren asked, unable to even formulate a real response.

But Deacon seemed to know what he meant. “Your painting. Sometimes I feel like that,

like I’m tied to this ranch. I think I can even feel that barbed wire digging into my skin. If I pull too hard, it might bleed me dry. Sometimes I hate it.”

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Aren looked over at Deacon in surprise, but the big cowboy was still staring up at the ceiling. “Why don’t you leave?”

“Because everything I love is here, too.”

They didn’t say anything else and before long Deacon’s breathing became heavy and

slow. Once Aren knew he was asleep, he slipped quietly out of bed. He tiptoed into the extra room, where the painting sat waiting on the easel. He picked up his tiniest brush, and dipped the tip in paint. He put his mark in the corner.

Symbols had power.

Aren did his best not to think about the day when Deacon would leave again, but

pretending it wouldn’t happen didn’t change the facts. The days wore on, and the time for Deacon to leave again was suddenly upon them. The morning before he was to leave, Deacon rose early, as he often did, in order to do chores before breakfast. Aren wandered across the grass later in the morning to meet him.

Aren often wondered if anybody had figured out that Deacon no longer slept in the

barn. He wondered if they’d noticed that he went to Aren’s house every night after dinner and didn’t leave again until morning. He wondered how much trouble it would cause for them when people did start to figure it out. He loved the life he and Deacon were building together in their tiny house. He hoped nothing would threaten the happiness he’d found there.

Just as Aren and Deacon were finishing their breakfast, Jeremiah arrived in the kitchen, looking for Deacon.

“You ready to leave in the morning?” he asked.

“Yup.”

Jeremiah stood there for a moment, regarding Deacon with thoughtful eyes. Finally, he walked across the room to stand in front of Deacon. Sitting on the stool at the table, Deacon was a few inches shorter than Jeremiah.