Saviours of Oestend Oestend 2 (18 page)

There was no room for Simon and Frances in the barracks. In fact, there wasn’t even room for the BarChi hands in the barracks, let alone the Brighton hands, too. It seemed that more men had come up from the south, looking not just for work, but for sanctuary. Strange things were happening all over the prairie.

All over, that was, except for at the BarChi.
In town, men talked. Stories spread. Tales grew. They became the ominous, whispered fodder of barkeeps, shopowners, farriers and whores. From them, men learned that the BarChi was somehow immune to whatever plagued Oestend.
“I tried to send them away,” Deacon said, “but it ain’t like they got anywhere else to go. In the end, I put them in the barn. Pay them a pittance. I keep hoping they’ll get fed up and leave, but for every one that does, two more come to take his place.”
Simon, Frances, and the rest of the Brighton hands found themselves bedding down in the back room of the barn, along with eight other men they didn’t know and one man they did—Foster. He was frightening to look at. The top of his forehead was a mottled band of scar tissue. The right side of his face drooped unnaturally and didn’t move when he spoke. Four of the other men appeared to be with him. Simon made sure to bed down as far from the man as he could.
On their third day at the BarChi, things got worse. That was the day Fred McAllen showed up with two daughters, four dairy cows, a flock of maids and a whole herd of swine.
“Couldn’t keep my girls safe,” Simon heard the man proclaim to Deacon and Jeremiah. “What else could I do?”
Having a dozen maids appear at the BarChi made the ranch hands happy, but Simon suspected they were the only ones. The women were all put up in the house, as were Fred and his daughters, Beth and Uma. He heard Tama, Cami and Alissa complain more than once that it had only given them more people to wait on. Cows and horses had to be moved in order to make room for the pigs. Fences built to hold Oestend cattle didn’t necessarily hold hogs, so men were put to work making the field secure. The barn wasn’t big enough to hold a dozen men, plus the horses from three different ranches. The dairy cows were crammed so tight into the back barn, Simon wondered how anybody found room to milk.
And over it all, there was
noise
.
Squealing pigs and giggling maids. Men yelling and arguing. Horses stamping and snorting in agitation, wanting out of the barn. It was a nightmare. More than once, Simon wondered about going back to Brighton.
Two days after Fred McAllen’s tribe had invaded the BarChi, Simon walked into the barn to find Frances, Aren and Deacon on their way out of it. The sun was already falling low in the sky. The generators would be turned on soon. It seemed like a strange time to leave the barn.
“Where’re you going?” Simon asked.
Frances’ ears turned red, but he smiled. “With Aren and Deacon.”
Simon had almost forgotten that Aren and Deacon had their own house. A house that wasn’t filled with ranch hands or maids. He eyed the back room of the barn. It was crowded and stank of sweat and tobacco. None of those men were his friends. The ones he knew were more like employees. He had a sudden empathy for Deacon, who held himself apart from the men.
All except for Aren. And apparently Frances.
Simon turned back to find Frances watching him expectantly. “Maybe I’ll come with you?”
Frances’ face lit up. “Really?” he asked.
It seemed like a strange question, and Simon shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”
Frances was practically bouncing. Simon had the feeling he was having to restrain himself from hugging him. “It’ll be great,” he said. “I promise.” But then he turned to Deacon and said, “Is it all right?”
Deacon looked at Simon appraisingly, much the way he looked at new hands who showed up on the ranch, assessing whether or not they’d last and how much trouble they’d cause. “He know how to keep his mouth shut?”
“Of course,” Simon said.
Deacon looked at Aren, and Aren shrugged. Deacon sighed. “All right.” He pointed a finger at Aren. “No rope.”
Aren smiled back. “No rope,” he agreed. Then he winked over at Frances. “Unless we use it on him.”
Frances laughed. He was happier than Simon had seen him in ages. “Saints, don’t tease me! I wouldn’t last a minute!”
Rope?
Simon had the distinct feeling he was missing something, but he didn’t have time to think about it. The others were already out the door, and Simon had to hurry to catch up. Aren and Frances were further ahead, and Simon fell into step beside Deacon.
“Tell me what’s been happening up there at Brighton,” Deacon said.
“Didn’t Dante tell you?”
Deacon glanced at him sideways. “Dante and I ain’t exactly on the friendliest of terms.”
Out of Deacon and Aren, Simon hadn’t ever known which one of the two Dante had a problem with, or if it was both. He was curious, but he knew better than to ask Deacon. So instead, he started filling him in on what had happened since his last trip the BarChi—the birds, the lightning, the milk cows that wouldn’t produce. And the voices. Through it all, Deacon listened, his eyebrows down, his confusion plain on his face.
They arrived at the house, and Simon followed them into the living room. Deacon led him to the bar and poured the two of them each a glass of whisky, as Simon told him about the final windstorm that had sent them packing. “I know this is Oestend, and there’s always wind, but I’m telling you, it was like nothing I’ve ever seen.”
Deacon shook his head. “Strong enough to topple a windmill? I’ve never seen it that strong, either.”
“It was unbelievable the way that thing come down. I can’t even describe it.”
Deacon whistled. “I checked that mill myself. Saints, you know. You were there. No reason to think it was unstable.”
“It’s been one strange thing after another. Ask Frances about—”
That was as far as he got. He’d had his back to the room as he’d talked to Deacon. At that moment he turned around to find Frances, and what he found stopped him dead in his tracks. Aren was sitting in one of the two chairs in the room. Frances was straddling his lap. And they were kissing.
Not just kissing.
More like, trying to swallow each other’s tongue. Frances seemed to be doing his best to get Aren undressed too, and as Simon watched, Aren reached down and began to stroke Frances’ erection through his pants.
Simon was stunned. He glanced over at Deacon, expecting to find him angry, but Deacon looked downright amused. He shook his head. “That boy of yours is damn impatient.”
Simon felt the world spin, and all the pieces fell heavily into place. All this time, he’d looked at Deacon and Aren as a married couple, and therefore he’d assumed they were both off-limits. Other nights, as they’d passed through the BarChi, Frances had stayed at Aren’s house, but it had never occurred to Simon what was really going on. He’d assumed Frances and Aren had just been busy talking and drinking until it was too late to leave. But suddenly, it all made sense. And Frances’ excitement about Simon joining them became clear in a whole new way.
Simon wasn’t sure how he felt about the idea. He couldn’t even decide how he felt watching Aren and Frances together. A bit of jealousy. A hint of arousal. But over it all, embarrassment and extreme discomfort. He’d learned to allow for sex with Frances, but with Aren too? And Deacon? He glanced again at the man next to him and almost shuddered.
There was no way this was happening.
Except it was. Frances was breathing hard, grinding against Aren as he kissed him. Aren grabbed Frances’ wrists, stilling him, pushing Frances away just a bit. “You’re never going to last long enough for us to have any real fun,” he teased.
Frances laughed breathlessly. “Saints, you don’t have to tell me.”
Next to Simon, Deacon laughed, his voice deep and booming. “You intend to make a night of this, you best take the edge off now.”
Aren smiled over at him. “Good idea.”
He pushed Frances off his lap and began to undo Frances’ pants.
Deacon looked over at Simon, his eyebrows up, as if to say
you going to help
? Simon felt himself blush up to his hairline. Holy Saints, what exactly were they expecting of him?
Deacon seemed to realise Simon wasn’t going to do anything. He shrugged and put his glass of whisky down on the bar and crossed over to them. Aren seemed to be waiting for him.
“Rope?” Aren asked.
He was obviously teasing, but Frances moaned.
“I don’t think we need it,” Deacon said.
He stood behind Frances. He reached around and grabbed the boy’s wrists, pulling his hands behind his back. He held both of Frances’ wrists in one hand and wrapped his other arm around Frances’ shoulders and leant down to kiss the soft skin on his neck. As he did, Aren pulled Frances’ pants out of the way. Frances’ eyes were closed. His breathing was shaky. Aren teased his tongue up Frances’ erection, and Frances moaned.
Simon felt as if he were made of stone. He couldn’t move. He was too uncomfortable to be aroused. He felt awkward for being there, and even more awkward for not being involved. His brain screamed for him to turn away, and yet, he worried he’d feel even more foolish for that in the end, like being the one man in the room who didn’t get the punchline to a joke. He stood frozen in his spot as Aren swallowed Frances’ erection to the root. Frances moaned again, deeper this time. It was a sound Simon recognised well. Deacon gripped him tighter. Aren’s head moved faster. They’d teased him about not lasting long, and he didn’t. Simon knew when Frances came by the way his breathing hitched, and the way his hips bucked.
Simon thought his own relief at having it over might have been equal to what Frances felt, albeit for very different reasons.
He turned away from them and drained the last of his whisky in one gulp. His hand shook as he poured himself another glass. Behind him, he could hear all three men laughing as Aren and Deacon teased Frances good naturedly about having a hair trigger.
Simon couldn’t face them. He was torn between arousal and disgust and shame and outright fear—not just because they were all men, but because there seemed to be no boundaries. He had no idea what was expected of him or where he fit in. He had no idea if he could even perform with other men in the room. The idea of doing anything sexual with Deacon almost made his bile rise.
He heard Frances come up behind him. He recognised the breathlessness of his laugh. The boy stepped up next to him and reached to pour his own glass of whisky. His cheeks were still flushed, and he looked happy and relaxed. It bothered Simon for no good reason. But when Frances turned and met his eyes, some of the shine disappeared from his face. “What’s wrong?”
Simon was glad to have him ask. “I think I should go.”
The disappointment in Frances’ eyes was obvious. “No! Why?”
“
Why
?” It seemed like such a stupid question. Did Frances really not know? “Why do you think?”
He saw how the question confused him. Frances’ eyes flicked to the side, towards Aren and Deacon.
“Are you mad?”
Was he? He wasn’t sure. “I just think I should go.”
“You
are
mad!”
“No—”
“Is it because it was Aren? I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“No.” That wasn’t it. Or was it? Simon wished he knew. More than that, he wished Frances would stop looking at him with his big, hurt, puppy dog eyes.
“Hey.” Deacon suddenly stepped up to them. He leant down and kissed Frances’ neck, and Simon thought he’d never seen Frances look so sad. “Let’s take this upstairs,” Deacon said. “Aren went to turn on the generator.”
“Give us a minute,” Frances said.
“Take your time. We got all night.”
Simon couldn’t even look at the man. He listened to Deacon’s heavy tread as he went up the stairs, presumably to where their bedroom was. The thought made Simon’s heart race, and not in a good way. He had the urge to run.
“Frances, this is too much for me. Really. I can’t do this.”
If he thought Frances could look more disappointed than he had before, Frances proved him wrong. “All right. I’m sorry. I guess… I don’t know. I guess I misunderstood—”
“I didn’t realise…” Simon was hesitant to admit how stupid he’d been about exactly what Frances’ relationship with Aren and Deacon was. “I didn’t realise it would be all four of us.”
For some reason, that seemed to cheer Frances up a bit. “If it was just us, would you stay?”
Stay in this nice warm room instead of sleeping in the hay in a draughty barn with nearly a dozen other hands? “Of course.”
Frances smiled, his entire expression suddenly changing, as quick and bright as the sun emerging from behind the clouds. He seemed to have to restrain himself from bouncing on his toes. “Thank you!” he said, taking Simon’s hand.
“You two coming?” Aren asked from behind him.
“No,” Frances told him. “You go ahead.”
“Everything all right?”
“It’s great,” Frances said, and the emotion Simon heard behind that word worried him a bit.
For a while, everything was fine. There was a thick, soft fur hide on the floor by the fire. They sat there together, sipping their whisky. Simon used a stick to stoke the flames, doing his best to ignore the knot of unease in his belly. No matter what had happened earlier, staying at Aren’s was going to be infinitely better than sleeping in the barn.
Frances’ boots were off, his pants and shirt still undone from earlier. He smiled over at Simon. “I’m glad you came.”
It made Simon nervous for a reason he couldn’t quite explain. He still felt there was something he was missing.
Frances turned towards him, sitting across his lap so he could look into his eyes. He put his arms around Simon’s neck and kissed his cheek.
“I promise it will be worth it.”
“I’m not worried,” Simon said, although he knew he was lying.
Frances pushed him back onto the rug and began to undo Simon’s shirt, kissing his chest as he did. It was a kind of intimacy they’d never shared, and Simon found it disconcerting. Frances caressed Simon’s chest and sides. Simon closed his eyes and tried to enjoy as he’d done in the past, but in truth, he wished Frances would hurry up and get on with things. He’d learned to enjoy sex with Frances, but he didn’t know how to handle what Frances was doing.
Frances moved his warm mouth from Simon’s collarbone to his nipple. He teased it with his tongue, and Simon gasped. He’d never had anybody touch him there—certainly not in a sexual way—and the sensation surprised him. Frances moaned in response. He looked up at Simon. His cheeks were more flushed than before, his eyes heavy with desire.
This was different than anything that happened between them before, and Simon felt something akin to panic stirring in his chest.
“Frances, stop.”
Frances shook his head. “No, Simon. Please don’t say that.” He bent to kiss Simon’s chest again. “I’m sorry about Aren. I didn’t know you’d be mad, but it’s just us now.”
“That’s not it.”
“Then what?”