Saviours of Oestend Oestend 2 (16 page)

* * * *

They slept snuggled together, and it wasn’t until she tried to wiggle away from him at dawn that Dante woke.
“Don’t go,” he said, tightening his arm around her waist and pulling her backwards against him.
She made a half-hearted effort to break his hold. “I have to start breakfast.”
“They’re grown men.” He brushed her hair aside so he could kiss her shoulder. He slid his hand down her smooth stomach to caress her hip and the inside of her thigh. “They can get their own breakfast today.”
“I should get up,” she said, but he knew she didn’t mean it. Her voice was breathy. Her breathing was speeding up. She pushed her hips back against his groin, and Dante groaned.
“Stay with me,” he whispered.
He meant something far more than just staying in bed with him a bit longer, but she didn’t ask for clarification.
“Yes,” she said.
She let Dante push her gently onto her stomach. There was a jar of salve on his bedside table, and he used it to grease himself and then he pushed into her, as slowly and gently as he could. He couldn’t get over how good she felt—how right. She arched into him, moaning, grinding her hips back against him so he was deep inside her. He kissed her shoulders and her neck. He caressed her flat chest. He made love to her in a way he’d never done before with anybody in his life, raging desire and gentle tenderness somehow at odds, and yet, perfectly matched. He fought his own climax, trying to make it as good for her as he knew how. Her slim body fit perfectly against his. She made soft, sweet gasping sounds that were completely feminine, and occasionally she’d moan, low in her throat, in a way that was utterly male. Both sounds drove him crazy. Both spurred him on until he was rocking with her, stroking her cock with his hand, whispering he knew not what into her thick hair, painfully close to climax until her warm body tightened around his cock, and he could finally let go.
They lay there in the wet mess she’d made, locked together, breathing hard. When she’d finally caught her breath, she laughed awkwardly. “I get the feeling I’m going to be washing the sheets a lot more frequently than I have been.”
He laughed, but talk of laundry was like a cloud moving over his sun. If only there wasn’t work to be done and a ranch to be run. He would have liked to keep her in bed with him all day.
“I suppose having some rags close would be handy.”
She pushed him off her, onto his back, then sat across his hips. She leant down so they were eye to eye. Her cheeks were red, her eyes scared and full of doubt. “Did you mean it?” she asked.
“Mean what? About the rags?”
“No.” The colour on her cheeks rose higher. “What you said while we were…” Her words trailed away, as if she were unwilling to put words to what had happened.
“What did I say?”
“That you love me.”
He didn’t remember saying it—he’d been so caught up in their lovemaking—but he didn’t have to think about it twice. He brushed his finger down her cheek. “Like a bird loves the sky.”
She smiled—a big, bright smile without a hint of doubt. It was the most beautiful smile he’d ever seen, but that wasn’t why he liked it so much. It wasn’t even because it brightened her face the rest of the day. It was because he knew he was the one who’d put it there.

* * * *

Dante had never been happier than he was the next two days, but his happiness was tainted by the new strangeness that seemed to monopolise Oestend. The first day, Cami tried to make biscuits, but each and every egg she cracked was bad, foul and odorous in its shell. The kitchen reeked of their rottenness. The milk cow once again stopped producing. The ranch dogs slunk around the barn, snarling and snapping at anyone they saw. The haystack began to rot in the field. But worse than all of that were the voices. They were faint. Unintelligible. Little more than whispers drifting on the wind.

“Maybe it’s just the wind in the grass,” Dante heard Simon say.
“Maybe it’s cicadas,” another hand suggested.
Dante was sure it was neither of those things, but he kept his opinions to himself. Through the day, it was easy to pretend the voices were something natural, or that they

weren’t there at all, but when the chores were done and night fell, the wind seemed to grow louder, and when it did, the voices were there.

“They’re tired,” Cami whispered one night as they lay in bed. “And really, really sad. Can’t you feel it?”
The next day, she pulled him into the pantry to show him a sack of flour split open on the floor. At least, it should have been flour, but there wasn’t much flour left. The entire bag was full of dead weevils.
“It was fine two days ago,” Cami said. “There’s no way it should be this bad now.”
That afternoon, one of the dogs attacked a ranch hand. The dog had to be put down, and although the man’s injuries were minor, he was badly shaken.
“He was a good dog,” he said over and over again. “He was gentle as a mouse.”
By the time supper ended, Dante knew his men were barely hanging on. He could see how frazzled they were as they sat at the table eating, hardly speaking at all, their eyes constantly checking the corners of the room. The haunting voices were loud, a strange whispering hiss that drifted around the room. Even Simon looked a bit spooked. Only Frances seemed to be taking it all in stride.
The hands eventually left, walking quickly back to the barracks, but Dante wasn’t surprised when Simon hung back.
“We need to talk,” Simon said. He pulled a chair over and straddled it backwards, leaning his arms on its back to face Dante. “The men are in a right lather. They’re fretting more than a bunch of women at a birthing.” He glanced quickly towards Cami. “No offence.”
Cami just smiled, the way she’d been doing the last two days, and it took some effort for Dante to pull his attention away from her and focus on Simon.
“What of it?”
“They want to leave,” Simon said. “They think Brighton’s cursed or unlucky. They’re scared, boss. They want to go home. At the very least, they want to go back to the BarChi.”
“Just leave the ranch to run itself?”
Simon shrugged, as if to say, ‘
It’s not my fault
.’ “They’re not too concerned about the ranch, to tell the truth. Most of them think it can’t last much longer anyway. Not with animals dropping dead and turning on their masters.”
Dante sighed. He crossed his arms over his chest and leant back in his chair to look over at Cami. She was watching him, her smile gone, her eyes wide, but he couldn’t tell how she felt about it.
He knew he couldn’t force his men to stay. If they wanted to leave, they would, and he’d be left with nobody to work the ranch. On the other hand, the last thing he wanted was to go crawling back to the BarChi to declare himself a failure. He’d grown to love Brighton, and he had no desire to leave it.
“I know it’s been rough here lately,” he told Simon, “but it’ll pass. How about if you take the boys into town in a day or two?” It would mean working awfully short-handed for a bit, but he thought they could manage. “Let them blow off some steam. Let them get drunk and get laid, and by the time they get back, they’ll feel better about things.”
“They won’t come back,” Simon said.
“Then we let them go, and we recruit new men—”
“Dante.” Simon leant forward to put his hand on the table between them. “This ain’t gonna work. You bring men out, they’ll be just like these you got, wanting to go back home in a day or a week or a month when the next strange thing happens. I think you got to face the fact that there’s something mighty wrong with this here ranch.”
“I don’t want to give up on it!”
“I get that, boss. The thing is, you may not have a choice.”
Dante sighed. He wanted to yell at Simon, to tell him to get out. He wanted to go across the yard to the barracks and take a belt to every one of the quivering hands who thought himself a man. But it wouldn’t solve anything.
“Tell them just a few more days. If things don’t clear up, I promise we’ll go home.”
Simon was obviously unsure of the plan, but he didn’t argue. Dante wished he could believe the issue was over.
“What do you think?” he asked Cami that night, as they lay in bed.
She didn’t have to ask what he meant. “I don’t want to go,” she said quietly. “But I don’t know how long we can live like this, either.”
He knew what she meant, even if he was reluctant to admit it. They had no eggs, no chickens, no flour. Even if they went to town and restocked it all, what strangeness would Oestend throw at them next?
“This feels like my home,” she said.
“It is your home.”
She snuggled against him, and he put his arms around her, holding her close. It pleased him to know that neither of them wanted to leave this haven they had found. Dante was more determined than ever to find a way.

Chapter Sixteen

That night, Simon lay in his bunk listening to the quiet sounds of sleeping men, doing his best to ignore the strange whispers that rode the wind. The hands had taken the news as expected—disgruntled, sceptical, yet in the end willing to wait it out. They were scared. It was that simple. The only person who didn’t seem worried was Frances.

Simon smiled at that thought. How Frances could walk around acting as if everything were normal was beyond him, but he did. He shrugged each new incident off as if it didn’t matter.

Maybe it didn’t.
“Everything here’s different,” he said, when Simon asked. “It’s all the same to me.” Simon was glad he didn’t have to worry about Frances’ morale, but he still felt

protective of the boy. For himself, he would have stayed at Brighton for as long as Dante needed him, but he wanted desperately to get Frances to safety. It was his job to keep Frances out of harm’s way. Frances needed him, and the truth was, Simon liked to be needed. That simple fact had been the foundation of his companionship with Garrett for years.

In many ways, he and Garrett had been alike, both of them fighting personal demons, denying themselves something they desperately wanted. For Simon, it was women. For Garrett, it was alcohol. Out of that mutual need for self-control had come trust. Simon kept Garrett out of the taverns, and Garrett kept Simon away from whorehouses and maids. It had worked, and they’d become friends, but in truth, Simon had always known that Garrett’s trip to the Oestend prairie was one-way. Garrett had too many demons, and it had been only a matter of time before he gave up running. The fact that the wraiths had taken him before he’d been able to self-destruct had almost been a blessing. Yes, Simon had missed him at first, but he’d never expected to be with Garrett forever.

That was where things with Frances differed. Garrett had died after Miron’s death, and after Simon had already taken Frances under his wing. He’d watched Frances transform from a green, scared kid into a bright, determined young man. He’d grown fond of him. He felt protective, but also proud. It didn’t matter that maybe Frances had hopes Simon could never fulfil. They were friends, and whenever Simon thought about what might happen down the road—whether it was staying at Brighton or moving on—he’d always assumed Frances would be at his side.

Although not once had that vision included them sharing a bed.
Simon sighed, wondering what the morning would bring. He suddenly wanted to wake Frances up. They’d barely had a chance to talk before they’d crawled into their separate bunks, and Simon wished he knew what the boy thought of Dante’s plan.
Of course, thinking of waking Frances up made Simon think of other things. They’d never risked sex in the barracks, but Simon knew everybody else was sleeping.
Frances’ arm hung off the side of his bunk, his hand dangling within Simon’s reach. Simon glanced around. The curtains to their part of the room were drawn, affording them a tiny bit of privacy.
He took a deep breath and reached up to take Frances’ hand. He squeezed his fingers, and heard Frances’ breathing hitch as he woke. Simon tugged on his hand, and after a second, Frances slid quietly off the top bunk to the floor. It was so dark in the room, Simon couldn’t see his face at all. He could barely make out his shadow as he stood by the bed. Simon tugged his hand again, and Frances came, letting Simon pull him down on to the bed.
“We’ll have to be quiet,” Frances whispered. Although Simon couldn’t see Frances’ expression, he knew he was smiling.
“I know.”
Frances stood up. Simon could discern just enough to see the boy dropping his pants. Simon wiggled out of his own and Frances crawled into the bed next to him. He felt Frances’ warm fingers wrap around his cock.
“How?” Frances’ question was barely more than a breath.
“Like before.”
Frances rolled away, and for a moment Simon thought he had changed his mind, but then he realised Frances was reaching for the jar of salve tucked under Simon’s bed. He handed it to Simon, then turned onto his belly.
Simon didn’t even have to imagine this time that it was a girl he was about to fuck. Just the knowledge of how good it was going to feel was enough. As he stroked himself, spreading the salve on his cock, he had to bite his lip to stifle a moan. He gripped Frances’ ass and spread his cheeks. He put more salve on his thumb and ran it up Frances’ crack until he found what he sought. He heard Frances’ breath catch.
He put the tip of his greased cock against Frances’ rim. He froze there, savouring the delay of his pleasure, then slowly pushed inside.
It was unlike any sexual experience he’d ever had. He could barely move, for fear of making the bunk creak. He had to bite his lip to keep from moaning. He hung on with one hand to the underside of the upper bunk, and with the other hand, he gripped Frances’ hip. It wasn’t thrusting so much as an exquisitely slow rocking motion—deep in then almost all the way out. Frances arched underneath him, moving his hips to maximise his own pleasure. Somehow, the fact that they had to be so quiet seemed to add to the eroticism of it. He could move his hips. He could change his angle. But no matter what he did, he had to be slow, lest the noises of the creaky bunk give them away. They moved together, both of them fighting to remain silent. In the end, Simon came so hard, he couldn’t have said if he’d ended up making noise or not.
When they were done, he lay down next to Frances on the narrow bunk. He nudged him. “Better get back in your own bunk.”
“Not yet,” Frances mumbled sleepily. “Let me stay here for a bit.”
Simon smiled and ruffled his hair. “Don’t let them see you.”
“I won’t.”
Simon lay there, warm and content in the afterglow of their lovemaking. He heard Frances’ breathing slow. He touched the boy’s hair again. He wanted to say something. ‘
Thank you
’ seemed wrong. ‘
I love you
’ was worse.
He was still pondering it when he fell asleep. At some point, in the small hours of the night, Frances left for his own bed, and Simon moved into the spot he’d vacated. The sheets were warm from Frances’ slim body. His smell was familiar, like sunshine and leather and fresh-cut wheat. Simon smiled and drifted easily into a dream.
It was a day from his past. He was with Lena, walking along the footpath in the park. It was during their courtship, before the attack that had brought it all to an end. They strolled idly around the lake, happy just to be in each other’s company. It was warm, and Lena carried a parasol to keep the sun off her face.
No. That part was wrong. She’d never had a parasol. Even in his dream, Simon knew this. She’d
wanted
a parasol. “Do the women still use them back in Lanstead?” she’d asked.
“Only the silly ones,” he’d told her.
They walked on. Simon could hear the quacking of the ducks, and the honking of geese. Long, reedy grasses and cattails grew along the bank. He took in the smells—the wet odour of the lake and the ducks, the soft hint of Lena’s perfume, and with it, the smell of sunlight and leather and wheat. The scent of the prairie.
The smell of Frances.
Yes, Frances was there, too. And because it was a dream, Simon didn’t have to glance over his shoulder to know he was behind them, following quietly. His thumbs were tucked into his belt loops, and he was smiling, his eyes closed, tilting his head back to let the warm sunlight caress his cheeks.
Somehow, in that moment, Frances belonged there as much as Lena, and Simon felt completely at ease. He reached out. He grasped a hand in his. Whether Lena’s or Frances’ he didn’t know.
It was pleasant. Perfect in a way that could never be real, and though he tried to hang on to it, he felt it slipping away. Something else tugged at the edges of his consciousness. A sound, growing louder. Voices.
He resisted opening his eyes for as long as he could, but wakefulness won out.
He wasn’t at the park in Holtshire. He was deep in the Oestend prairie, in the barracks at Brighton Ranch. Lena was gone. Frances remained. The wind howled through the tree branches outside.
Real life waited. And it soon became evident that real life was going to be a bit of a bitch.