I was too, but I couldn’t let her know that. I had to remain calm. I had to get my purse. For her, for me, and for Burt.
“Please, trust me. He won’t hurt us, I promise. He’s not a bad person. But this place,” I said, gesturing to the buzzing of the town around us, “it’s obviously hurting him, making him desperate.”
Before Rebecca could object, I pressed my shaking finger to the gray button beside the name Travis in white block letters.
No answer.
I pressed the button again.
“No one’s home, Brinley. Let’s go.” Rebecca crossed her arms in front of her chest, hugging herself tightly, but she still trembled.
It was then that I heard his voice. “What?” he growled through the speaker.
“Um . . . delivery,” I said, my voice cracking. If I revealed my true identity, he’d never let us upstairs. And I was not giving up. Not yet.
“Fine, whatever.”
Buzzz.
Immediately I covered my ears at the dreadful sound. When it finally stopped, I waited for the door to swing open. When it didn’t, I pressed the button again.
“Open the door while it’s buzzing, would ya?”
The irritation in his voice pierced through me and I was mortified. I’d never visited an apartment building before. I had no idea that I was supposed to pull on the door while the intercom made that dreadful sound.
“I-I’m sorry,” I said.
Buzzz.
This time I grabbed the door, finding it unlocked. I glanced back at Rebecca, whose expression remained apprehensive, her fingers still quivering as they rested on her arms.
We climbed the steps of the dingy building, the smell of coffee and pastries hovering in the air. I took a deep breath, enjoying the aroma, wondering what it must be like to enjoy that smell each day. It was a pleasant distraction from the fear that I’d suppressed in my belly.
I knew Porter Hammond wouldn’t hurt me. I knew that in my gut.
But I didn’t know what he’d say, or if he’d even talk to me once he recognized my familiar hairstyle, my old-fashioned garb, and my plain face. Once he knew who I was and that I’d returned to claim what was mine.
When we reached the third floor, his door was left open. My hands shook in trepidation as we approached. I inhaled deeply, attempting to rekindle the bravery I had felt when I pressed the button to his apartment outside the building.
“Leave it on the mat,” he called from inside the apartment. “I’m a little busy.”
“Let’s go,” whispered Rebecca.
“You can stay here if you like,” I said, “but I must go in.”
I stepped onto the welcome mat at the entrance to the apartment. I couldn’t see Porter, but I had a decent view of the living area of the apartment. Sleeping bags were piled into the corner of the bleak room, and a tattered blue couch held several blankets and pillows. A large television set blasted from the living area.
Pots and pans banged in the kitchen, which was to my left. I couldn’t see past the confines of the entranceway, but knew that was where Porter must be.
My lungs heaved as I rounded the corner. Porter was standing over the sink, his hands submerged in suds, a black-and-white apron tied around his waist. If I weren’t so anxious, I would have giggled at his appearance. Men in our compound didn’t assist in the kitchen, or wear aprons, or clean. To me, he looked silly working in the kitchen. That was a woman’s place.
He must have caught me in his peripheral vision because he did a double take, his eyes as round as the pans in his hands. When he dropped them into the sink, soapy water splashed to the floor.
“Holy shit,” he yelled, stepping back. “It’s you.”
I couldn’t find words, so I nodded.
“Look, I don’t have your money, all right?” He grabbed a towel and wiped his arms. “I spent it already.”
He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and sniffed deeply, then reached up and rubbed his eyes, still as bloodshot as when I’d seen him before.
Still, I said nothing. From behind me, I could sense Rebecca inching her way toward the apartment. I imagined she wanted to hear our conversation, to know I was safe.
“So . . .” He tilted his head, narrowing his eyes. “Aren’t you gonna say anything? I mean, you stalked me successfully, you might as well talk.” He chuckled into the back of his hand.
This was not the boy I remembered. The outside world had changed him. And not in a good way.
“I need m—my purse,” I said, stumbling over my words. In an attempt to appear strong, I crossed my arms in front of my chest, something Aspen did whenever going head-to-head with Leandra over child rearing or housekeeping.
“Oh, right,” he said, dropping the dishcloth onto the bare counter. He stalked toward me in dramatic steps. “I should’ve known you’d show up here, considering what was in that bag.”
Rebecca didn’t know about my pills. I closed my eyes for a second and tipped my chin up to the ceiling, attempting to stay strong, knowing that one or both of my secrets would soon be spilled.
“You know you’re not supposed to have those,” Porter said. “What would your husband say?”
“How did you know I was married?”
“Oh, puh-lease.” He squinted, tilting his head to the other side. “You’re what—twenty-one, twenty-two? You’re married.”
I said nothing. He was right. In our community, women rarely married older than the age of twenty. And many were married much earlier than that.
His blue eyes were piercing and as many times as I broke our eye contact, whenever I glanced back at him, his stare was still fixed on me. I clutched the fabric of my pocket, twisting and turning the cotton between my fingers.
“Stop avoiding the question,” he said with a sneer. “You’re on the pill.”
Rebecca gasped from the doorway. I snapped my eyes shut and clenched my teeth. I couldn’t even imagine what she must be thinking of me.
A smug grin crossed Porter’s face. “I’m kinda impressed, ya know?”
“What?” My voice cracked as I shook my head in disbelief. “Why?”
“I remember you, Brinley. You weren’t exactly a rebel.”
“Nobody is.”
“Well, they made that next to impossible. Step outta line, look what happens—” He raised his arms and waved his hands, gesturing to the apartment that surrounded us. “So, be careful. It’d be a shame if anyone found out.”
“You wouldn’t—”
“Oh, wouldn’t I? Maybe it’s exactly what I need. I can show my loyalty to the prophet.” He gritted his teeth and walked around me as he spoke. “I’d turn you in, they’d kick you out, and I’d be back at home in my nice warm bed.”
Horrified, I clasped my hands over my ears and squeezed my eyes shut. “Stop, please!”
“Brinley!”
Rebecca stormed into the apartment, a mama bear ready to attack. I turned and waved her back, letting her know I was okay.
“Ah.” Porter adopted a pondering pose, his hand clasping his chin. “So, this is Rebecca. How interesting.”
“Please,” I begged as my eyes stung, threatening tears. “Just give me the purse.”
“Not yet. This is way too much fun.” He waved his hand, dismissing me. “Re-bec-ca. It’s such a pleasure to meet you.”
“How?” Rebecca frowned and rubbed her bottom lip. “How do you know my name?”
“Ask your sister wife,” Porter said, still smiling smugly.
“Brinley?” Rebecca was clearly petrified, and I was sure she must be mentally retracing her steps that morning to find how on earth she’d ended up at an apartment in town with a clearly possessed man . . . a man who knew her name.
“He has a demon inside him, don’t listen.” I turned my attention to Porter. “Please, I don’t care about the money. Just let me have my bag.”
“Fine, whatever.”
He walked to the dining table and retrieved my purse. My stomach settled a
s he carried it back to me, holding it above his head, teasing me as though we were children. I stood on the tips of my toes, but couldn’t reach it.
“Oh good God,” he said. “You’re not even trying.”
Anger rose within me. I could handle his anger, his disdain for my presence in his home, but that I would not tolerate.
“No.” I shook my head violently. “Do not take the Lord’s name in vain.”
“And what are you gonna do about it? This is my home, not yours, goddamn it.” He slammed the purse on the counter.
Again I covered my ears, attempting to block out his sin. I now understood why people like Porter were exiled from our community. They deserved it. They were not part of the chosen; his actions confirmed that fact.
All the blood drained from my face, but I reached my hand out to take the purse. In that split second, Porter grasped my wrist and squeezed.
“Why are you on the pill?” he demanded. “Seriously, tell me why.”
“Why? Why do you want to know?”
“Because, I remember you. You were the girl with the doll. All the toys were taken away, but you had a doll.”
His eyes narrowed and I felt my defenses slide away and fall at my feet. My stomach flipped as he recalled my first act of defiance.
“It was just a doll,” I said, attempting to downplay my actions.
“No, it was more than that.” He lowered his voice and softly brushed at my wrist with his thumb.
My stomach flipped again in response to his touch. What was I feeling? Fear? Pleasure? I didn’t understand it, but a strange part of my brain didn’t want him to let go.
“And you know it,” he insisted.
I opened my mouth to speak, but couldn’t. He was right. There was a part of me that questioned my faith, questioned the prophet, my husband, all of it. It was as if he could see me, really see me in a way no one else could.
“Seriously, be careful. If they catch you, it won’t end well.”
Gone was his smug demeanor. In its place was a concerned expression, softer, gentler, much like the strokes that continued against the sensitive skin of my inner wrist.
Mesmerized, I nodded. “I will.”
Our eyes were locked as we stood in silence. As he stroked my wrist, I did my best to control my breathing, to prevent him from knowing how fascinated I was by his touch. My cheeks burned, just as they did when Aspen embarrassed me in front of the other sister wives. These foreign sensations overwhelmed and confused me, yet I was consumed by them.
“We should go.” Rebecca placed her hand on my shoulder, snapping Porter and me out of our daze. He blinked repeatedly and released my wrist.
He felt it too, didn’t he?
“Thank you,” I said. “For the purse.”
He nodded, rubbing his red eyes. “Sorry about the money. Gotta eat, right?”
“Right.” I shrugged and gave him one last glance before we walked out of the apartment.
When the door closed behind us, Rebecca turned on me, blocking my access to the stairwell.
“You have so much to explain,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “How did that mongrel know my name?”
“He’s not a mongrel,” I said, surprising myself with my defensive tone and the bite of my words. “He’s just . . . trying to live on his own. Out here, surrounded by evil.”
“He’s a lost soul, Brinley. Now, how does he know my name?”
Unzipping the tattered bag, I reached inside and felt the folded envelope. I pulled it from the bag and placed it in Rebecca’s hands, which shook. Clasping the envelope with one hand, she covered her mouth with the other. The envelope had been opened. Obviously, Porter had been curious.
“What . . . when?” Rebecca’s eyes grew wide and her mouth fell open.
“Yesterday, before it was stolen. I was going to give it to you, I promise. But I didn’t get the chance. Please, please forgive me.”
Rebecca didn’t respond, she was too engrossed in the letter from Burt. Her hands trembled as she read it, one clutching the simple white paper, the other covering her quivering chin. When she finished, she handed the letter to me and dropped to her knees.
“Heavenly Father, please give me the strength to resist. Give me the strength to follow the revelation you have given, and to deny my earthly desires so that I may serve you in heaven.”
I’d heard this prayer every night when Rebecca shared my room. It was her penance, her way of begging our Lord for forgiveness. She loved Burt, she missed him, and for that the guilt was eating her alive.
When she stood, I held out my hand. “May I?” I asked. She closed her eyes tightly and nodded.
My dearest Rebecca,
Every day since you were taken from me has been worse than the one before. Yesterday I was installing drywall at the diner I took you to years ago—when it was just you and me after our wedding ceremony, do you remember that? Anytime I visit that place, I think of my sweet Rebecca.
A song played while I was working, and I asked the owner what it was called. He said it was “I’d Die Without You.” I swear, my dearest, the words could have been taken directly from my heart, from my soul. I miss you and am not sure I can live without you as my wife. My only wife.
Please meet me tomorrow night. Eight p.m. by our tree. There is so much to discuss.
With all the love in my heart,
Burt
“He wants to see you . . . tonight.”
“I can’t do that,” Rebecca snapped. “He’s not my husband anymore. My obedience and my love belong to Lehi now.”
“But you don’t love Lehi,” I argued. “You love Burt.”
“That doesn’t matter.” A tear rolled down her cheek. “None of it matters.”
We walked in silence to the Cluff house. Rebecca never asked me about my pills, and I dared not say Burt’s name again. With each step I took, I was desperate to know the rest of the words to the song Burt mentioned in his note.
And desperate, now more than ever, to feel the intense love that Burt felt for Rebecca. So much love that he felt he’d die without her. I was fascinated, captivated, and wanted their love story to succeed.
And in that desire, I realized one very important thing.
I wanted Rebecca, my sister wife and friend, to sin.
What was happening to me?
Chapter 7
Rebecca was avoiding me. Even though three weeks had passed since she’d read the letter from Burt, she wouldn’t look me in the eye. She volunteered to assist Leandra in her sewing projects, even though she’d told me weeks ago that she despised sewing. Leandra was selective about who she’d ask to assist her, and I was one of the many who were banned from her tiny little sewing room in the garage.
When Lehi and I had first married, Leandra had attempted to take me under her wing, to teach me everything she knew about creating dresses, bedding, and curtains for the family. But after just one week with me as her apprentice, she was done.
“You’re not ready, dear,” is what Leandra had said to me. What I knew she wanted to say was this: “You can’t sew a straight line, you’ve ruined a dress I’ve worked on for weeks, and you butcher the fabric when you cut it.” And she would have been absolutely right in telling me those things, if she could have ignored the command to “keep sweet” and held back her emotions. Regardless, I knew I was no longer allowed in that room.
But Rebecca was another situation entirely. She hated sewing, since in Burt’s household she had been in charge of mending any holes in the children’s clothes and creating bedding for the newborn babies. She told me she had hoped for a fresh start in her duties when she joined our family. But Leandra was smart—she saw the talent that Rebecca possessed, and she noticed a break in the bond she and I had formed when Rebecca first joined the family. She took every advantage of our estrangement and kept Rebecca busy in the garage.
I missed her, and my heart broke for Burt as I wondered how long he had stood by that tree, hoping Rebecca would tipto
e toward him in the darkness. How long he stood there before he gave up, before he resigned himself to a life without her, the woman he felt he’d die without?
So I kept busy. Busy hands helped me avoid thoughts of Rebecca or Burt or Porter.
Porter.
That face. His face. It kept popping into my thoughts several times a day. When I was washing dishes, especially, remembering the suds splattering around him when I’d surprised him with my presence. Last night, I’d even dreamed about him.
When I woke from my dream, I sank to the floor, perching myself on my knees, praying to Heavenly Father to forgive me for my sins. To forgive my unclean thoughts about a man who wasn’t kind to me. He took the Lord’s name in vain and even yelled a few times. But his touch, the way it felt on the skin of my wrist . . . it was a mixture of fire and ice, both a push and a pull, simultaneously a scream and a whisper. His eyes, the way they softened and looked protective when he raised his concerns about my pills.
He intrigued me.
Enough to dream about. Bad thoughts. Good thoughts. Him touching me in other areas. Not just the soft inner skin of my wrist where he could feel my blood pulsing, flowing, my body trembling.
His hands were everywhere in my thoughts.
Everywhere.
When I woke, I was throbbing. My hand moved to that part of me only Lehi had touched.
What was that?
Young girls in our community weren’t taught about sex, not even the least little bit. All we were told was that it must be reserved for our husband. That was all, and it wasn’t nearly enough.
My wedding night was proof of that . . .
• • •
My first time with Lehi had been frightening, uncomfortable, and awkward. I was nineteen, and we’d just been married in the common area of the Cluff home. Our honeymoon was two nights away at a motel in Colorado City. Money was tight, but it was important to Lehi that all of his wives be given special alone time after their celestial vows.
The bedding of the motel room gave me hives. It was an odd tan color with swirls of chocolate and cream tones. The ivory-colored sheets smelled of mildew, and even now, three years later, I could smell it when I remembered that night.
Wife Number Seven Page 5