The young man moaned as he unbuttoned his trousers.
“We don’t have time,” Luke said. He grabbed a chunk of Sam’s neck in his teeth, tugging on it.
Sam dropped his head back, moaning. “We have all the time in the world.” He broke free of Luke’s arms, shoved his trousers down to his knees, and turned, placing his hands on the table to brace himself. The sight of Sam’s ass had Luke’s cock bulging within seconds. Quickly, he unbuttoned his trousers. His cock was rock hard, red, and aching for relief. Luke spat into his palm and rubbed his cock with it.
“Do it,” Sam said on a breath. “I want you inside me.”
Sam’s words inflamed him. Luke positioned his cock at Sam’s anus and pushed, entering him all at once. While Sam moaned out loud, Luke pumped behind, working rhythmically, his pleasure heightening with every thrust. The sight of Sam’s back, the muscles taut, his head hanging, and the sound of his long, low moans forced Luke’s pleasure still higher. He reached around Sam’s smooth, hairless chest and took his nipples between his thumbs and forefingers. Sam cried out louder as Luke twisted the tiny nipples, rubbed them, and then twisted again, exciting himself still more.
When at last he felt his climax approaching, he reached down to grab Sam’s cock in his palm. Fast and furious, in rhythm with his hard thrusts, he rubbed Sam’s cock. They came at the same moment, filling the little house with their cries.
Afterward they stood quietly, Luke holding Sam around the chest, still tightly sealed together. “I love you, Sam,” Luke whispered into the young man’s ear. Somehow it was easier to say those words with Sam’s back to him, yet he was relieved he had finally said out loud what he had wanted to tell Sam for months.
Sam moved, allowing Luke’s cock to slip free, and turned to face him. “Say it again while I’m looking at you.”
His cheeks burning, Luke said, “I love you, Sam.”
A wide smile blossomed over the young man’s handsome face. “I love you, Luke.” He began to unbutton Luke’s shirt.
“No,” Luke protested. “We’ll never get to town at this rate.”
Sam pushed Luke’s shirt off his shoulders. “The sun is high, and the ride is less than an hour with both horses on the wagon. We should take them both to give them an outing and exercise.”
Sam pulled his trousers up and went to the cedar chest where he kept the clothes and linen after he’d washed and ironed everything. He took out a clean shirt and held it out for Luke.
With a groan, Luke put it on. “Whatever keeps you happy, boy.”
* * * *
The little town bustled with life even though it was summer and many families were on their farms. More buildings had been erected since Sam was last in town. Roughly one hundred and eighty people lived in De Smet year round now, with people arriving at the railway depot twice a week or so, sometimes just passing through or staying at one of the two hotels. Others arrived to take up their claims, though most of the land around De Smet was already spoken for by now. Deliveries of goods from the cities arrived regularly.
“The train’s in.” Luke pointed toward the depot in the distance.
A group of people got down from the train. It looked like a family with several children. Luke jumped down while Sam tied the horses and wagon to the hitching post outside Fuller’s. Sam watched Luke scan Main Street, always suspicious of people. Luke didn’t trust anyone, and Sam knew he had good reason. Before long he was going to have to admit where he came from, but by then Luke would know he was nothing like Holland. The people in De Smet knew them both by now too. They knew them as hardworking, nondrinking men who lived quietly and, they assumed, separately on their claims. So what if people found out at some point that they lived together? They were good men.
“Luke, the church is almost finished.” Sam pointed.
It sat just on the edge of town, the boards so new they were still the color of wheat, making the building look golden in the sun.
Luke glanced at it. “So it is, and remember to call me Chandler.”
Sam clasped his hands together and lowered his chin in a look of repentance, making Luke chuckle. He loved seeing Luke laugh.
“I’m going into Fuller’s. Go and get what you need.”
“Yes, sir.” Sam strode along the street to Barker’s Grocery. Their table was small, only big enough for four, and there were only ever the two of them eating, a far cry from the dinners for twenty his mother hosted at least once a month. Depending on how wide the gingham cloth was, he might not need to sew one of his perfect seams down the middle.
The store was busy. The first person Sam saw picking out some canned goods and dried beans was Mr. Ingram with his wife and their youngest girl, little Ginny. “Good day, Mr. Ingram!” Sam called out. He walked over to them, offering Mrs. Ingram a small bow.
Mr. Ingram shook his hand heartily. “How is the farming going, son? Have you managed to get your seed in?”
Sam hated lying. He’d lied to Luke, and now he must lie to Ingram, pretending he was still on his own claim. “Everything is good, sir, but I am happy to see you, Mrs. Ingram. You’re just the person I’d hoped to see.”
The quiet-spoken, petite woman looked curious. “I’m not sure how I can help you, Mr. Smith.”
“I need to buy a butter churn, and I was hoping for advice on what to buy. I also need someone to tell me how to make butter.”
“Oh.” She smiled at him. “That shouldn’t be too difficult.” She looked up at her husband.
“You go ahead and help Mr. Smith, Cecily,” he said.
Sam stepped back to allow Mrs. Ingram to precede him across the store to where the churns stood on the floor, each one shining new, the wood still light in color. “There’s the barrel style you see here.” The churn was a barrel lying sideways on a frame with a handle sticking out. Sam took the handle and turned it.
“That’s a laborsaving churn.” She paused and then said in a quiet voice as if she did not want to boast, “Mr. Ingram bought me one just like this on my birthday.”
“Very thoughtful of him, ma’am,” Sam said.
“But you’re young and strong, Mr. Smith. The dasher type will work well for you. I used one for years.”
“But how do I make butter?“ Sam asked.
“It’s very simple. You separate the cream from the milk by pouring the milk into flat pans. You have to scald the pans with boiling water both before and after you use them. Do you have milk pans?”
“No, ma’am. I’ll buy some today. Cream is heavier than milk, so it floats. Is that right?”
Mrs. Ingram smiled up at him. “I take it you did not grow up on a farm, Mr. Smith.”
“Is it that obvious, ma’am?”
“A little,” she said pleasantly. “You skim the cream from the milk and put it into the dasher churn, and then you dash it.” She took hold of the dasher to demonstrate. “Up and down, up and down. It takes a while, but you should be faster than I was, being a young man. After the butter is in grains, you remove it from the churn, press out the whey with cheesecloth, and add salt. The whey is good to drink.”
“Thank you so much, ma’am.”
“It’s a pleasure.” She nodded before returning to her husband’s side.
Sam looked at the churns. The dasher style was cheaper, but the barrel churn would be faster. The barrel was more than twice the price of the other, but it was a time-saver, so he’d get that. Having decided, he wandered over to the bolts of colorful fabric stacked on shelves along the back wall. There were calicos in every shade, beautifully patterned with flowers and checkers, but it was the gingham Sam wanted. Red-and-white gingham. His mother would be horrified. Even at breakfast the table was set with a white damask tablecloth and napkins. Gingham tablecloths were for cheap restaurants. Sam carried the bolt over to the counter.
“What can I get you?” Mrs. Barker asked.
“How wide is the gingham?” Sam asked. Two men near the counter turned their attention to him.
“It’s thirty inches. What do you want it for?”
“A cloth for a small table. Two yards should do it.” While Mrs. Barker cut the fabric, he went to fetch the butter churn and milk pans and brought them to the counter. “And these.” He should have kept his mouth shut, but his enthusiasm got the better of him. “I’m going to learn how to make butter.”
“Will you be at the church social to bless the new building on Sunday?” one of the men asked.
“I’ll be there,” Sam said.
“That’s good, because you need to find a wife. Between making tablecloths and churning butter, you’ll be wearing skirts next.” The men guffawed loudly.
Not offended by their jokes, Sam smiled. His feelings about his manhood were not dependent on the opinions of a crowd of men in a small-town grocery store. Let them think what they wanted to. If he defended himself, it might look like he had something to defend. The only man he wanted to impress was Luke.
Mrs. Barker spoke up for him, which amused rather than relieved him. “Oh, leave the young man alone. Just because he’s baching it doesn’t mean he needs to live like a pig in a pen.”
Sam paid for his purchases and thanked the lady. Outside he looked up and down Main Street for Luke, deciding he must still be in Fuller’s since he wasn’t with the wagon. Sam loaded the churn and milk pans into the wagon and tossed his brown-paper-wrapped fabric under the board they used as a seat.
When he opened the door to Fuller’s, the first thing he saw was Linden Morley talking to Luke. “So how are you managing out there by yourself, Chandler?”
“I’m doing just fine.” Luke had the mowing machine blades already wrapped in brown paper in his hand. The expression on his face was dour, but it also held a touch of concern that was not quite alarm but bordering on it. No one else would have noticed it, but Sam knew his man so well by now.
“Sam!” Morley greeted him. He turned from Luke, who mouthed behind the man’s back,
Let’s go
. Morley approached Sam and clapped him on the back. For several weeks Morley’s wife and daughters had been in church but without him. “I’ve been away for a couple of weeks.” He maintained eye contact as he spoke, as if he was passing on some secret message.
Confused, Sam said, “That’s nice.”
“I went to Boston.”
“Did you?” What the hell did that mean?
“You’ll be at the picnic on Sunday, won’t you?” Morley asked.
“I’m planning to, yes.”
“I keep asking you to come to dinner again, and you keep refusing. When can we expect you? Clara keeps asking after you.”
“You know how it is with farming. I’ve been so busy.” Sam watched Luke, who was making for the door. “I have to go, Mr. Morley. I’ll see you Sunday.”
Before Luke reached the door, it opened, admitting a man and woman with five children of varying ages. They all looked tired and very poor. The children were barefoot. Their clothes were extremely worn and dusty from their journey, and they had little in the way of baggage. To Sam’s relief, everyone turned to stare at them. With the focus off him, he edged toward the door. Luke had already slipped past them to the wagon.
“What can I do for you folks?” Mr. Fuller inquired.
The man, tall, thin, and blond, pulled out a creased homestead application and smoothed it out on the counter. “I am Dag Lindgren. Can anyone tell me where this land is and how to get there?” His accent was heavy, and by the looks of his fair complexion and his equally fair family, Sam guessed them to be Swedish or Danish.
The men gathered around at once, probably more curious than wanting to be helpful. “You’ve made a mistake. That’s young Smith’s land,” Morley said.
Standing at the open door, Sam heard the comment and groaned inwardly. He knew the land would not stand vacant forever, but he’d hoped a little more time would pass before the town found out he’d given it up. Not to mention Luke.
“No, we can’t have.” Clear panic showed in the man’s expression and the tone of his voice, which rose as he continued. “We came all this way. We traveled from New York City, and we have no money to get back.”
“Come on,” Luke called out.
Sam was torn between closing the door and climbing into the wagon with Luke, and assuring Lindgren he didn’t have to leave with his family.
It was taken out of his hands when Morley said, “Come here, Sam. Isn’t this your claim?”
Luke was going to be so angry with him, but what choice did he have now? He walked back to the counter while all the men stood silent watching him. He looked at the land application and the number of the lot. “It was my claim. I gave it up a couple of months back.”
“What?” Morley pulled his cigar out of his mouth. “What are you talking about? That was your land. Where are you living?”
There were perhaps ten people in Fuller’s, mostly men, but before sundown everyone in De Smet would hear the story. “I couldn’t manage it alone. It was too much work, and I have no experience in farming.”
Sam looked over at the door to find Luke standing there, his face expressionless. But he knew by the way Luke held his body rigid and his fists clenched at his sides that he was either angry or nervous. Perhaps both.
“So what are you doing now?” Morley persisted.
Sam couldn’t ignore the man. He had to answer. “I moved onto Chandler’s land with him. We’ve been farming it together.”
Morley’s gaze flew from Sam to Luke. To the newcomer Sam said, “It’s your land now. We can give you a ride out there in the wagon.”
Looking incredibly relieved, the man said, “Thank you, thank you.”
“We built a shanty and a barn on the claim near the creek. I left them up when I gave up the claim, so you can move right in.” The family’s gratitude distracted the people in the store, making it easy for Sam to walk away from Morley.
But he knew the man wasn’t done with him.
When Sam emerged from the store with the family in tow, Luke grabbed him by the arm. “What the hell? You told half the town we’re living together.” He looked at the family and their tired children gathered about, waiting.
“I said we’d give them a ride out to the claim,” Sam said.
“Yes, I heard. Let’s hope we can fit them in beside that ridiculously expensive churn you bought,” Luke said through his teeth. “What’s wrong with you? You spend money like water, and you can’t keep your mouth shut.”