Song of Oestend (44 page)

“I never meant you any harm. I just…” His words trailed away and he shook his head.

“You just wanted him for yourself,” Aren said.

Dante looked up at him. “I did.” Behind him, Aren heard the door open and close

again. A glance over his shoulder revealed that it was Deacon. Dante looked down at the floor, apparently unable to face the man he loved.

“Daisy can’t stay here,” Deacon said.

“I know. Jay’s taking her with him tomorrow when he goes into town. What she does

from there is her own problem.”

“What about you?” Deacon asked.

Dante looked up, over Aren’s shoulder at Deacon. His eyes were so full of shame, and

yet, behind it all, Aren saw a hint of hope. For the second time that morning, Aren found himself feeling sorry for the man.

“We used to dream when we were boys about the day this ranch would be ours,” Dante

said to Deacon. “You always said you didn’t want to own it, and that meant it would pass to me, and we talked about how we’d work it together. That’s how it was supposed to be. The BarChi is ours, Deacon. That’s all I ever wanted—to run this ranch with you.”

“If you’d said that to me twelve years ago, or ten, or even eight, it might have meant something,” Deacon said. “But the time when we could have made that work is long since passed.”

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That spark of hope started to waver, drowned by the tears that filled Dante’s eyes. “We could try,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

Deacon didn’t respond, but when Aren turned to look at him, he could see the answer

on his lover’s face. Dante’s plea obviously stirred pity in him, but there was no love in his eyes.

“I think you should go north,” Deacon said. “Take over the Austin ranch. Make it your own.”

“But—”

“The BarChi is
mine
,” Deacon said.

“I could help you—”

“Stop!” Deacon said. He stepped up next to Aren, taking his hand as he looked down at Dante. “I got all the help I need.”

Dante’s face seemed to crumple. He put his head in his hands. Deacon didn’t say

another word. He used his grip on Aren’s hand to pull him past where Dante sat and down the hall.

Dante’s shoulders shook with silent sobs as they passed. Watching him, Aren felt no anger or resentment. He felt only sympathy. “I’m sorry,” he said to Dante as Deacon pulled him towards the door.

He wasn’t sure if Dante heard him or not. He wasn’t sure if it mattered, anyway.

Deacon took him to the kitchen. Its warmth and brightness stood in stark contrast

against the backdrop of the morning’s events. The room smelt of honey and porridge and Aren realised suddenly how hungry he was. It was far past the time when he normally ate.

“Bet you’re glad now I made you learn the nai’i,” Olsa said to Deacon.

He smiled at her, then gently wrapped his arm around her waist and hugged her. He

kissed her on the cheek. “I am.”

“Ungrateful brat,” she said fondly, pushing him away. “There’s something else you

need to do.”

Deacon sighed again, his cheeks turning red. “I know. There’s one more song we need

to sing.”

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The rest of the day passed in a flurry of work. Frances left for the Austin ranch and Dante went with him, as did Calin and Aubry. The hands who were left behind had plenty to do, and Aren did his best to help them. Jeremiah still swore the BarChi belonged to Deacon, and for the first time, Deacon seemed to agree.

Jay and Deacon went over the generator again, but there was nothing to be done until

Jay came back from town with a new cable.

“Coal won’t work,” Aren said. “I guess we sleep somewhere else until he gets back?”

Deacon laughed at him. “It don’t matter. The wraiths can’t touch you now.”

That evening, after supper, Olsa walked with Deacon and Aren across the grass to their house. Deacon carried a shovel. Aren followed them up the porch steps, through the front door and down the short hallway to the pantry. The ruined ward greeted them. Somehow, Aren had forgotten about the ghost—
the wraith
, he corrected himself—in the cellar.

“Will you repaint the ward?” he asked.

Deacon shook his head as he reached down and unlatched the door. “Something

better.” He grabbed the handle and swung it open. Aren instinctively took a step backwards, running into the wall behind him. “Don’t worry,” Deacon said to him. “She can’t hurt you now. Can’t do anything in the daytime, even if you didn’t have that mark on you.”

He went down into the cellar, and Aren made himself walk to the edge and look down.

It was a cellar like any other. There was nothing to hint at the horror it had seen. The floor was dirt. The walls were lined with empty shelves.

Olsa reached over and grabbed Aren’s arm. “Help me down,” she said.

“Down into the cellar?” Aren asked, horrified at the thought of trying to get her down the rickety ladder and back up again.

“Don’t be a fool,” she said, to Aren’s relief. “I just need to sit down.” With his support, she sat on the wooden floor with her feet hanging through the cellar door.

“Part of the problem is the dirt floor,” she said. “Can’t use paint. Can’t use chalk.

Deacon will have to dig to make the mark. You sit there and keep quiet while we sing.”

“What exactly are you going to do?” Aren asked.

Deacon looked up at him from the cellar floor. “We’re going to make an opening into

the spirit world so she can pass. Put her at peace.”

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Aren looked at Olsa in surprise, then back at Deacon. “You mean, you could have done

that all along?”

Deacon shook his head. “It wouldn’t have worked if I’d done it,” he said.

“Because you didn’t believe?”

“Exactly.”

Aren looked at Olsa. “But
you
did. You could have done it.”

“‘Course I could have. But then somebody else would have claimed this house long

ago, and it didn’t belong to them. Every path that led where I wanted to go ended with him living in this house with his wife.” She shrugged. “Didn’t know till you got here the wife part wasn’t exactly right. Still, it served my purpose to leave the wraith here until Deacon was ready to claim what was his.”

“What about all the other wraiths?” Aren asked. “Can’t you put them at peace, too?

Then nobody would need the generators.”

He knew before he’d finished asking the question, though, that the answer was no. Both of them were shaking their heads, but it was Olsa who explained.

“Have to know the right spot,” she said. “The exact place they died. I put Uly at peace long ago. But the rest of them?” She shrugged. “We’d have to walk the lengths of Oestend, sing the song over every inch of land.”

“Can’t be done,” Deacon said. “Oestend will have to deal with the wraiths.” He smiled up at Aren. “But we won’t have to deal with my ma after today.”

Aren went into the living room and poured himself a drink. He took it back into the

pantry where he sat against the wall, out of the way. He watched. And listened.

Olsa and Deacon both sang. Down in the cellar, Deacon slowly dug a mark into the dirt floor. It took them more than an hour, but even Aren knew when the change happened. The chill that had ever been present in the pantry suddenly abated. The air suddenly seemed cleaner.

The ghost was gone.

“Olsa’s a little bit evil,” Aren said that night as they climbed into bed.

Deacon laughed as he pulled Aren tightly against him. “You only now figuring that

out? All this time I thought you was smart.”

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“People died because of her,” Aren said. “Because she left the wraith here when she

could have put it at peace.”

Deacon was quiet for a long time, and Aren feared he’d upset him, but he finally sighed and answered. “You got to think about how long Olsa’s been alive. How much death she’s seen. Every Ainuai she ever knew was killed or sold as a slave. She saw everything that mattered to her forgotten—the songs, the history, the truth of what the settlers had done. She lost her husband. She lost her sons. The only person she had was me, and I was busy being a blessed fool.” He shrugged. “People die in Oestend every day. Guess she figured trading a few more against her hope was worth it.”

“Do you think it was?”

“I do now.” Deacon’s arms tightened around Aren. His lips brushed the back of Aren’s

neck. “There’s nothing in this world I wouldn’t sacrifice to keep you safe.”

“No sacrifices tonight,” Aren sighed. “I’d rather sleep.”

And so it was that on his first night in an un-haunted house, as the wind howled

outside and beat against the shuttered windows of his room, Aren Montrell slept soundly in his bed. He had found his place—in the far, dusty reaches of the Oestend prairie, on a cattle ranch called the BarChi, in the strong, warm arms of the man he loved—and it was the only place in the world he wanted to be.

About the Author

Marie Sexton lives in Colorado. She’s a fan of just about anything that involves

muscular young men piling on top of each other. In particular, she loves the Denver

Broncos and enjoys going to the games with her husband. Her imaginary friends often

tag along. Marie has one daughter, two cats, and one dog, all of whom seem bent on

destroying what remains of her sanity. She loves them anyway.

Email: [email protected]

Marie Sexton loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information,

website and author biography at http://www.total-e-bound.com.

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