Saviours of Oestend Oestend 2 (12 page)

“Have a drink,” he said, pushing a glass of whisky her way.
Cami’s eyes were red, but her cheeks were dry. She watched him with scared eyes. “Sit down,” he said. “Please.”
She took the chair opposite him, although she clearly wasn’t at ease. She sat straight

He saw the confusion on her face. She’d obviously expected a question, but not this one. Her eyes moved back and forth as she contemplated what he might mean.
“Did you kill someone?” he asked.
Her confusion seemed to grow. “No. Why would you think that?”
“You’re obviously hiding from someone.”
“Running, maybe. Not hiding.”
“What’s the difference?”
“I haven’t done anything wrong.”
Dante felt they were somehow having two different conversations. He rubbed his forehead with his fingers, trying to figure out what he was missing. “Who are you running from?”
“My dad.”
Good. Now they were getting somewhere. “Why?” he asked. “Did you steal something from him?”
“No!” she said, finally meeting his eyes. “It’s not like that.”
“Then what? Help me understand.”
“He wants me to be…” She fidgeted with the sleeves of her robe, pulling them down over her hands as she often did when she was uncomfortable. A single tear rolled down her cheek, and she wiped it angrily away. “He wants me to be a boy.”
Just when he thought they were making progress, she said something to confuse him more. “But you
are
a boy!”
“No, I’m not!” Her cheeks were red, but when she met his gaze, he saw the challenge and the anger in her yes. “I’m female.”
“I saw you naked!”
“I know how it looks. But what’s between my legs is wrong. A mistake. Or a prank by the Saints. I don’t know! But it’s not who I am.”
Dante had to think about that for a minute. It was true that even now, with the memory of Cami’s very male body fresh in his mind, he still found himself thinking of her as female. Her face and her movements and her calm, strong, still demeanour.
She had obviously been waiting for him to argue, but when he didn’t, she gained some confidence. “I’ve known all my life I’m a girl. I don’t know why I was born the way I am. I only know it’s wrong.”
He found it confusing, but he didn’t know how to argue. She
seemed
like a girl to him.
“You told me you worked in a whorehouse. How is that possible?”
Her cheeks turned an even deeper shade of red. He saw the shame in her eyes, just as he’d seen it the day she’d told him about it.
“Some men like other men. They’d have me wear a skirt, but no blouse. They sold me as a male.”
Some men like other men.
As if Dante needed to be told that.
When he’d thought before about her time as a whore, he’d thought little of it. But now, knowing what he knew, it made him angry. Somehow, the humiliation of it seemed worse. Not because it was worse for a man to sell his body than for a woman to do so, but because Cami had been forced to reveal to complete strangers a secret she obviously preferred to keep to herself. It was a horrible violation, not to be used sexually, but to be forced to share the body she was so clearly ashamed of.
He felt bad for having discovered her secret. In hindsight, he should have knocked before going into her room, but everything had happened so fast.
Thinking of that made him remember the fire. He looked down at her hands, where they rested on the table between them, wrapped in her long sleeves, one of which was badly stained with blood. It had to hurt, and yet she’d sat here, calmly explaining herself to him. She’d taken the time to justify something he suddenly felt needed no justification.
He stood up and got the salve from the cabinet. He found the strips of cloth they used for bandages. He sat back down across from Cami and held his hand out to her.
“Let’s take care of that cut.”
She hesitated a moment, still looking scared. He waited—not moving, not speaking— and slowly, her expression changed from wary to cautiously hopeful. She pulled her sleeve up and put her hand in his. He turned it over gently. The cut started at the base of her thumb and ran across her palm. It was smooth and not too deep. It had already stopped bleeding. Her thumb and fingers were burned. They were starting to blister. Dante knew that was good. It meant the skin was still able to heal itself. He hated to think how much worse it could have been.
He began to smear the salve on her injuries, and although he was as gentle as he knew how to be, he heard the sharp intake of her breath as the pain hit her again.
“I’m sorry.” He didn’t know if he meant for hurting her, or for discovering her secret.
“You’re forgiven,” she said, and he had a feeling she meant for both things. “Will you let me stay?”
The question surprised him. “Of course. The Saints know I can’t run this damn ranch without you.”
“Will you let me stay as I am?”
“I don’t see why not.” Because what would he possibly gain by making her wear pants?
“Will you tell the men?”
That question brought him up short. On one hand, she’d almost be safer if they knew the truth. But he knew that wasn’t really the issue. He took a strip of cloth and began to wind it around her burned hand. “Don’t see what business it is of theirs what’s under your dress. Not unless you choose to make it so.”
She was quiet, and with his eyes on his work, he had no way of knowing her reaction, but when he looked up at her, he found her watching him. There were tears in her eyes, but she seemed happy. She smiled at him. “Thank you.”
The sentiment made him uncomfortable. He had to look away, back down at her hand. He’d finished wrapping it, and he tucked the end of the bandage under one of the layers and tied a small knot. “We should check that a couple times a day,” he said. “If it gets infected, I’ll take you to the BarChi so Olsa can fix it.”
“It’ll be fine.”
He thought about Olsa, and the others at the BarChi. “Do they know?” he asked.
It was a strange question, out of nowhere, but he saw in her eyes that she understood. She finally picked up the glass of whisky. She drained it in one swallow. “Aren does,” she said as she put down the glass. “He knew right away.”
“How?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. He just did.”
“So I assume Deacon knows, too?” He wasn’t sure why that mattered, but somehow, everything about Deacon mattered.
“Aren said he wouldn’t tell.”
“Is that why he sent you here?” Because Aren certainly knew about Dante’s preference for men. Then again, Cami didn’t quite qualify as a man. Still, somehow the idea that Aren had known Cami’s secret and then sent her to Dante’s ranch felt sneaky and underhanded.
Cami looked confused by the question. “I think he just knew you needed help, and between Olsa and Tama and Alissa, there wasn’t much for me to do at the BarChi.”
Yes, that had made sense before, and it still made sense now. That hadn’t changed.
Dante pushed his unreasonable anger towards Aren out of his mind. It was nothing but his jealousy, tainting his perception as it always did. He thought about their trip to the BarChi, and Olsa saying, “I won’t tell them your secret.”
“I guess Olsa knows.”
“I guess. I sure didn’t tell her. I hope Aren didn’t.”
“I doubt he did. That damn woman knows everything, whether you want her to or not.”
She shuddered dramatically. “She gives me the creeps. I’ll take care of my hand myself, if it comes to that.”
Dante frowned. Maybe it was unfair of him to assume she wouldn’t be able to handle it as well as Olsa. After all, she knew about saleratus, and she seemed to know about plants. Still, if the burn did become infected, he’d feel compelled to haul her to the BarChi, whether she liked it or not. Her safety was more important to him than her misgivings about Olsa. Of course, that would mean facing Deacon and Aren again. He hoped for both their sakes it didn’t come to that.

The next day was unbelievably awkward. Although Dante tried to act as if nothing had happened, Cami was uncooperative. She barely spoke to him. She never looked at him. When he finally did catch a glimpse of her face, he could tell she’d been crying.

After supper, after the generator had been started for the night, he waited for her in the living room. He was used to her joining him there, but this time, she didn’t come in. He didn’t have to look far for her, though. He found her in the kitchen, chopping vegetables at the counter.

“Still working?” he asked.
“I wanted to get this done.”
“I think you’re avoiding me.”
She didn’t answer. She just kept chopping.
“How’s your hand?”
“It hurts, but it’s fine.”
“We should change the bandage.” He held his hand out to her, but she shrank away

from him, as if she expected to be struck. “You don’t need to be afraid of me.” She didn’t answer.
He sighed. He didn’t want things to be awkward between them, but it was obvious he

He watched her back. He noticed the long lines of her body, and her lack of curves. The way every skirt she had ended an inch or two short of her ankle. It seemed odd to him now that he hadn’t put it all together, and yet, at the same time, she still seemed absolutely female. He almost could have believed he’d imagined the entire thing.

She didn’t turn to look at him. Only the fact that her movements seemed to slow gave any indication that she’d heard. “You already know it.”
He pondered that answer, realising as he did he’d asked the wrong question. “What does your father call you?”
It took her a minute to answer, and he had the feeling she was debating how much to share. Finally, she said, “Cameron.”
He felt better knowing her real name. Not only that, but the names were essentially the same. Somehow, it meant she hadn’t ever lied to him. Not about anything that mattered, at any rate.
“And does he know about Cami?”
“He does.”
He took a drink of whisky. He was content to let the subject drop, which was what he figured she’d want. “Tell me a story,” he said.
He expected her to be evasive, as she so often was. He expected her to tell him one of the fairy tales, about giants and sprites and magical beasts. He was surprised when she said, “I went to the University in Francshire.”
Not a fairy tale, then. Something true. It was as if now that her secret had been revealed, she felt the need to share it all. He crossed his arms and leant back in his chair. “I didn’t realise women were allowed at universities.”
“They’re not.”
It explained so much—all of the times he’d asked questions and she’d stopped short of answering. “I see.”
“My father was annoyed from the beginning because I chose to study plants. He wanted me to be a businessman, and he couldn’t see how botany would help with that.”
It seemed to Dante one university education was probably as worthless as the next, but he opted to keep his mouth shut.
“It was a big deal, you know. The school’s expensive. The students all come from old money. For me to be there, the s-son of a merchant.” Dante noticed the way her voice seemed to catch on the word “son”, as if she’d had to force it out. “My father hoped I’d make connections there.”
“But you didn’t?”
She smiled. He couldn’t quite see it, but he could hear it in her voice. “Certainly not the type he had in mind.”
“So, you were living as a man?”
She stopped chopping and stood staring down at the pile of vegetables on the counter. “I tried,” she said quietly. “I really did. During the day, I’d go to school as Cameron. But it was exhausting, pretending to be somebody else. When I came home, I couldn’t keep it up.”
“So what happened?”
“I’d talked my father into letting me rent a flat downtown. I told him it was because it was closer to the school. And one day, about halfway through my third year, he stopped by to drop off my monthly stipend.”
She stopped, as if that were the end of the story, and he had to prod her. “And?” “And I answered the door like this.” She touched her skirt.
“I imagine he was a bit surprised.”
She shook her head. “Not as much as you probably think.” She picked up the knife again and went back to chopping, but he noticed how her hands shook. Her movements were slow and careful. “I’d always been too much like a girl. I played with dolls instead of playing ball. I liked to wear ribbons in my hair. I spent my time in the kitchen with the maids. When I was a bit older, I found some of my mother’s things, and I’d wear them when he was gone. I had stuff the maids had given me, too. He caught me several times.”
“What did he say?”
“He hated it. And when I started at the university, he made me promise not to embarrass him.”
“But he felt you’d broken that promise?”
She nodded. “He was furious. And I started crying, which made it worse. He told me I could choose to be his son, but he had no use for a daughter.” Her voice was shaking, and she stopped to take a deep breath. “He said a lot of things. Horrible things. But it all boiled down to me having to choose between being his son or being who I wanted to be.”
“And being his son wasn’t an option?”
“No.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “He never understood. He thought I was pretending to be Cami. He couldn’t accept that it was Cameron who was the lie.” For the first time, she turned to look at him. She seemed desperate for him to understand. “Do you believe me?”
The question confused him. “About what?”
“That this is me?”
He had to think about what exactly she was asking. He could understand her father’s confusion. To have a son who insisted on behaving as a woman had to be upsetting. At the same time, he couldn’t imagine a man
choosing
to wear a dress or do women’s work. No man would do such a thing willingly—not if he had a choice—and therefore, she must not have had a choice. Which meant she really wasn’t a man, regardless of what was between her legs. She claimed to have always known she was female, and how could he argue with that? And yet, he wasn’t sure he could put it all into words. What he said was, “I can’t imagine you any other way.”
He couldn’t tell if she was disappointed or relieved. She turned back to her work without a word. Her silence was unnerving. The air felt heavy with emotion. He could practically taste her fear, her embarrassment, and her pain. He almost wanted to cry for her.
“Cami, you don’t need to be embarrassed. What happened last night doesn’t change anything.”
She put her hand over her eyes, and her shoulders shook. He didn’t know if her tears meant he was saying the right thing or making things worse.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just that I was so happy here, and now I’ve ruined it.”
“You haven’t ruined anything. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. There’s no reason you can’t keep on being happy here. This ranch is your home, for as long as you choose to stay.”
She didn’t respond, but she was very still, and he had a feeling he was finally getting through to her.
“Cami, I want you to stay.”
She didn’t answer. Not with words, at least. But he saw the deep shuddering breath she took.
He leant back in his chair again and waited. It took her another minute or so to pull herself together, but he could see her becoming more comfortable again—she stood up a bit straighter, like she was no longer trying to hide, and her hands seemed more steady as she went about her work.
Finally, she said, “Have I told you the one about Jonas and Jamus and the castle in the clouds?”
“You haven’t.”
She smiled shyly at him over her shoulder. “Would you like to hear it?”
“More than anything.”
She turned back to her vegetables, but he could tell he’d made her happy. He’d succeeded, to some degree at least, in putting her at ease.
“There once was a very old man, and he had just a little money, but he had two very greedy sons…”
And Dante sipped his whisky and listened, pleased that for once, he seemed to have done something right.