Free Song of Oestend by Marie Sexton Page B

there with the men?” Deacon asked.
    “Yes and no.” Aren looked over at the big cowboy. “You’ve lived out there,” he said.
    “You know how it is.”
    “That’s different,” Deacon said, still not looking up at him. “I’m their boss. I have to set myself apart.”
    Aren thought about that. It was different for Deacon. And in some ways, living with the men wasn’t so bad. They didn’t see him as one of them, which meant he was mostly excluded from most of their petty games. It was the fact that it reminded him too much of his past, all those years in boarding school. It made him forget he was an adult. It made him lose his confidence.
    And the distinct lack of privacy was getting old, too.
    “I’d like to have my own space,” he said, and although that wasn’t the whole truth, it wasn’t a lie either. “I miss being able to paint.”
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    Marie Sexton
    57
    Deacon frowned, but he nodded. “Guess I can understand that. Thing is, I’d hate for
    something to happen to you. You move into that house and something goes wrong, it’ll be my fault.”
    “How would it be your fault?”
    “It’s my job to take care of the men,” Deacon said. “I’m the one responsible—”
    “Deacon,” Aren interrupted him, “I’m not one of the hands.” Deacon turned to him,
    looking both confused and surprised. “I know you take responsibility for those boys in the barracks, but I’m not one of them. Jeremiah’s my boss, not you. And the only person responsible for me is me.”
    Deacon pondered that, and as he did, Aren saw his expression go from thoughtful to
    amused. A slow grin spread across his face. Finally, he said, “Don’t know if that makes me feel better or worse. Not quite sure I can trust your judgement.”
    Aren laughed. “Me neither, to tell you the truth.”
    Deacon laughed, too, and Aren couldn’t help but think how much different he looked
    out here in the grass, when the burden of leadership wasn’t weighing him down. With his men, he always seemed angry and menacing, but sitting in the sunshine next to Aren, he was somebody else completely.
    “It could be a place for you, too, you know,” Aren said before he could think better of it.
    “Wouldn’t you like to be able to relax and have a drink once in a while?” He smiled at Deacon, half-teasing but half-serious, too. “Think about it—a nice soft chair in front of the fire instead of a bale of hay in a draughty barn. A place where none of the ranch hands could find you.”
    Deacon smiled and shook his head in wry amusement. “I knew soon as I saw all those
    damn bags of yours you was going to be trouble.”
    “Does that mean ‘no’?” Aren asked.
    “Blessed Saints,” Deacon swore, looking up at the sky in exasperation, and Aren knew
    then that he’d won.
    “Does that mean ‘yes’?” he asked, trying not to smile.
    “Come on,” Deacon said, unfolding his long legs and standing “Let’s go see your new
    house.”
     
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    Marie Sexton
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Chapter Seven
    Aren followed Deacon back through the grass. He was pleased that Deacon had
    changed his mind. The idea of having his own space—and more specifically, of having a place to paint—thrilled him. He followed Deacon up the porch steps. At the front door, Deacon turned to him. He pulled something out of his pocket and held it out to Aren.
    It was a key.
    “You had it with you?” Aren asked. It surprised him. It meant Deacon had already been wavering when he’d walked out to find Aren in the grass.
    Deacon seemed embarrassed by the question. He was still holding the key out to Aren,
    and he used his other hand to push his hat further down onto his head. “Are you gonna take it or not?”
    Aren bit back his smile and took the key. It was heavy, and the metal was warm from
    being close to Deacon’s body. It felt like the greatest gift he’d ever received. “Thank you,” he said.
    “Just open the blessed door,” Deacon said, ducking his