Saviours of Oestend Oestend 2 (4 page)

For the next two days, things were much the same. They did their chores in a frozen wonderland. For two nights, they ran the generator on coal. Finally, on the fourth day, things began to melt. The wind started to blow at last—not the frozen north wind Dante had expected, but a nice warm breeze from the south. Midway through the morning, the propeller on the windmill broke free of its ice with a crack that echoed across the ranch like a gunshot. The blades creaked and slowly began to turn.

“Thank the Saints for that,” Simon said to Dante when it happened. “I was starting to worry about our coal.”
Simon wasn’t the only one who’d been worried. Zed Austin had let the stocks run a bit low to begin with. Dante had been remiss about restocking them. It was so rarely needed, and especially so early in the year. But if another freeze hit them, they’d all breathe easier with the coal bins full. Dante kicked himself for not realising sooner how low they were.
“Someone’ll have to go to town.” Dante turned to look at Simon. “You and Frances want to do it?”
Simon scowled at him. “I just got back.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” It was an eight-day trip to town, round trip. Still, most every hand loved to go, because it meant stopping twice at the McAllen ranch. It was a chance to roll with a woman. Women being in such short supply out on the prairie, men were usually jumping up and down to be the one chosen to make the trip, but he’d found over the last few months that Simon was the exception to the rule. It was another reason Dante sometimes wondered if he and Frances were lovers. “You don’t have to go. I sure as hell won’t try to make you. But
somebody
has to, and you have seniority. It’s up to you.”
Simon shook his head. “Nah. Take Frances if you need, but with all these new hands, I think it’s best if I stay.”
Dante wasn’t sure he liked the idea of going to town himself, and especially not with Frances. First of all, it meant going home for the first time since he’d left, and while he missed Tama and Jay and his father, he wasn’t looking forward to having to face any of them again. He especially wasn’t looking forward to having to face Deacon or Aren.
Going to town also meant two nights at the McAllen ranch. As Jeremiah’s son, he was afforded a room in the house for the night, which was better than being in the barn, but he knew damn well Frank McAllen would try to talk him into marrying one of his two remaining daughters. Dante winced at the thought. Uma was too young, and if there was one woman in the world he disliked more than Daisy, it was Beth.
And last but not least, going to town with Frances meant two nights in a shack alone with the boy and his big broad smile and his bright blue eyes. It meant two nights of trying not to think about how easy it would be to lose himself in Frances’ young, fit body. It meant two nights of pretending that he wasn’t randy as a three-peckered billy goat with a possibly willing partner within arm’s reach.
And why not? Why shouldn’t he have a couple of nights to take care of things? He’d had a few encounters with men over the years—different hands who’d come and gone. He didn’t even remember their names. He only remembered the frantic need that had driven him to it.
But afterwards, he was always plagued by the deep, hateful feeling that he’d failed. At what, even he didn’t know, but he knew if he took Frances with him, he’d end up having that feeling again.
He sighed. Maybe he could take one of the other boys instead, even if they were green. Or he could take Foster, although the idea of spending time with that man wasn’t exactly appealing either, albeit for different reasons.
The obvious answer was to go alone, but he was afraid he’d be tempted to do what he’d done before. That didn’t bear thinking about.
Cami wasn’t in the kitchen as he expected. He could hear a strange, rhythmic thumping sound, and he followed it out of the kitchen, through the living room, and onto the front porch, where Cami was using a broom to beat the last of the selaratus from the cushions on the chairs.
“You need anything from town?”
She turned to look at him in surprise. “Somebody’s going back already?”
“Looks like it.”
She put the end of the broom on the floor and leaned on the handle, the way he’d seen a billion hands do with pitchforks over the years. “Who’s going?”
“Looks like it’ll be me.”
She looked a bit alarmed at that. “Is Simon staying?”
“He is.” His answer seemed to come as a bit of a relief, but she still seemed uneasy. “Something wrong?”
“No.” But she was suddenly trying to tug the longs sleeves of her sweater down over her hands—a habit that was made significantly more difficult by the broom she held.
“I can tell you’re lying.”
She stilled her hands with obvious effort. She glanced towards the barracks, and although she still didn’t answer, he realised he didn’t need her to.
“You don’t trust the men.”
“Not all of them, no.”
“You don’t think Simon will protect you?”
“I’m sure he’ll try.”
He didn’t need to ask for clarification. Yes, Simon could try. But there were six hands, not counting him and Frances, and there was no way Simon could do the work that needed to be done while babysitting all six of those men every hour of every day.
“Would you rather come with me?”
She frowned, not as if she didn’t like the idea, but as if it hadn’t occurred to her. “But there’s the cooking,” she said. “I don’t know if I should.”
“I didn’t ask if you should. I asked if you’d rather.”
She looked at him, chewing thoughtfully on her lip. A slow smile spread across her face. “I think I would rather.”
“Good,” he said, smiling back, “then I think you should.”

They left the next morning, just after breakfast. Cami left behind a giant pot of oatmeal, another of stew, several loaves of bread, some ham and cornbread, and a fresh-made batch of cottage cheese that Dante bet had been gone about five minutes after he and Cami were out the door.

Her concern for a group of grown men made Dante laugh. Yes, the meals were better with her around, but it wasn’t as if they were incapable of feeding themselves. “Don’t worry. There’s always pickles.”

She wore a pair of the wide-legged trousers that maids often wore, although like her skirts, they ended a bit short of her ankles. She hugged her strange sweater around her and closed her eyes, leaning back to let the sun bathe her face. She seemed happy. Then again, she usually did.

She was quiet early in the day, but as the sun made its way across the sky, she began to talk. Shyly, at first. Seemingly random things.
“See those flowers?” she asked at one point. “The purple ones? They’re not native to Oestend.”
“Then where’d they come from?”
“They came across with the settlers. Not on purpose, but they started growing shortly after the settlers arrived. They’re kind of pretty, but not really very useful. The Old People tried to weed them out, but it’s a hardy little plant. Now it’s everywhere.”
“How do you know all that?”
She didn’t answer. She shrugged and turned away to stare off into the prairie.
It went on like that. She’d start talking, telling him something, and then suddenly, it would be as if she’d hit upon a story she didn’t know how to tell, and she’d just stop without a word. Still, he began to piece together a clearer picture of her past.
She was an only child. She’d been born in Oestend and had grown up in the eastern port city of Francshire. Her mother had died giving birth, and her father never spoke of her. She’d had a stepmother who she’d adored, but who had died of the fever when Cami was ten. Her father ran Francshire’s largest fish market.
“That’s how I knew about the saleratus,” she told him. “The only thing that smells worse than dead people is dead fish.”
It sounded as if her father was one of Francshire’s more respected businessmen. It seemed he had a decent amount of money, which made Dante wonder why she was out here on the prairie, taking care of ranch hands instead of set up in a nice comfortable house in Francshire. She talked a lot about cooking and about household things. It seemed she’d spent a lot of time in the kitchen with the maids, learning to cook and helping with the sewing, but her father hadn’t liked that.
“Why not?” Dante asked. “What else would he have you do?”
She shrugged again and turned away, and he had the feeling of having walked into a wall. He could have prodded, but he didn’t. She had a right to her secrets. The Saints knew he had a few, too.
They arrived at the shack that served as the halfway point between the BarChi and the Austin ranch. It was small, equipped with bunk beds, a table and a few simple wooden chairs. A pot-bellied wood-burning stove provided heat, and a small generator in the back kept the wraiths at bay. There was no well, and no privy except the woods.
She’d brought dried beef and biscuits along for supper, as well as a jug of water. After they finished, he went outside to start the generator.
The last time he’d been here, he’d been sick with heartache. Banished from the BarChi, shamed by his own jealous actions, betrayed by his wife, hated by the man he loved. When he’d left the BarChi to claim the Austin ranch as his own, he’d made sure to go alone. He’d sat in the small, silent cabin, all by himself.
And he’d let the night come.
He’d waited for death, hoping for that ultimate release from the mess he’d made of his life. He’d wondered if it would be fast or slow. He’d wondered if, as he took his last gasping breath, he’d regret not having turned on the generator. He’d wondered how long his body would lie in the cabin and who would finally find him.
He’d wondered if Deacon would mourn him.
Eventually, he’d fallen asleep, and much to his dismay, he’d woken again the next morning, very much alive.
He should have gone on then, but he hadn’t. He couldn’t face those men at the Austin ranch. He didn’t know how much they knew. More importantly, he couldn’t face a future away from his home. The BarChi brand seemed to burn on his arm as it had so many years ago when his brother had pushed the scalding metal to his flesh. He’d wear that brand for the rest of his life, a reminder of what he’d lost.
If he’d had a gun with him that trip, he would have used it. He would have walked out into the woods, so as not to make a mess in the cabin, and he would have put the barrel in his mouth. But there was no such easy way out.
That night, he hadn’t even gone inside. He’d dug out the jug of whisky he and Brighton had stashed in the wood pile only a year before. He’d sat on the ground in front of the cabin. And he’d waited.
Still, the wraiths hadn’t come. Finally, when the bottle was long empty and the moon had set, he’d walked into the woods. He’d raged at the heavens and the Saints. He’d sworn and screamed and begged the wraiths to take him. But once again, they’d refused to oblige.
In the end, he’d fallen to the ground and wept. He’d wept as he hadn’t done since he was a boy. Not since that fateful day so long ago when his granddaddy had caught him in the barn with Deacon and beaten him bloody. He’d wept for that boy, who had lay bleeding in the straw, wondering what exactly he’d done wrong. He’d wept for Deacon, who he’d always loved, but never had the balls to claim. He’d wept for his father, who had been hurt, and for Brighton, who was dead. He’d thought about Aren. Dante wanted to hate him, but when he’d thought about the things he’d done in an attempt to drive him off, he was ashamed. He’d gone into Aren’s house. He’d destroyed Aren’s things. He’d shredded Aren’s art. And the worst part was, it had felt so justified at the time.
That was what Dante had wept for the most—for what he’d allowed himself to become. There had been so many factors at play—his rage and his jealousy and his inadequacy as a husband. His impotence with women and his fear of allowing himself to be with men. His shame. More than anything, the shame of it all.
He’d finally accepted that the wraiths weren’t going to come. Dante had dragged himself inside and fallen, exhausted, into one of the beds. When he’d woken the next morning, he’d been wrung out. Resigned. Empty.
It had been months since the wraiths had denied him his death. He’d started to rebuild his life, but he still ached every day for what he’d lost. Could he stand to face Deacon again? To look him in the eye after what he’d done?
“Are you going to start that thing or let the wraiths take us?” Cami called from inside.
Good question. If he’d been alone, he might have decided to tempt them once more, but Cami was here. She was depending on him. “The wraiths don’t want me,” he said to himself.
He started the generator and went inside.
It turned out Cami had brought one more thing with her—a small, metal flask. She was sipping from it. Her cheeks were already a bit pink. She offered it to him, and he accepted. He expected whisky, which might have brought back even more painful memories of his last night here, but it was something else—something fruity, but still strong enough to burn all the way down when he swallowed.
“We could play poker,” he told her as he handed it back. “Except the deck’s been missing three cards for a few years now.”
She shook her head. “I always lose.”
He sat down in one of the chairs. It creaked under his weight as he leant back and stretched his legs towards the stove.
“Are you happy to be going home?”
He shook his head. “Not really.”
She sat with her legs folded in front of her. She picked absently at the hem of her pant leg. “I feel like I should tell you something.” She glanced up at him, her eyes wary. “I know Daisy.”
Whatever he’d expected her to say, it hadn’t been that. He hung his head and covered his eyes with his hand so he didn’t have to face her. “You know her how?”
“From The Chalice. She works there now, you know.”
“Spreading her legs was the one thing she was good at.” The words were out of his mouth before he had time to think about what they might mean to Cami, who’d worked as a whore herself, but when he looked over at her, she didn’t seem upset.
“She’s the one who told me about Aren and Deacon and the BarChi.” She hesitated. “And about you.”
“So you talked to Daisy
and
to Aren, and you still wanted to come out to the Austin ranch and work for me?” He shook his head. “You must have been desperate.”
She scrunched up her nose, pursing her lips in confusion. “Aren had nothing bad to say about you.”
“Really?”
“He didn’t say much, really, but he promised you wouldn’t rape me.”
It surprised him. It proved once again that Aren was a better man than Dante. “Certainly Daisy wasn’t so kind.”
She laughed. “No, she wasn’t, but I learned right away I couldn’t trust everything she said. It wasn’t as if she lied, you know, but I had the impression she embellished things.” She looked at him, as if trying to decide how much more to say. “She said she loved you, but that your marriage ended because you couldn’t quit loving somebody who would never love you back.”
“That’s true.”
“Who was it?”
“She didn’t tell you?”
She shook her head. “I think that would have been admitting some kind of defeat. She wasn’t exactly proud of having been rejected by you.”
Dante was relieved she’d kept that detail to herself, no matter her reasons.
“She said you beat her.”
He sighed and put his head in his hands.
“Is it true?”
“Yes,” he said. “And no.”
“It’s one or the other, Dante.”
“Twice.”
“Twice, you beat her?”
“Twice, I slapped her.” The first time had been early in their marriage, when he’d first caught her lifting her skirt for a ranch hand. When he’d confronted her, she’d laughed in his face. “At least
he
knows what a cock is for,” she’d said. He’d smacked her, and he’d regretted it right away. He hadn’t been raised to mistreat women, and he hated that he’d let his rage get the best of him.
After that, he’d learned to keep his distance. He’d learned through the years how she liked to goad him and bait him, so he’d turned his rage on other things. Mostly furniture. Every chair he broke, his daddy made him replace. He’d become an expert at building the damn things.
The other time he’d struck her had been near the end, when she’d nearly blurted out the secret of his desire for Deacon. He’d regretted that, too.
Just one more regret to add to the list.
Cami hadn’t responded. When he looked up again, he was surprised to see a bit of amusement on her face.
“How long were you married?” she asked.
“Nearly eleven years.”
She laughed. “Hell, I knew her three weeks and I wanted to slap her at least that many times.”
He wanted to laugh too, but he couldn’t. “It was wrong.”
“It was,” she agreed. “The world is full of wrong.”