his pencil with a smile. It was a bit like art, after all.
He wandered outside into the bright, warm sunlight. The wind was blowing as it
usually did, making a song in the grass and the branches of the trees. In the yard on the far side of the house, two of the wives were hanging out laundry to dry. He knew their names, although not which of them was which. Deacon had pointed out Jeremiah’s sons to him— SONG OF OESTEND
Marie Sexton
47
Jay, the youngest, who was friendly enough, but seldom spoke; Brighton, the middle child, who lived up to his name, smiling and laughing more often than not; and Dante, the oldest, whose eyes were angry and temper quick. He seemed to suspect that every man on the ranch was rolling with his wife. Aren didn’t know if his suspicions were grounded in reality or not, but he did his best to steer clear of him.
There were a few kids, too. All boys. Two belonged to Brighton, and two were Jay’s.
Aren didn’t know which were which. He knew none of their names. None of them was older than eight. Aren saw them in the mornings as they went about their chores and in the evenings as they ran playing in the fields. But other than that, he ignored them.
“You’re outside!” Deacon called from the side yard, where he was chopping wood. “I
was starting to think you were afraid of sunlight.”
Aren was growing used to Deacon. They ate breakfast and dinner—or ‘supper’—
together every single day. Other than that, he’d barely seen the man, but those few hours had been enough to teach Aren not to rise to Deacon’s teasing. “I’ve been working on the accounts,” Aren told him as he drew closer.
“Forgot to tell you this morning that Brighton and Garrett are heading into town in a few days. You want to go with them?”
There was a bench against the side of the barn and Aren sat down on it to watch
Deacon work. “Why would I?” he asked.
Deacon stopped his axe mid-swing and looked at him surprise. “Got to stop at the
McAllen ranch on the way there and again on the way home. Every hand here’s begging me to let them go.”
Women. That’s what he was referring to. “No, thanks,” Aren said.
Deacon shrugged and swung his axe back into motion. “Suit yourself. You got anything
you need from town, let one of them know.”
Was there anything he needed? Other than a place to sleep that wasn’t in the barracks, Aren couldn’t think of anything.
“Tell me about the money,” Deacon said as he chopped through another log. “Is there
enough income to hire a tenth man?”
“Yes,” Aren said. Although he knew it was wrong, he couldn’t help but admire
Deacon’s body as he watched him work. The man was huge and appeared to be made of
SONG OF OESTEND
Marie Sexton
48
solid muscle. Aren counted it as both a blessing and a curse that Deacon had his shirt on. “Is that what you need?”
Deacon somehow managed to shrug as he swung the axe back around. He wasn’t even
winded, although Aren knew he would have been out of breath if he’d been the one
chopping wood. “Need a lot of things. Tenth man, new baler, another bull.”
“Another bull? If you needed a bull, why did you castrate that other one?”
“No good,” Deacon said, tossing the split wood into a pile and starting on a new log.
“Genetics. Got to mix up the blood. Traded one with the Austins a few months ago, but he came down with the froth. Had to be put down.”
“The Austins live north of here?”
Deacon stopped swinging his axe long enough to point at a battered wagon trail that
climbed the hill to the north. “Up there. Two days from here.”
“Why so far away?”
“Bad land between here and there. Rock and clay. Can’t grow nothing on it.”
“If it takes two days to get there, how do you stay safe from the wraiths on the way?”
“There’s a shack at the halfway mark,” Deacon said. “Small generator.”
“So you swapped bulls with them, but the one he gave you was
He wandered outside into the bright, warm sunlight. The wind was blowing as it
usually did, making a song in the grass and the branches of the trees. In the yard on the far side of the house, two of the wives were hanging out laundry to dry. He knew their names, although not which of them was which. Deacon had pointed out Jeremiah’s sons to him— SONG OF OESTEND
Marie Sexton
47
Jay, the youngest, who was friendly enough, but seldom spoke; Brighton, the middle child, who lived up to his name, smiling and laughing more often than not; and Dante, the oldest, whose eyes were angry and temper quick. He seemed to suspect that every man on the ranch was rolling with his wife. Aren didn’t know if his suspicions were grounded in reality or not, but he did his best to steer clear of him.
There were a few kids, too. All boys. Two belonged to Brighton, and two were Jay’s.
Aren didn’t know which were which. He knew none of their names. None of them was older than eight. Aren saw them in the mornings as they went about their chores and in the evenings as they ran playing in the fields. But other than that, he ignored them.
“You’re outside!” Deacon called from the side yard, where he was chopping wood. “I
was starting to think you were afraid of sunlight.”
Aren was growing used to Deacon. They ate breakfast and dinner—or ‘supper’—
together every single day. Other than that, he’d barely seen the man, but those few hours had been enough to teach Aren not to rise to Deacon’s teasing. “I’ve been working on the accounts,” Aren told him as he drew closer.
“Forgot to tell you this morning that Brighton and Garrett are heading into town in a few days. You want to go with them?”
There was a bench against the side of the barn and Aren sat down on it to watch
Deacon work. “Why would I?” he asked.
Deacon stopped his axe mid-swing and looked at him surprise. “Got to stop at the
McAllen ranch on the way there and again on the way home. Every hand here’s begging me to let them go.”
Women. That’s what he was referring to. “No, thanks,” Aren said.
Deacon shrugged and swung his axe back into motion. “Suit yourself. You got anything
you need from town, let one of them know.”
Was there anything he needed? Other than a place to sleep that wasn’t in the barracks, Aren couldn’t think of anything.
“Tell me about the money,” Deacon said as he chopped through another log. “Is there
enough income to hire a tenth man?”
“Yes,” Aren said. Although he knew it was wrong, he couldn’t help but admire
Deacon’s body as he watched him work. The man was huge and appeared to be made of
SONG OF OESTEND
Marie Sexton
48
solid muscle. Aren counted it as both a blessing and a curse that Deacon had his shirt on. “Is that what you need?”
Deacon somehow managed to shrug as he swung the axe back around. He wasn’t even
winded, although Aren knew he would have been out of breath if he’d been the one
chopping wood. “Need a lot of things. Tenth man, new baler, another bull.”
“Another bull? If you needed a bull, why did you castrate that other one?”
“No good,” Deacon said, tossing the split wood into a pile and starting on a new log.
“Genetics. Got to mix up the blood. Traded one with the Austins a few months ago, but he came down with the froth. Had to be put down.”
“The Austins live north of here?”
Deacon stopped swinging his axe long enough to point at a battered wagon trail that
climbed the hill to the north. “Up there. Two days from here.”
“Why so far away?”
“Bad land between here and there. Rock and clay. Can’t grow nothing on it.”
“If it takes two days to get there, how do you stay safe from the wraiths on the way?”
“There’s a shack at the halfway mark,” Deacon said. “Small generator.”
“So you swapped bulls with them, but the one he gave you was
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