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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