by Ranae Rose
“What do you make of those hoofprints we saw?” John asked.
Brom rode silently for a few moments, as if he hadn’t heard the question. “I haven’t decided yet,” he finally said.
Brom usually had an opinion on everything – the fact that he hadn’t supplied one for the disappearing tracks was a mark of how bizarre they truly were.
“To be honest John, I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen them with my own eyes. It makes me wonder if what the Smits claim to have seen is possible after all.”
A cold chill raced down John’s spine, leaving him feeling as if he’d been doused in icy water. He gripped the reins tighter as he and Brom approached the forest, and stole a long glance at the other man. The sight of him riding straight and sure in the saddle was a comfort, but the thoughtful set of his mouth was not. John had set out tonight with the intention of opening Brom’s eyes to the possibility of a supernatural phenomenon, but now that it seemed he’d succeeded, he found himself unable to savor the victory. He kept a straight seat in the saddle as they entered the shadowland of the wood, refusing to let his shoulders hunch forward as darkness swept over them.
CHAPTER 5
The hoofprints were still there when they reached the place where they ended, and John’s heart skipped a beat at the sight, forcing him to realize that he’d half-expected them to be gone. They hadn’t, in fact, changed at all, and were still just as perplexing. Brom said nothing as they passed the tracks, glancing down at them only briefly before raising his gaze again, scanning the trees and the road ahead for any sign of company.
They encountered no one during their ride back to the Jansens’ farm. By the time they reached the stable, John’s nerves were as taut as fiddle strings. The ride through the woods had been uneventful, but not peaceful. John had been prepared for something terrible to happen, and now that it hadn’t, he was left with an excess of restless energy.
“If you’ll come with me tomorrow night, perhaps we’ll find more than hoofprints,” Brom said as John slid from the saddle.
“Very well,” John agreed, holding the reins beneath Gunpowder’s whiskery chin, wary of being bitten.
“I’d like to ride by the Van Tassel farm again then too,” Brom said. “I can’t get the sight of her wandering alone out of my head.”
John nodded in sympathy, his heart wrenching as he imagined Katrina blindly stumbling across terrain that might very well be plagued by something sinister. The threat of cold and beasts alone would have been bad enough, but the added danger of an otherworldly horseman made his heart ache with the desire to wrap an arm around her slender shoulders again and keep her safe between himself and Brom.
“Shall I help you rub down the wicked nag?” Brom asked, dismounting before John could reply.
They slipped inside the stable, lit the lantern they’d left there, and Brom placed Torben temporarily in an empty stall. Together, he and John unsaddled Gunpowder, replaced his bridle with a rope halter, and began to rub him down, cleaning the dust of travel from his mottled grey coat. With his head tied on a short rope to a ring that hung from one wall, Gunpowder was powerless to bite either of the men, and apparently lacked the energy to try kicking or stomping on their toes. With an air of surrender, he relaxed beneath their hands.
“It’s an eerie night,” John said. “I wish I didn’t have to think of you riding back through the wood alone.”
Brom shrugged, his broad shoulders rising and falling in a casual gesture, though his mouth was pressed into a tight frown. No doubt he was still thinking of Katrina. It would shake any man to see his bride-to-be wandering through the cold night, oblivious to the peril she risked. John experienced a pang of sympathy not just for dear Katrina, but for Brom as well. “I’m sure the Jansens would be glad to offer you a place to sleep for the night – they think you’re quite the hero for volunteering to hunt down the headless horseman.”
Brom shook his head, still frowning. “I’d rather not.”
“You wish to ride by the Van Tassel farm again?”
Brom nodded. “Mr. Van Tassel might grow weary and fall asleep.”
There was no way John could argue with that – if Brom thought it necessary to ride by the Van Tassel home again to verify that Katrina was still safe inside, nothing would stop him. Nor would John have wanted to, if it wasn’t for the thought of Brom riding alone through the forest. What if a being that had hidden from two men would find the courage to show itself to one? “I understand,” was all John said.
“Of course you do,” Brom replied. “You love her.” He raised his gaze and met John’s eyes across the bony ridge of Gunpowder’s spine.
“I…” John’s mouth went dry as he searched his mind for words of denial, but the challenging gleam in Brom’s dark eyes told him that he wouldn’t be able to convince the man. Still, silence filled him with guilt – saying nothing was as good as admitting to being in love with another man’s fiancée, and how could he countenance that? And yet, he did love Katrina – as dearly as he loved Brom, though not in quite the same way. The love he felt for Brom had an edge of possession to it; the love he had for Katrina lacked that, but made up for it with hopeless longing. “She’s impossible not to love.” The words were out before he could stop them, but they were true. “I’m sorry,” he sighed.
“Don’t be. I’m not sorry I love her, and neither should you be. I’m not sorry I’ve been granted her hand in marriage either, but that doesn’t mean I’ll pretend not to know your feelings. The only thing I’m sorry about is that only one of us can marry her, and that the other must suffer for it.”
John nodded mutely, his hands sweeping over Gunpowder’s thin, warm side.
Brom reached over Gunpowder’s back and laid a hand over John’s. “You’ll still have me, John,” he said, gripping it tightly. “Even after the wedding.”
“I know.” A bitter-sweet mixture of relief and guilt flooded through John, making him feel as if his chest might burst open with it, and his heart flop out to land at his feet. How could he continue to love Brom when he claimed to love Katrina? And how could he possibly stop? The two loves were irreconcilable.
“The nag is as clean as a whistle,” Brom said, stepping away from Gunpowder’s side.
The gelding’s hide gleamed in the dull glow of lantern light. John nodded, untied Gunpowder’s head and hastily exited the stall. Once outside it, he rinsed the dirt and horsehair from his hands in a bucket of water, his gaze wondering automatically to the shadowed world beyond the barn and the road that wound into the dark forest. If only Brom didn’t have to pass through the wood to reach his home – if only there was another reasonable path.
Brom laid a hand on John’s shoulder and gripped it, tight. “Before I go,” he whispered, “it would be a shame not to take advantage of the solitude.”
John nodded, his hands flying to Brom’s hot, solid body as if of their own volition. All the longing, fear and guilt he’d experienced throughout the night welled up in him and solidified into a vicious lust, a burning need for human contact. Before he knew what was happening, he and Brom had slipped into an empty stall and were tumbling in the clean straw on its floor.
Brom was on top of him, his considerable weight a comfort as he drove John down into the hay. John pressed his mouth to Brom’s, relishing the surge of sensation that rushed straight to his cock as their lips met and their tongues meshed together, hungry for every bit of contact the other could give.
Brom pressed a hand between their bodies and fumbled with the front fall of John’s breeches for a moment before successfully laying it open, and then reached inside to grasp John’s cock. John moaned, arching his hips so that Brom’s hand slid to the base of his erection, his fingers wrapped firmly around the shaft. Brom had rinsed his hands too, and the lingering coldness of his fingers felt shocking against John’s lust-heated flesh. His balls still ached, though now also with the urge for release, in addition to the soreness caused by his bareback ride. He forgot all about t
he discomfort when Brom straddled him, leaning over his body so that his breath rushed hot against John’s hips. “Oh, God,” he breathed when Brom’s lips met the head of his cock.
Brom drew John’s erection unhesitatingly into his mouth, closing his lips firmly around it, and swept his tongue first over the crown, then down the length of the shaft. John gasped when Brom seized his balls, fondling them in the palm of his hand. Despite the pain this incited, the intense gratification of it was almost more than he could bear. He threw his head back in the straw, careless of the stalks that poked his neck and scratched his cheek. All that mattered was that white-hot pleasure was pooling inside him, somewhere near the base of his spine, and surging through his body in a tidal-wave of desire, threatening to make him spill himself into Brom’s mouth after no more than a few strokes of the tongue.
Brom took John deep, pushing his lips to the base of his cock, all the while rolling John’s balls in his hand, squeezing just enough to blur the line between pleasure and pain. John stiffened, arched against the floor, and came. As his seed rushed out of him and into the warm embrace of Brom’s mouth, it was all he could do to bury an eyetooth in the soft flesh of his inner lip, stifling the overwhelming urge to cry out loudly enough to spook the horses and possibly wake the Jansens. He clenched fistfuls of straw, tasting blood as the fierce pleasure began to fade and the world that had temporarily blurred in a haze of ecstasy came into focus again. Brom rose, and as soon as he was able, John did the same.
Brom’s cock stood tall in his lap, straining the front of his breeches. John hurried to undo the front fall, pushing Brom against the nearest wall as he grasped the thick shaft of Brom’s cock. It was hard as stone, and at the tip, as soft as velvet. He wasted no time in kneeling and pressing his lips against the crown, letting it slide into his mouth.
Brom groaned and flexed his hips, penetrating John deeply. John worked past the natural reflex to gag, managing to take all of him. Remembering how Brom had done the same for him, John began to pleasure him without reservation, tasting every inch of his cock, from the base to the tip and back again. A hint of a salty flavor teased his tongue, and he reached below, cupping Brom’s balls. They were hot and tight, ready for release. He squeezed them, relishing the weight of them in his hand.
Brom laid his hands on John’s head, yanking away the ribbon that secured his hair and tossing it aside, running his fingers through the loose locks. The back of John’s neck prickled with delight as Brom cupped his skull, guiding his movements by applying and easing pleasure, seizing fistfuls of hair large enough that it felt good instead of painful when he pulled. At Brom’s silent insistence, he moved faster, sliding his tongue and lips repeatedly up and down Brom’s shaft, pausing only to sweep his tongue over the tip and to take him extra-deep into his throat. Before he knew it, Brom stiffened, his thigh going tense beneath the hand John had placed on it. A moment later, he groaned, and his release rushed hot and salty into John’s mouth.
When John raised his head from Brom’s lap, he pressed his sleeve against his mouth, carefully removing any traces of what he’d just done. “Was it that good?” he asked. When Brom only looked at him, he elaborated. “You’re still moaning.”
“It was good. But I’m moaning because I feel as if I’ve been hit in the ass by a blacksmith’s hammer.”
“That’s right – you took a nasty fall when Torben reared. Let me see.”
Brom grimaced and stood, holding his breeches around his thighs and obligingly raising his shirt, baring his buttocks to John’s scrutinizing gaze.
“You look as if you’ve been struck in the ass by a hammer.” One of the firm, muscular halves of Brom’s rear was dominated by a purple circle the size and shape of one of Mrs. Jansen’s griddle cakes. “Are you sure you want to ride home in this condition? I could have Mrs. Jansen prepare a poultice for the bruise.”
“Nobody’s poulticing my backside,” Brom said, pulling up his breeches and tucking his shirt into the waist. “I’ll be sleeping in my own bed tonight.” He turned around, his eyes gleaming with decision.
“All right. But for God’s sake, if you encounter the headless horseman, say a prayer or something – don’t try to outride him.”
Brom glared down his nose at John, as if affronted. “If I encounter this supposedly headless horseman on my way home, I shall leap from the saddle and see for myself whether he really does have a neck to strangle. Human or not, the bastard has caused enough trouble already.” Tenderly laying a hand on his ass cheek and smoothing his breeches over it, he strode toward Torben’s stall. When he rode away, he gave no sign of pain, save for sitting a little straighter in the saddle than usual.
John watched him go, waiting until after he disappeared into the woods to finally retire to the farmhouse, muttering a prayer under his breath for Brom’s safety. After all, something had left those hoofprints, and if it could vanish so suddenly, surely it could reappear just as easily.
* * * * *
By the time John finally got around to returning Katrina’s baking dish, the winter school term had started. The first day of lessons was always a challenge, with the children more interested in socializing – and now, talking about the headless horseman – than learning anything. It was no secret that John and Brom had been patrolling the roads nightly, searching for any sign of the phantom rider. This fact had elevated John in the eyes of the children, who now seemed to regard him with a sort of hero-worship that paled only in comparison to the admiration they lavished upon Brom.
When he’d cracked open the first textbook of the morning, John hadn’t been able to read more than a few words at a time without being interrupted by the students, who clamored constantly for tales of his midnight escapades. It had taken a threat to make the students cut their own switches from the trees outside to quiet them. There had still been whispers throughout the day though, and surreptitious questions cleverly tied in with the decidedly educational matters at hand. He’d done his best to avoid answering, not wanting to frighten the children, and it had been a long day.
Visiting Katrina was certainly the day’s silver lining. He couldn’t deny the happiness that welled up inside him as he rode, her baking dish secure in a saddle bag. Gunpowder plodded along without giving John much trouble – probably because the horse was as tired from their nightly excursions as John was. Riding late each night in search of the headless horseman was taking its toll; at just the thought of sleep, John yawned. He was still doing so when the Van Tassel farm came into view, but managed to put a stop to it as he tethered Gunpowder to a post and pulled Katrina’s dish from the saddlebag.
Katrina greeted him at the door with a smile. “I’d hoped you’d come today,” she said, ushering him inside.
“I couldn’t bear to stay away any longer – not with the promise of another pie.” He pressed the dish into her hands, inhaling the sweet aroma that drifted from the nearby kitchen – she was definitely baking something. “Is your father home?” He scanned his surroundings for any sign of Mr. Van Tassel. He hadn’t seen the man since he and Brom had escorted a sleepwalking Katrina to the house, and though the meeting might be somewhat awkward, he could hardly put it off.
“No,” Katrina replied. “He and the bondsmen, Harry and Eustis, went into the village to see about a new horse.” Her smile stretched a little wider as she delivered the news, and her blue eyes sparkled like polished sapphires. “Brom’s gone with them, too.”
“Oh?” If Mr. Van Tassel and his indentured men were gone, then he and Katrina were quite alone.
“Yes. Father says we must find a new carriage horse – one of ours has got shin splints, and he intends to turn it out to pasture for the winter. Brom’s going to help him choose a suitable replacement animal.”
“I won’t trouble you then, though I may return soon to collect the pie you promised me.” He smiled, but his heart sank a little. He’d hoped to stay a while and make conversation with Katrina, but she was an engaged woman now, and he hardly want
ed to risk seeming as if he had an inappropriate interest in her – which he most certainly did.
“Nonsense, John.” She took him by the elbow and whisked him deftly into the kitchen. “I’ve just taken some buns out of the oven and covered them with a sweet glaze – it’s my own recipe, and I need someone to try it.” She picked up a tray from the counter and set it on the table, her cheeks dimpling as she smiled up at him. “It will be an hour at least before father arrives home, and they’ll be cold by then.”
John sank obligingly into a chair at the table, his knees giving way far too easily. The scent of the glazed buns was undeniably alluring, but not nearly as much so as the sight of her creamy bosom swelling above the neckline of her dress as she bent over the table, pushing the tray toward him. A memory flashed through his mind, cock-joltingly vivid, of her in nothing but her shift, her nipples rosy and erect beneath. The sugary scent in the air combined with the mental imagery, and he couldn’t help but wonder whether her breasts would taste as sweet as the treat she was urging him to try. “Holy God,” he muttered under his breath as he plucked a bun from the tray.
Katrina frowned. “Are they too hot – are you burnt?”
He managed to shake his head, shoving the bun into his mouth before he could say anything else incriminating. The glaze melted against his tongue, and he glanced guiltily back at Katrina’s breasts, plump and beautifully round beneath her bodice. God, he’d give anything to taste her.
“How is it?” she asked, coming around the table to hover at his shoulder, wearing an anxious expression as she awaited his verdict.
This position put her breasts at his head level, and he tried very hard not to notice the tiny bump of one pert nipple that was visible at such close range, stiff beneath her bodice despite the hot kitchen air. “Wonderful,” he said when he’d swallowed his first bite. “Absolutely wonderful.”