Page 18 of Rescued By the Operative

I turn to Ennis. My brother puts a hand on my shoulder and nods.

Reluctantly, I say goodbye to the sheriff and set my hat back on my head.

“The sheriff is right. And we got more pressing matters right this second. Lunch,” Ennis says.

Chapter Seven

Nelly

Blocking out the noise around me, I lie in bed and stare at the contact in my phone.

Jake.

Just reading his name sparks a reaction in my body that I can’t seem to shut down.

Thinking about what we did in that dirty, earthen tunnel makes me quiver.

I came so hard.

I was so loud I could have caused a cave-in.

And here I am, staring at his name in my phone like some lovesick teenager?

It was just a hookup. It was a bargain in exchange for his keeping his mouth shut about me.

I know why he gave me his number.

He wants to see me again. He wants to hook up again, but he wants me to initiate it.

However, I can’t give out my number.

Someone knocks softly on the door to my room, and I quickly shove my phone under my pillow.

One of the sister-wives peeks her head in. Mary, the worn and tired seventh wife of the late Elder Trace. One of several non-biological moms to Louisa, the woman who escaped last year.

“If you want to eat, better come now before the kids devour all the potato soup,” she says.

Mary dutifully made room for me at the elders’ request, after they’d decided my provenance checked out.

The house is teeming with children, both hers and those of two other sister-wives. To make room for me, one of those mothers moved out and was afforded a trip with her husband to another of the church’s compounds in Arizona.

I climb off my noisy little twin bed and go into the kitchen, grateful for some watery potato soup. I can’t be too much of a recluse, or people will start to think I’m weird. And one thing you don’t want to do is stand out in this crowd for the wrong reasons.

“How was your visit to the emergency room, if you don’t mind me asking?” Mary asks as I slurp the thin, disappointing potato soup.

Oh. That. “Fine. The ER doctor is recommending a hysterectomy, but I’m undecided about it. My late husband didn’t approve of anything invasive like that. So I may get a second opinion from the homeopath next week.”

I gulp, hoping she buys this story.

And I hope that I can convince Carl to let me visit that coffee shop again. While I was there, I heard some older women in line quietly whispering about one of the baristas, referring to him as a “Lost Boy.”

From what I understand, that refers to teen boys who are routinely kicked out of cults. That might be a proper inside source I’m looking for.

If word gets around that I have these types of issues, it’s more likely I’ll be allowed to leave the compound for a “doctor visit.” And maybe I can arrange a meeting with that barista to get more information. Also, the less likely I am to get notified that I’ve been “promised” to one of the elders.

Mary nods in understanding. “Trace never wanted me to get my fibroids removed either. He didn’t trust me not to get my tubes tied once the doctors were in there.”

I’m shocked at this revelation. “And did you? Get the lumps removed?”