Saviours of Oestend Oestend 2 (2 page)

Dante found her sitting in the living room. She had pulled the long sleeves of her sweater down to cover her hands, and she held one of them over her nose.
“Simon said he warned you about the smell.”
She nodded and said through her hand, “He did, but it’s worse than I expected.”
“Wish I could say you’d get used to it.”
She shook her head. “I can fix it.”
He hadn’t expected that. “We already burned the mattresses, and all the linens, too.”
“I know,” she said.
That was all. No explanation of how she intended to do it. Just silence, and her big brown eyes, staring at him over her hand.
Dante sighed and sat down in the chair across from her, trying to decide how to proceed. Were women really so much harder than men, or did he only imagine it? He wasn’t sure.
“What’s your name?”
“Cami.”
“Simon says you asked specifically for the BarChi?”
Her eyes were still wary, but she finally lowered her hand from her face, crinkling her nose at the smell. She was just a bit off from being pretty. Her eyes were her best feature— deep brown and almond-shaped, rimmed with thick, black lashes—but her brows were a bit too thick. Full, pouting lips, but her jaw was a touch too wide. “I needed work.”
“And why not the McAllen ranch, or some other ranch with maids instead of hands?”
She looked down at her hands, clenched in her lap. “I have my reasons.”
“Where did you work before?”
She looked up at him through her lashes. “I don’t want to say.”
He sighed in frustration. No, it couldn’t be his imagination. Women were
definitely
more work. After all, men in Oestend branded their work history onto their arms. It was easy enough to see. And when asked why, they answered, like Foster had, even if their answers were ignorant or cruel.
She took a deep breath and said, “Aren said—”
“I don’t give a fuck what Aren said,” Dante snapped. “Aren ain’t here.”
She flinched at his words. She pulled the sleeves of her dark sweater down further over her hands and wrapped her arms around herself, as if she could use the garment as protection against Dante’s anger. “Do you want me to go?”
“I want you to answer my question.”
She stood up and turned her back on him, walking closer to the fire. She was rail-thin, straight and lean like the long grass that grew in the prairie. “I worked at The Chalice.”
The Chalice. Dante rarely heard it called that, but he knew what it was—Milton’s one and only whorehouse. He’d been there once, years before, when he was still young enough to think he might be able to make things work if only he found the right woman. Even back then, he’d found it to be a vile, disgusting place. He could understand why she’d want to keep it secret. “I see.”
She looked over her shoulder at him, and he could see how much the confession shamed her. She eyed him, as if judging his reaction, but whether she liked what she found or not, he couldn’t tell. She sighed and turned back to stare at the fire. “You hear things, working in a whorehouse. I heard about the BarChi. I heard how Aren and Deacon are different.”
Different.
What a diplomatic way of putting it.
“I also heard how they had another woman at the BarChi who wasn’t anybody’s wife, but that they kept her safe just the same.”
“But they didn’t have room for you, and you figured better here than back to The Chalice? Tired of being a whore?”
She turned to glare at him. “I’m not a whore! Not anymore. The only reason I came here is because Aren promised me you wouldn’t force me into your bed.”
Aren promised.
And once again, Aren was right. It irked Dante to admit it, but Aren hadn’t lied to Cami. “What else did Aren say?”
She shrugged, her anger gone as quickly as it had come, apparently satisfied that he wasn’t going to try to prove Aren wrong. “Nothing. Only that he thought you might need help. Not more men, he said. A woman’s help.”
“I suppose that’s true enough.”
“So you’ll let me stay?”
“Don’t see why not.”
“Will you protect me from the others, even though I’m not your wife?”
“I don’t condone rape, whether we’re married or not.”
The smile she gave him was almost apologetic. “I don’t care what you say to them. Tell them whatever will keep me safe. You can tell them I spread my legs for you every night, if you like. Just don’t expect me to actually do it.”
It was strange. She was so adamant about not being a whore, and yet she didn’t care what the other men thought of her, as long as Dante kept them from her. It was a fair enough request. He thought about Tama, back at the BarChi. She’d been his closest friend for years. He thought of what he would have done to any man who had dared touch her. He didn’t know Cami at all, but he didn’t need to. She deserved the same protection he would have given Tama, or Olsa or Alissa. Or his own wife Daisy, once upon a time, if she’d ever wanted anything so simple from him.
He didn’t need to drag Cami’s honour through the mud to keep her safe, either. If the hands knew she’d been a whore, they’d be more likely to think she was fair game, so that had to remain a secret. And as for telling them she was sharing his bed?
“It won’t come to that,” he said. “They touch you, I’ll kill them. That’s as much as they need to know.”
She flinched at his words. “That seems rather harsh.”
“My ranch, my rules.”
She stared at him, assessing him, and her lips curved up in the smallest hint of a smile. “Tama told me you were a good man. She said, no matter what anybody else says, and no matter how bullheaded and stupid you sometimes are, that underneath it all, you have a pure heart.”
He found himself smiling at the words. He could hear Tama saying it. How many times had she scolded him—and rightly so—for some stupid thing he’d done while blinded by rage or by jealousy? “How is Tama?”
“She says she misses you. She says life is downright boring without you causing trouble every time the wind blows.”
Yes, that definitely sounded like her. He missed her, too, but he didn’t say that to Cami. It was one more piece of his life that was wrong. He’d lost Deacon. He’d lost the BarChi. He’d lost Daisy, and although he didn’t exactly miss her, he did miss what she represented— a wife and a chance at someday having a family. And he’d lost his one and only friend, Tama.
It seemed as if it were all because of Aren.
He shook his head. He didn’t want to dwell on that thought. He’d done that for too long already. Instead, he watched Cami. She’d turned away from him to hold her hands out to the fire. The odd sweater she wore only came halfway down her back, revealing a slim waistline that trailed straight down under her skirt to narrow hips. His daddy would have said she wasn’t fit to bear children. He wouldn’t have meant it in any kind of mean way, but having lost his own wife to childbirth, he’d been vigilant when choosing wives for his sons. Broad hips meant healthy babies, and more importantly, it meant healthy moms who survived the birth. That was one of the first things he’d said to Dante about the wife he’d chosen for him. “Daisy has good wide hips. Childbearing hips. You
’
ll have a hoard of babies in no time.”
Of course, he’d been wrong, but it hadn’t been Daisy’s hips that had been the problem.
Cami moved closer to the fire, wrapping her sweater tighter around her. A glance out the only window in the room showed him that the snow had stopped, but he could tell it was bitterly cold out. There was a luminescence to the air that spoke of more precipitation to come. The moan of the wind was low and ominous. Simon and Frances would be out in it, trying to get as many of the animals into the barn as they could, stocking the woodpiles and the coal, securing the feed. He should be out there helping them. But first, he felt he needed to settle things with her.
She was edging closer to the fire, her hands held out to its warmth. A skinny girl like her was bound to be chilly all the time to begin with. Cold like they had on the Oestend prairie might kill her, and that was no exaggeration. Dante eyed the clothes she wore—a skirt that looked none-too warm, a thin shirt, that strange short sweater with the overly long sleeves. Under the hem of her skirt, he could make out low boots—perfectly practical for working inside, but they’d never be enough to keep her feet dry when she had to leave the house.
“Gonna be cold tonight,” he said. “And even colder tomorrow. Storm like this, we might not see much thaw for a week or more.” He eyed the blanket roll on the floor that held her belongings. It was too small to hold much. “You bring any warm clothes?”
She glanced over her shoulder at him. There were spots of colour high on her cheeks, but she smiled a bit. “These
are
my warm clothes.”
He rolled his eyes. “They ain’t gonna do you much good.” But as soon as he’d said it, he knew he also had the solution. “Come on,” he said to her as he pushed himself up out of his chair. “Follow me.”
He led her through the kitchen and up the stairs. It was significantly colder on the second floor. The heat from the kitchen and the living room hearth didn’t reach that far. There were four bedrooms along the hall. The largest one, which had belonged to Zed Austin and his wife, held a fireplace. Logic dictated Dante should take that room, but he’d resisted. For some reason he couldn’t quite explain, he’d wanted to be in the room that had held Brighton on his last night alive. Sharing the room with his brother’s ghost reminded Dante each and every day of what had been lost and of how easily things could go wrong in the wild. Now, it seemed doubly provident that he’d rejected the main bedroom.
He led Cami to it and opened the door. “May as well use the room with the fireplace. I suspect you’ll need it more than me.” She was surprised, he could tell, but before she could say anything, he led her into the third of the four bedrooms. He opened the closet door. “Everything we found in the house, we put here. Most of the men’s clothes have been taken by now, but nobody’s had use for any of the women’s things. And since Zed ran a maid ranch and had daughters, there’s plenty of it. Go through it. Take whatever you like. Ain’t nobody else around here going to need it.”
She didn’t answer, and he turned to try to read her expression. She was the tallest woman he’d ever met, nearly his height. She stared at the closet full of clothes, smiling like it was the most amazing thing she’d ever seen, her eyes huge and childishly excited. He was surprised she hadn’t already pushed him out of the way to get to them. It made him laugh. “Tama always said the way to a woman’s heart is through her closet door. She said, men are always trying to get women’s clothes off. Too bad they don’t realise the quickest way is to put clothes on them first.”
Her eyes flashed towards him, suddenly full of alarm, and he thought about what he’d said. As usual, he’d spoken without thinking. He hadn’t meant to make it sound like he was trying to get under her skirt, but he realised that was exactly how it had come out. He held his hands up defensively and took a step back. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
She relaxed at once, and her smile returned, as bright as before. “Thank you.”
Her gratitude made him uncomfortable. He hadn’t done anything. People had died. That was why he was here, in this house. That was why there was a closet full of unused clothing. None of it felt like his. Sure, he could have kept the clothing a secret, but to what purpose? He wasn’t being nice. He was being practical.
He pointed to the closed door of his room. “That one’s mine,” he said. “But the rest of the house is yours as much as anybody’s.”
He saw the surprise and understanding in her eyes. “Thank you,” she said again.
The words made him as uncomfortable the second time.
“Enough talk,” he said. “We both got to work to do.”

Simon hadn’t wanted to bring the girl. He’d wanted very much to tell her no, but she’d looked at him with those giant brown eyes, so much like Lena’s, and he’d given in.
Of course, he’d been kicking himself for his weakness ever since.
It wasn’t Cami’s fault. Not really. But the truth was, she made him uneasy. Yes, her eyes were like Lena’s, but it was her demeanour that spooked him the most. She was still, silent and observant. He had the uncomfortable feeling that Lena was somewhere behind those eyes, watching him, trying to determine if he’d kept his vow.
The Saints knew he’d tried. They knew he’d failed, too, on a couple of occasions. But not recently, and on not this trip. No way could he have allowed temptation to get the better of him this time. Not with Lena’s eyes watching him. Besides, when they’d reached the McAllen farm, there hadn’t been as many willing maids as there were willing men. Simon had seen the way some of the boys had begun to turn their eyes towards Cami. He also noted the way she’d huddled in the corner, her eyes huge and scared.
In the end, he’d taken Cami into his stall instead of a maid. “I won’t touch you,” he’d assured her. “I won’t let them touch you either.” It was apparently what she’d needed to hear. He’d barred the door, and the two of them had bedded down on opposite sides of the stall. Neither of them had spoken a word. And if the moans and gasps of the lovers in other stalls had seemed harder to deal with that night than ever before, Simon had chalked it up to his own guilt. He’d called the memory of Lena up in his mind and reaffirmed the vow he’d made to her so many years before.
The next morning had dawned with a barn full of smiling young men. Simon’s heart had been heavy, but at least it was with the comfortable familiarity of ancient grief, and not the sharp, hateful pain of self-recrimination and regret. He’d held onto that thought like a talisman.
He’d thought to be rid of Cami at the BarChi, but it wasn’t to be. He’d figured her getting back to town was her own problem, until Aren had tracked him down in the barn and asked him to take her to Dante’s.
“You have any idea how pissed Dante’ll be if I show up with a woman in tow?” he’d asked Aren.
Aren had raised his eyebrows at him, laughter sparkling in his brown eyes. “Are you afraid of Dante?”
“You’re not the one has to work with him!”
“True enough.” Aren had smiled innocently at him. He’d turned away, as if he were giving in. But Simon hadn’t really been off the hook. “So, how’s the food there?” Aren had asked. “Are you getting three square meals a day?”
Simon had found himself cursing, thinking of the day they’d eaten nothing but pickles because it was what some fool hand had dragged up from the cellar and the rest of them were too tired to argue. The truth was, Simon had worked cattle drives back in Lanstead. He knew how to cook a bit. Mostly beans and flatbread, but even that was better than pickles. But his skills were always required outside the house. It didn’t make sense to have him working in the kitchen when there was so much other work to be done. And so far, none of the other men they’d recruited had known cornmeal from dust.
Aren had taken Simon’s obscenities for the answer they were. “What about laundry?” he’d asked. “When was the last time your shorts were washed?”
“My shorts aren’t your concern!” he’d snapped. He’d always thought Aren a bit of a know-it-all. The annoying thing was, Aren really did seem to know it all.
“And how about canning?” Aren had asked next. “Deacon says the Austins had a big garden. Are you going to be able to put any of it away for winter?”
Of course they weren’t. Simon didn’t know a blessed thing about canning, and he was pretty sure Dante didn’t either.
“All right!” Simon had conceded in frustration. “I’ll take her!”
And so he’d had to deal with Lena’s eyes watching him for two more days. And because after the McAllen ranch, Cami apparently trusted him not to take advantage of her, she had stuck close to him the entire time. Of course, the fact that she’d needed to resort to such measures was one of the other reasons Simon didn’t want her along.
Women caused trouble.
Simon was level-headed enough to recognise that it often wasn’t their fault, but the truth of the matter was, once a woman was in the picture, men could usually be counted on to do stupid things. Some of the new recruits continued to ignore her. Some treated her with the careful politeness young men usually reserved for their meanest aunt. But a few had watched her the way a mountain lion watched a deer, and that worried Simon. Foster especially seemed to follow her movements with an almost predatory awareness. The girl was no fool, though. She knew to steer a broad path around Foster.
They finally arrived at the ranch. Simon breathed a mental sigh of relief when Cami took her pack and went into Dante’s house. She was Dante’s problem now. Simon planned to avoid her and her haunting eyes as much as possible.
“Do you think Dante will marry her?” Frances asked that night, after the chores were done and they were back in the barracks.
“I doubt it,” Simon said. “He didn’t seem all that pleased to have her here.”
“I don’t know why not. Saints, we might actually get a real breakfast tomorrow morning. My mouth’s watering just thinking about it!”
Simon had to admit he’d be happy enough to see some real food at the ranch. Still, he couldn’t help but think having a woman around might be more trouble than it was worth. Especially one who watched him with Lena’s eyes.
“You all right?” Frances asked.
“Right enough,” Simon lied. He looked around the barracks. The new boys were all jockeying for space. The barracks at the BarChi had held rows of cots, but it was different here. There were four bunk beds, one in each corner of the room, and a big, round, open fireplace in the middle. It meant the men had to pair up, but it afforded each pair a semblance of privacy. There were four curtains too, ceiling to floor, allowing the different quarters of the room to be sectioned off. Even now, with the curtains all open and the entire room visible to all, they could sit side by side on the lower bunk with their heads together and hold a conversation without the whole blessed world hearing. Simon tilted his head to the side, indicating the empty space on the bed next to him, and Frances took his hint. He sat down next to him, close enough that their thighs were touching. Simon had never flat-out asked Frances about his sexual habits, but he’d suspected for a while they were more in line with Aren’s than with his own. “You heard what Foster said about men like Deacon and Aren?” he asked quietly.
Frances’ face flushed red, but he didn’t turn away. “I heard.”
“That going to cause trouble for you?”
Frances’ blush deepened. The boy was so easy to read. He was embarrassed to have Simon ask and nervous about how Simon would respond. “Not if he doesn’t find out.”
Simon nodded. “Fair enough. But if you end up behind the hay stack with any of these boys, be sure to watch your back. Got it?”
If possible, Frances’ cheeks turned an even deeper shade of red. But Simon also saw the relief that it was now out in the open and with nothing more said about it than that. “I will.”
“You let me know if he gives you any trouble. ‘Cause I’ll string him up from the nearest tree.”
Frances’ smile was shy and grateful. “I will.”
There was something else there in his eyes, too, and in the solemn tone of his voice. Simon had always chalked it up as a bit of hero worship before. Now that he knew for sure about Frances, he realised it might be more, but he chose to let it go. It didn’t matter, one way or the other. Frances was the same boy he’d always been, and he was Simon’s friend. The boy was the only companion he’d had since Garrett had died.
“You watch him around Cami, too. He had his eye on her the whole trip, and I don’t think she appreciated the attention.”
Frances was clearly relieved that the conversation was moving away from his own sex life. “She might have a lot of that to deal with.”
Simon shrugged. “She might.” He thought about Daisy, who had been Dante’s wife, and about Sawyer, the man who Dante had killed for rolling with her. He thought about the maids at the McAllen ranch—the ones who were willing, and the ones who had probably stayed in the barracks, out of sight, in order to keep from being mauled. He thought of Alissa, alone on the BarChi and dependent on Deacon to keep her safe, just as Cami was now dependent upon Dante.
Simon was glad he wasn’t a woman.
“Guess we’ll see what kind of man Dante really is.”