“The more money you have, Samuel, the more responsibility you have to take care of those less fortunate. Never take your wealth for granted.”
Those were his father’s words when Sam had come into the money his grandfather had left him. The first order of business had been to choose a charity and set up an endowment fund.
With a last look at Luke, Sam went into the shanty and sat down at the table to read the letters he had been avoiding. But he couldn’t face them. He got up and began to slice bread and butter it to go with the leftover rabbit stew from last night’s dinner. When the stew was bubbling and the bread was cut, he sat at the table and opened the first letter from his mother. It was dated June 5.
My darling Samuel,
I hope this missive finds you in good health, both physical and spiritual. Please assure me that you have been attending church. I assume there is one in the town of De Smet.
Samuel, I still cannot understand why you would leave behind your responsibilities to become a farmer. I pray this lapse in judgment will be temporary. Need I remind you that you are the only son and heir to the family business? All the responsibility has fallen once again on the shoulders of your father who, as you know, is no longer a young man.
“Is fifty-two old?” Sam said out loud. “It doesn’t stop him from playing badminton.”
I’ll give you the rest of the year to put this nonsense behind you, after which I will send your uncles to bring you home by force if necessary. My only solace lies in the hope that farming is distracting you from your dalliances at Harvard. Courtland Choate came by the house last week, but your father was at home, thank God, and sent him away.
God keep you,
Your loving mother,
Cora Porter-Smith
Distracting him? If only she knew the gift that coming to De Smet had given him. The problem was Sam knew he would have to return home eventually. He had a responsibility both to Porter-Smith Shipping and Investments and to the charities the family supported. Crumpling the letter in both hands, he stood up. At the stove he threw it into the flames.
“Why would you burn a letter from your mother?”
Looking up, he saw Luke in the doorway leaning down to the bucket to wash his hands. Sam brought him a towel to dry them. “There was nothing special in it. Sit down, and I’ll get your dinner.”
Still shirtless, Luke ate in silence, which he often did when he was tired and hungry, but there was something else.
“When we’ve eaten, I’ll get the old spade and help you with the root cellar.”
“Don’t you want to sew your sheets?”
“I’ll sew this evening since the days are so long, unless you had other plans for this evening.” He waited for Luke to smile and look at him as he always did when Sam said something suggestive, but he kept his eyes down and ate.
“Is there any more bread?”
“Lots. I baked three loaves yesterday.” Sam brought the bread and butter to the table and cut two more slices, covering them thickly with the butter he had churned himself. Luke took a piece and dipped it into his stew. “Is it good?” Sam asked.
“Your food is always good.”
That’s a positive
. He’d better build on it, because Luke was not going to share what was bothering him. He never did. “Do you want a break from the work after you’ve eaten?”
“I want to get it done.”
“It only takes a few minutes to fuck my ass.” Sam grinned.
Shoving that last bite of bread into his mouth, Luke looked up to meet his gaze. Without a word he rose and closed the door. Sam’s cock thickened immediately, knowing what was coming. But it wasn’t what he expected. Instead of leading him to the bed, Luke pulled him to his feet and pushed him bodily toward the wall until he stood with his belly pressed against it. Luke reached around and unfastened Sam’s trousers. When his ass was exposed, his upper body pressed hard against the wall by Luke’s shoulders, he was aware of Luke undoing his own trousers.
Without speaking and with no gentleness, Luke roughly pried Sam’s ass apart and pushed his cock against Sam’s hole. Sam let out a cry when Luke pushed in with no lubrication. The pain of a dry penetration was sharp and yet also arousing.
“That hurts,” Sam said between gritted teeth.
Luke didn’t respond but kept fucking, slamming Sam’s hips and cock against the rough boards of the wall with every thrust. Between the pain in his ass and the pain in his cock, pleasure rushed through his belly and thighs, spilling over at the same moment that Luke cried out and bit down on his shoulder. Sam screamed at the pain from Luke’s teeth in his flesh. By now he was both confused and angered. With both palms pressed against the wall, he remained still while Luke stepped away. Even the exit was painful without lubrication. Sam turned around to see Luke fastening his trousers. The second he was tidy, he opened the door and left.
Fumbling with his buttons, his hands shaking from the encounter, Sam followed him outside. Luke was striding toward the area he was digging for the root cellar. He picked up the spade and began to work without looking back.
What the hell was that about?
Stunned, Sam went back into the shanty and began to clean up the dinner dishes. His desire to help Luke dig was gone. He’d occupy himself with his own tasks.
When the dinner was cleaned up, he opened the letter from his grandmother. It was dated May 25, earlier than his mother’s letter, and said more or less the same thing. The last line read,
Remember who you are. You are not an ordinary young man. You have extraordinary responsibilities, and you need to start accepting them.
Sam tossed the letter into the stove, watching for a moment as it caught light and shriveled to thin black ashes. He reached into his pocket for the other letter, but it wasn’t there. Glancing around, he saw it lying on the floor by the wall where Luke had forced him. As he picked it up, he admitted to himself that he had enjoyed other occasions when Luke had been rough with him. He’d asked him a number of times to take him by force, but afterward they’d always talked and cuddled. Today was different. Never had Luke just walked away afterward as if Sam were some back-alley whore.
The letter read,
Dear Samuel,
I am disappointed that you did not reply to my letter of June 5th. I waited and waited for a response from you but got nothing, and so I must write again to let you know that your father is ill. I’m afraid you have no choice but to return as soon as possible. Need I remind you, you are our only son? Your sisters’ husbands have their own professions. They cannot be expected to look after your responsibilities.
You will note that once again, per your request, I have addressed this letter to “Sam Smith.”
I anticipate your return as soon as possible.
May God bring you safely home,
Your loving mother,
Cora Porter-Smith
Fear overwhelmed Sam for a moment, swiftly followed by skepticism. He would not for a minute put it past his mother to manipulate him to get what she wanted. He loved her, but he also knew her very well. Could he take the chance that she was lying about the illness and that his father was in his usual good health? Perhaps he should reply and try to find out the truth.
The letter followed the others into the stove.
Wandering outside, Sam watched Luke digging. If he went to help him, perhaps it would get him to talk or make him feel better about whatever was bothering him. From the stable he fetched the old spade. The tip was broken, but it should still serve. He joined Luke and, without speaking, began to dig. However, the broken tip made it nearly impossible to get the spade into the packed-down prairie sod.
After several attempts to dig while Luke carried on ignoring him, Luke snatched the spade from him, tossing the new one on the ground at Sam’s feet. Luke began to dig using the broken spade, having only a little more difficulty than before.
In silence they dug on under the hot sun until the heat of the day cooled and the cellar was a square deep enough to stand up in. “What do we do now?” Sam asked.
“Hope it doesn’t rain overnight.” Luke looked up at the clear blue sky. “Which I doubt will happen. Tomorrow I’ll make a door to go over top. The cellar will serve as a storm shelter too.”
“As soon as it’s ready, I’ll start picking the squash and carrots. Then the potatoes after that.”
Luke took the spade from his hands. “Now it’s cooler, I’ll go and let the animals out into the corral to graze.”
“Luke, shall I make us a picnic? We can ride over to Lake Henry and sit there watching the water. We could go for a swim. I doubt there’ll be a lot of people about, and there’re always private spots in the bush near the bank.”
“If you want,” he said, walking off.
* * * *
While they ate their picnic supper, Luke waited for Sam to tell him the truth. He must have read that newspaper by now. It was sitting on top of the boxes of mason jars the whole time Sam was indoors with his letters. He could hardly avoid fessing up much longer.
“Was the supper good?” Sam asked when they’d finished.
Luke nodded. They finished the meal with a jug of Sam’s ginger-flavored water. It was slightly sweetened, and it warmed the stomach going down and yet was very refreshing on a hot day.
Luke stood up and looked around. There was no one at the lake on a weekday. If it wasn’t for Sam, Luke wouldn’t be there either. He would be working until the light was gone, and then he’d go to bed, get up in the morning, and do it all over again. Sam had made everything different—better—so why the hell did he have to lie? They could be so good together even with the cruel reactions of the town.
What galled him more than anything was that Sam knew Holland. Sam had probed him for information after looking at that picture, and all along he knew exactly who Holland was. How could he do that? Lie and make a fool of him. He was just like Holland, a rich man who liked a bit of rough here and there.
I’m an idiot to make the same mistake twice. But he has to admit what he’s done.
Ensuring they were alone, Luke stripped off and walked into the lake.
“Hold on. I’m coming too,” Sam called after him.
Refusing to wait for him, Luke swam with long strokes out into the lake. He took his time, looking back here and there to see where Sam was. The young man was behind him but swimming much more slowly. Sam was a strong, healthy young man but not nearly as strong as Luke, nor as fast.
I love him, but I’m so angry with him.
His muscles ached from an afternoon of digging the rock-solid prairie sod. After swimming strongly for ten minutes, he stopped to tread water and let Sam catch up. The moment should have been idyllic, he and his man out for a swim and a picnic after a long afternoon of work on their land, but all he felt was hurt and disheartened.
He looked around for Sam, but he couldn’t see him. Scanning the bank, he saw their picnic basket and the stone water jug, but no Sam. “Where the hell is he?” Sam’s horse stood beside Pretty Girl, grazing on the fresh grass near the bank.
Suddenly Sam’s head appeared above the water, gasping for air before going under again. A look of sheer terror had transformed Sam’s handsome face to one contorted with fear.
“Sam!” Luke screamed. He launched himself toward Sam, who was about twenty feet away. Just as he got to him, Sam reappeared, gasping once again. Panicked, he grabbed at Luke, pulling them both underwater. For one horrifying moment Luke looked at Sam’s face under the water to see a deadness etched there as if Sam had given himself up to death. With both hands he pushed Sam away to stop his grappling and swam around behind him. Wrapping his arm around Sam’s neck, he pulled him close, and they both came up above water.
“Stop moving. I’ve got you. You’re safe,” he said in a loud, commanding voice. Sam stopped struggling at once, allowing Luke to swim with him toward shore. At the bank he pulled Sam away from the water and onto the grass, where the young man lay, chest heaving, gasping for breath, before rolling onto his belly to cough up water.
“You’re good; you’re alive,” Luke said, patting Sam’s back. “What the hell happened?”
For a long time Sam lay, drawing deep breaths and shuddering here and there. Luke ran his hands over Sam to see if he was cold, but the evening was very warm and so was Sam’s body. At length Sam sat upright. Only when he seemed fully recovered did Luke allow himself to admit the fear that had raged through him when he thought his man was going to drown. His hands were shaking. The fact that they were both sitting naked in broad daylight seemed irrelevant. Sam was alive and well. Nothing else mattered.
“What happened?” he asked again.
“I got a cramp in my belly. It was horrible. I felt like I couldn’t breathe.” Sam looked directly into Luke’s eyes. “I asked you to wait for me. Why didn’t you wait? I’ve never been a really strong swimmer.”
“You didn’t have to follow me,” he said gruffly. “Why would you swim out so far knowing you’re not a good swimmer? That’s just plain stupid.”
“That’s what I am, then—stupid.”
Luke stood up and began to pull on his clothes. “Get dressed. I didn’t bring a gun, and I don’t want to be out after dark.”
Sam dressed and packed up the picnic basket. They rode home in silence, Luke admitting to himself his relief that Sam was safe, but that didn’t change his sense of betrayal.
* * * *
In bed Luke turned his back on Sam. This was the first time since they had met that he felt lonely.
“Do you want me?” Sam asked very quietly.
“I’m tired,” Luke answered.
“Me too, but I still want you.”
“Go to sleep.” His body was dog tired, but his mind was buzzing. All he wanted was to sleep and forget. At least he’d gotten the root cellar dug. That gave him some satisfaction.
Sam was snuggled in close to his back, making odd noises, sniffing and whining.
What the hell!
“Are you crying?” He rolled over to face Sam. The moon shining in through the crack in the muslin curtains offered some small light. He
was
crying. “What the hell’s the matter with you?” Sam moved close to Luke’s chest until Luke had no choice but to take him in his arms. Suddenly it dawned on him. “Did you think you were going to drown in the lake?”