“It doesn’t have to be that way,” Aspen whispered. “You can have another chance, another start.”
Rebecca simply shook her head.
Aspen’s mind spun. She didn’t want to leave her sister wife behind, caught in the clutches of Lehi and his evil first wife. She wanted to fight, to insist, to challenge Lehi enough that he would cave to her demands. But Rebecca had said her piece. Continuing to fight on her behalf would be futile.
“Fine. Rebecca will remain here . . . with you. But I demand to be reassigned.”
Lehi nodded. “I’ll speak with the prophet first thing in the morning. I’ll tell him it’s of the utmost importance.”
Aspen gave him a curt nod and left the room to check on her children. Soon, she hoped they’d have quite the transition to make, and she needed to wrap her arms around her sweet babies, to tell them it would all be okay. Even though they’d have no idea what their mother was talking about.
She couldn’t protect Brinley any longer, or Rebecca for that matter. But she could protect her children. She hoped they’d be safe and welcome in a new household, a new home. She wasn’t one to embrace fairy tales or the concept of happily-ever-after, but she hoped . . . she hoped to be placed with a kind and gentle man. A man who would appreciate her sharp wit and remarkable memory. A man who didn’t plot, connive, or control. A man who didn’t lash out in anger. A man who stood by his word and insisted upon honesty. A man who was capable of love, who respected and cherished life.
A man . . . not a monster.
Epilogue
One year later
My new favorite thing in the world was sunsets. Beautiful, glorious, calming sunsets. Each night, Porter and I would sit on our patio and watch the sunset, a cold beer in his hand, a glass of white wine in mine. We’d talk and laugh until that moment when the fiery orange orb slid just behind the mountains. In that moment, we’d be silent. Then Porter would reach for my hand, squeezing it tightly.
I’d lived with Tiffany for several months after leaving the compound. Porter respected my reasons. He had to get clean, for once and for all. I was terrified that the burden of playing nursemaid to my injuries would push him over the edge. So, instead I’d begged Tiffany to allow me to stay with her. Being a kindhearted person, she gave me her bed and slept on the floor next to me. She tended my wounds, iced my bruises, and kept me company when she wasn’t working at the clinic.
Each night, Porter would visit. He’d sit with me and we’d talk about his day, about how the house was coming along, about how he’d resisted using with his roommates. He started attending Narcotics Anonymous. He made friends and quickly had a sponsor he could call in the middle of the night when he was feeling weak. He didn’t want to place that burden on me, and I was grateful.
Each and every weekend, Porter stayed busy working on the house, getting it ready, making it perfect. Finally we drove to the small cottage one day, our fingers entwined on the front seat. A look of pride came over him as we strolled through the tiny house. The walls were covered in serene shades of blue and green, the carpet was fluffy and soft, and fresh flowers bloomed outside the kitchen window.
It was perfect.
Porter moved in immediately, saying good-bye to Charlie and the rest of his roommates. He was ready, truly ready for a new start, a new home.
I joined him three months later.
The money from Jorjina didn’t go very far, and so we agreed that it was important for me to find work. I was nervous, to say the least, the day that I walked into the local grammar school for my interview as a study hall supervisor. I had no credentials, no formal education, and was shocked that they didn’t laugh in my face when I applied. But that was the thing about the outside world; it constantly surprised me. And I’d surprised myself, as well.
Despite my assumptions about how I would carry myself in the outside world, I had yet to cut my hair. Tiffany’s words had resonated with me; I didn’t want my first haircut in twenty-three years to be about rebellion or revenge. I wanted it to be about independence, a fresh start, a new beginning.
And so, like any other evening, Porter and I were enjoying the sunset from our new patio. Porter was covered in dust from a job site, and I was still wearing my school attire and makeup, my long hair twisted into a tight bun.
“More wine?” Porter asked, holding the bottle over my glass.
“Trying to get me drunk?” I teased.
“You might need it,” Porter said with a wink. “After all, our plans for this evening are a little . . . adventurous.”
I giggled in response, taking another sip of wine, its sweetness easing down my throat as I pondered his words. He was right. But I was ready.
“I can’t believe it’s been a year,” I said softly, then bit my lip, waiting for his response.
“Yeah.” He grinned.
“I’m proud of you, Porter. So proud.”
Porter had stayed clean since the day Aspen and Rebecca dragged me to his apartment. He’d made a decision to prove it to me, to prove he could clean up his life, his body, his mind, his soul.
And he’d done it. For three hundred and sixty-five days, Porter came to me willingly, proud of his sobriety, his self-restraint. And with each passing day, I fell more and more in love with him.
“Are you sure you’re ready?” he asked, his eyes kind and unassuming. “It’s okay if you’re not.”
“I’m completely ready.”
“All right. I’ll meet you inside.” Porter grabbed his beer and walked inside the house. Stopping just before opening the sliding glass door, he paused for a second and smiled at me.
After finishing the rest of my wine, I rose from the table and entered the house. The walls were filled with framed photos of our first year together as a real couple. A year of healing, a year of second chances and new beginnings. The photos made me smile as I walked down the hall to the bathroom.
Porter stood behind one of our kitchen chairs, a pair of scissors in his hand, a pensive smile upon his handsome face.
“Are you sure? I can call Tiffany, I’m sure she could do a better job than I would.” He rubbed the back of his neck, awaiting my answer.
“Don’t be silly. I want you to do it. Only you.”
I walked to the chair and sat down, then released my hair from its bun so it spilled down my back. Gingerly, Porter took it in his hands, draping it over the back of the chair.
Porter turned me toward the mirror, then said, “All right. Here goes.”
I watched Porter in the mirror as he pressed his lips to the top of my head. This simple gesture solidified every desire I had to finally cut my hair. And it removed any doubt, any hesitation that remained.
I was ready.
My pulse quickened as Porter drew an invisible line just below my bust.
“Here?” he asked and I nodded.
Slowly and with deliberate movements, Porter opened the steel scissors and cut across my thick layers of hair. His tongue pressed against his top lip as he studied the angle of his cut, making sure the hair was lined up properly. I watched him in awe, at the lengths he’d go to take care of me, to nurture me, and to encourage my independence.
He’d never pushed me to do it sooner. He’d simply waited for me to be ready.
He snipped and snipped again and again at my thick head of hair. Soon the weight that I’d carried for twenty-three years was gone, pooled in a thick mass at my feet.
“Done,” Porter said, looking rather proud of himself.
I stood, inspecting myself in the mirror. “It’s perfect,” I said, running my hands through my hair, amazed by how thin, how airy it felt slipping through my fingers. “Absolutely perfect.”
“I’ve never seen you look so beautiful,” Porter murmured, then placed a kiss beneath my ear.
“Really?”
“This may sound weird, so bear with me, but you look like you. The you I always imagined you’d be.” He tilted his head to the side, then wrapped his arms around my waist.
“You’ve always been beautiful, but now, now you’re . . .”
“I’m free.” I smiled, then turned to face him and kissed him gently on the lips.
“Yes. You’re free.” He lifted my hand and placed a sweet kiss on the back of it. “We both are.”
Porter took my hand and led me to the bedroom, our bedroom. The old Brinley would have insisted upon marriage before living together. But everything in me knew this was the right path for us. I was in no rush to marry. Porter knew it, and I knew it. But if we did marry . . . when we did, things would be different.
I would be Brinley Hammond.
I would be the first.
I would be the only.
And I would never share.
Acknowledgments
With each book I write, I am constantly reminded of the extraordinary support I have from fellow writers, readers, bloggers, friends, and family. This book was a long time in the making as the idea came to me over a year ago while driving to meet a friend for dinner. I pictured a boy and a girl meeting at a fence. The girl had a long braid and a traditional long cotton dress. The boy was angry and alone.
Thank you to Beth Ehemann who heard my idea months later when I was planning to start a totally different project and said (I have to paraphrase because my memory is not always the best!), “You need to write this book . . . now!” Thank you for all of the encouragement and awesome brainstorming that we did while this book was still an idea in my head.
A huge thank-you goes to Melissa Perea. MP was my muse, a brainstormer, a beta, a model, and a photographer! Thank you for everything you did to help me with this book—you truly went above and beyond. And another huge thank-you to Heather Bowser of Heather Bowser Studios for posing as my Brinley and for making all of the photos perfect!
Thank you to Regina Wamba at Mae I Design & Photography. I am so in love with the cover you have created with the photos taken by Heather. You made it absolutely perfect. I’m so in love with it and I loved working with you! You are creative, professional, and flexible! Thank you so much!
Thank you to Deb Bresloff for being a constant support—brainstorming, beta reading, and giving me so much encouragement through all stages of this book. I am so grateful!
For the rest of my awesome betas—I am so grateful for each and every one of you. You were each instrumental in helping me create this story. Pamela Carrion, Laura Wilson, Sally Bouley, Megan Kapusta, Allison East, Jennifer Merkley, Kim August, Jen Campbell, Lori Sabin, Erin Roth, and Sharon Cooper.
An enormous thank-you to Pam Carrion, my unofficial publicist. I can never thank you enough for everything that you do for me on a daily basis—running the Sister Wives group, arranging my blog tour and promo tour, assisting me with anything and everything to get the word out on this book. Thank you for being you.
Thank you to Janna Mashburn for always taking the time to create gorgeous trailers! And thank you for being an incredible person with whom I trust absolutely everything. I love you!
To my fellow authors who took the time to read or to brainstorm/chat with me about this project—Maggi Myers, Tiffany King, Tara Sivec, Jenn Cooksey, Michelle Warren, Melissa Perea, Beth Ehemann, Erin Noelle (my sprinting partner!), Mia Asher, Andrea Randall, Willow Aster, Jasinda Wilder, Karina Halle, AE Woodward, Claire Contreras, and Calia Read.
For the “Safe House”—your words of encouragement, your enthusiasm, and your support are absolutely priceless. I love you so much.
My editor, Pam Berehulke of Bulletproof Editing. I am so grateful for you and not only your talent in editing, but your professionalism, your sensitivity, and your kindness.
A huge thank-you to Charles Miles for introducing me to my agent, Jessica Watterson. It was such a selfless thing to do, and I will always be grateful to you for doing that for me. Jessica and I are such a great team, and I feel lucky to call her my agent.
Speaking of which, thank you, Jessica Watterson, for all your support and excitement regarding Wife Number Seven. It is humbling and wonderful, and I’m so excited about this relationship that we are building together! You are a blessing!
Thank you to all of the bloggers who are participating in the blog tour/promo tour, who have read ARCs and taken the time to review. I appreciate you all so much!
Thank you to all of my readers, especially those in the Sister Wives Facebook group, who actively show their support for my writing and characters. You are all so awesome and I am so lucky to have you!
And thank YOU for reading.
About the Author
Melissa Brown is a hopeless romantic living in the Chicago suburbs with her husband, Chris, and their two children. Aside from writing, she enjoys reading and baking. She also has a slight obsession with actor Henry Cavill. This is her fifth novel.
Connect with Melissa Brown online:
Melissa’s Blog:
melissabrownauthor.blogspot.com/
Facebook page:
www.facebook.com/MelissaBrownAuthor
Goodreads Author Profile:
www.goodreads.com/melissabrown
Twitter:
@LissaLou77
Also by Melissa Brown
Bouquet Toss
Champagne Toast
Picturing Perfect
Unwanted Stars
Wife Number Seven Page 28