Song of Oestend (9 page)

Deacon pondered that, and as he did, Aren saw his expression go from thoughtful to

amused. A slow grin spread across his face. Finally, he said, “Don’t know if that makes me feel better or worse. Not quite sure I can trust your judgement.”

Aren laughed. “Me neither, to tell you the truth.”

Deacon laughed, too, and Aren couldn’t help but think how much different he looked

out here in the grass, when the burden of leadership wasn’t weighing him down. With his men, he always seemed angry and menacing, but sitting in the sunshine next to Aren, he was somebody else completely.

“It could be a place for you, too, you know,” Aren said before he could think better of it.

“Wouldn’t you like to be able to relax and have a drink once in a while?” He smiled at Deacon, half-teasing but half-serious, too. “Think about it—a nice soft chair in front of the fire instead of a bale of hay in a draughty barn. A place where none of the ranch hands could find you.”

Deacon smiled and shook his head in wry amusement. “I knew soon as I saw all those

damn bags of yours you was going to be trouble.”

“Does that mean ‘no’?” Aren asked.

“Blessed Saints,” Deacon swore, looking up at the sky in exasperation, and Aren knew

then that he’d won.

“Does that mean ‘yes’?” he asked, trying not to smile.

“Come on,” Deacon said, unfolding his long legs and standing “Let’s go see your new

house.”

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Aren followed Deacon back through the grass. He was pleased that Deacon had

changed his mind. The idea of having his own space—and more specifically, of having a place to paint—thrilled him. He followed Deacon up the porch steps. At the front door, Deacon turned to him. He pulled something out of his pocket and held it out to Aren.

It was a key.

“You had it with you?” Aren asked. It surprised him. It meant Deacon had already been wavering when he’d walked out to find Aren in the grass.

Deacon seemed embarrassed by the question. He was still holding the key out to Aren,

and he used his other hand to push his hat further down onto his head. “Are you gonna take it or not?”

Aren bit back his smile and took the key. It was heavy, and the metal was warm from

being close to Deacon’s body. It felt like the greatest gift he’d ever received. “Thank you,” he said.

“Just open the blessed door,” Deacon said, ducking his head so the broad brim of his

hat hid his face. “I don’t got all day.”

Turning to unlock the front door allowed Aren to hide his grin from Deacon. He liked

that something as simple as a “thank you” could disarm the big cowboy so completely.

It was colder in the house than he’d expected. Aren hugged his arms around himself as they explored the tiny living room.

“Don’t start a fire yet,” Deacon said. “I’ll send one of the boys out to clean the chimney and the generator. Have them bring those bags of yours, too. They’re taking up half my damn barn. Had to make the horses sleep double.”

“You did not,” Aren laughed. He lifted a couple of the dust covers. There was a high, long table—more bar than anything—against one wall, and a small end table. Wooden chairs without cushions seemed to be the only seating in the room.

“Most of the good furniture got moved to the main house,” Deacon told him. “Not sure

exactly what’s left.”

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“Whatever’s here will be fine,” Aren said, and he meant it.

Deacon followed him down the hallway to the back of the house. The room at the back

was too small to be called a kitchen—whoever had built the place had obviously planned on eating meals at the main house. It was more like a large pantry with a hand pump for water.

An old rag rug covered the floor.

“We put the pump in a few years ago,” Deacon said, “when Brighton and his wife

thought to live here.” He nodded towards the door at the back of the room. “Privy, too.”

Having his own privy seemed like an unbelievable luxury.

Deacon led him onto the back porch, where the generator sat. He opened it up,

revealing more gears and cables and wheels than Aren had ever seen. “How much you want to know?” Deacon asked.

“Only as much as I need to.”

Deacon laughed. “Smart man.” He showed Aren how to turn it off and on, and where

the coal went if they ever had to resort to that. “If they ever make one we can turn off and on from inside, we’ll be sitting pretty, but till then, make sure you don’t wait till the last minute.

Always turn it on before the sun sets.”

“I will,” Aren assured him.

They went back into the house and up the stairs. The back bedroom was small and dark

and held a dilapidated armoire, a four-poster canopy bed that no longer had a canopy cover, and a lone ottoman. That was nice, but it was the other bedroom that made Aren’s heart soar.

It held no furniture but had a large, east-facing window. The room was bright with sunlight, and although the glass in the window was thick and cloudy with bubbles that distorted the view, Aren thought it was perfect. He felt some forgotten place inside him open up. The artist in him was truly awakening, stirred by the golden opportunity of having a space dedicated to painting, and Aren couldn’t help but grin from ear to ear.

“Thank you!” he said again to Deacon. “You have no idea how much this means to

me.”

As before, the words “thank you” seemed to unnerve Deacon. He pushed his hat down

low and shoved his hands deep in his pockets. “Don’t thank me yet,” he said. “Might not work out.”

“Still, I really apprecia—”

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“Got to get back,” Deacon interrupted him, keeping his head down so Aren couldn’t see his face.

“I understand,” Aren said. “We haven’t discussed the lease yet—”

“I don’t want your money.”

“It’s only fair—”

“Don’t argue with me, or I’ll take it back,” Deacon said, finally glancing up at Aren past the brim of his hat.

“Fine.” Aren was trying not to smile at Deacon’s prickliness. “You don’t want my

money. Is there anything you do want in return?”

And finally, Deacon smiled. It was a shy smile, and it seemed out of place on such a big, hard man. “After supper,” he said, “guess I wouldn’t mind that drink you mentioned.”

Aren felt a grin spread across his face. He didn’t actually have any whisky, but he

vowed to himself he’d find some by supper. “It’s a deal.”

Ten minutes after Deacon left, the parade of people began. First there were ranch hands bringing his bags, cleaning the chimney and chopping firewood.

“I can do that myself,” Aren protested. In truth, he’d never chopped wood in his life, but he didn’t want to be known as the only man on the ranch who couldn’t do his share of the work.

“Don’t worry,” Simon said with a friendly smile as he tossed the split boards into a pile.

“You’ll be doing it yourself after today.”

Aren caught Red as he was dumping two of Aren’s suitcases in the bedroom. After

some haggling, he bought a bottle of the ranch hand’s whisky for what he was sure was an exorbitant price. He didn’t mind. No matter how much Red had overcharged him, Aren felt quite sure it would be worth it.

Behind the hands came the wives, sent by Olsa. They set about gathering up the

furniture covers, beating the rugs, dusting everything in sight and putting clean linens on the bed. Aren was trying to cram his clothes into the creaky armoire when he heard somebody behind him.

It was a nervous cough, unmistakably feminine, and Aren turned to find one of the

wives behind him, her dress buttoned up to her neck and a lace kerchief on her head. He didn’t know which one she was. He knew them by name, but not by sight.

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“Mr Montrell,” she said. “I’m Tama.”

Tama, he remembered, was Jay’s wife. As always when confronted by a woman, Aren

found himself inexplicably uneasy. “Hello,” he said. He glanced nervously towards the bedroom door. It was still open, so presumably she wasn’t planning any kind of attack. Or a seduction, which would have been worse.

“I believe you met my sisters when Deacon brought you here?” she asked. Her cheeks

were red, and her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her apron. “Beth and Alissa?”

The McAllen farm! He remembered Deacon saying that Fred McAllen had married one

of his daughters to one of Jeremiah’s sons. Now that he looked at her, he noticed her resemblance to Beth. “Yes,” he said. “I met them.”

“And did you like them?” she asked.

“Of course,” he said, wondering where the conversation was going and hoping against

hope it would be over soon. “They seemed very nice.”

“Mr Montrell—”

That name made him think of his father, and he interrupted her to say, “My name is

Aren.”

“Aren,” she said. She couldn’t quite meet his eyes, and her cheeks were turning an

alarming shade of red. “I was wondering if you might like either of them enough to marry.”

“To
what?
” he asked, and immediately felt like a fool. It was, after all, a simple word. “I mean, I barely know them. We only spoke for a minute—”

“I just thought,” she said, interrupting him, “now that you have a house, you might

need somebody to help you, and—”

“I really don’t—”

“I know the Austins still have a daughter to marry off, too, and Shay will probably

suggest you marry her sister, Rynna. And I don’t want to speak ill of Rynna, but—”

“Tama—”

“—she’s awfully bossy and spoilt, too. She’d spend all your money. And my sister

Alissa—”

“Stop—”

“—would really love to come here and be with me. She’s much smarter than Rynna,

and I know she’s not as pretty as Beth, but—”

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“That’s not the poi—”

“—she’d be a really great wife. Better than Beth. Alissa can sew and cook, and she’s not afraid to work—”

“Wait—”

“—and I’d be so happy if she could come here and be with me because I miss my family

so much and my daddy can give you a nice dowry I think and—”

“
Stop!
”

She did. She looked down at the ground, nervously twisting her apron into balls in her hands. She almost reminded him of Deacon and the way he shoved his hands into his

pockets and looked down at his boots when he was uncomfortable.

Aren took a deep breath. He ran his fingers through his hair, wishing it was long

enough to tie back so he didn’t have curls hanging loose like a girl’s.

“Tama,” he said, “I’m sure Alissa’s very nice. And whether or not she’s as pretty as

Beth isn’t the issue.”

She glanced up at him, confused. “Do you doubt she’s pure?” she asked. “I give you my word, she’s not been with a man—”

“No!” he said, covering his eyes rather than face her while she spoke of such things.

“That’s not it. I just…” He dropped his hand and met her gaze. “I just don’t want a wife.”

She looked confused by that. She looked around the room as if she might find an

explanation. “Well,” she said at last, “if you change your mind…”

“If I change my mind,” he said, “I promise Alissa will be at the top of my list.”

One might have thought he’d promised her all the gold in Oestend. Her face broke into a smile so bright, he found himself thinking she was rather pretty. Prettier than her sister Beth. “Thank you!” she said. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“I said ‘if’,” he said, but he was relieved they seemed to have reached the end of their conversation.

“I understand,” she said.

But somehow, Aren had his doubts.

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Aren was surprised when Deacon came back that afternoon with Olsa at his side.

“Get your paint, boy,” she told him as he let them through the door. “Red. And a brush.

We’ll be in the pantry.”

Aren knew better than to argue with her. The suitcase that held his paints hadn’t been unpacked yet, and he dug in it until he found the things she needed and took them to her at the back of the house.

“What are you doing?” Aren asked her.

“We’re going to sing the ai’huara.”

As if that meant anything to Aren. He looked at Deacon for explanation. Deacon rolled his eyes. “Folk tales,” he said.

“You know better than that!” Olsa snapped.

Deacon crossed his arms across his chest and clenched his jaw, but didn’t answer her.

“Don’t let him fool you,” Olsa said to Aren. “He knows all the songs. All the ones that matter, anyway. He knows the marriage song—”

“Fat lot of use I have for it, too.”

“—and the birth song, and the warding song, and the death song—”

“Only ‘cause you made me learn them before I was old enough to know better!”

“Is it so horrible I wanted somebody who could sing the death song for me when I go?

Will you deny me a proper end?”

“I told you I’d do it, and I will,” he said, his cheeks red under the darkness of his skin.

“Now can we get on with this? I got work to do.”

“Ungrateful brat.” She grabbed on to Aren’s arm. “Help me down, boy.” Aren

supported her as she slowly lowered herself to her knees. She pushed the rug out of the way to reveal a door cut into the floor.

“A cellar!” Aren said.

“Don’t you go down there,” Olsa said. “It’s a bad place.” She looked up at Deacon.

“Well, get the paint and get over here.”

Deacon gritted his teeth, clearly biting back an angry retort. He grabbed the paint and the brush out of Aren’s hands and held them out to her. “Here.”

“What good are they to me?” she snapped. “Get down here on the floor!”

“Why?”

SONG OF OESTEND

Marie Sexton