Page 5 of Rescued By the Operative

Dust fills my lungs, I think I broke my shoulder falling into this concrete floor, and I’m totally disoriented.

What in the actual hell?

I come to standing, rubbing my sore shoulder. This floor is supposed to be earthen. And instead of shelves of preserves and baskets of stored vegetables, I see walls of files, a desk, and a tiny basement window.

I barely have time to get my bearings when a woman’s voice shouts from behind me, “Hands where I can see them!”

What follows is the unmistakable cocking of a gun.

“Whoa…” I say calmly, “Let’s slow down. I’m not here to rob you.”

I raise my hands in the air and turn slowly, coming face to face with a blonde angel in a high braid and a denim overall dress, who can apparently cuss like a sailor.

“Who the fuck are you and what in the fuck do you think you are doing?”

Confused, I take in the heart-shaped face, the perfectly angled eyebrows and the hint of tinted lip gloss.

I smile despite the stupidity of it. “I got the same question for you. You aren’t from around here, are you?”

Because if this chick is from the compound, no way she’s allowed to wear lip gloss and cuss.

“You better go first before I shoot you in the leg, Kool-Aid Man.”

I’m confused at first. “Kool-Aid Man?”

The angel purses her lips, still aiming the gun at me.

“Oh. I get it. Because I busted through the wall. You’re funny. I like you, Blondie.”

The woman narrows her eyes, letting me know the more I talk, the more I’m going to piss her off.

Her reference proves my point, that she’s not from here. But she might just shoot me if I keep sassing her. For all I know, she’s a legit member of this cult and she might run and find her old man. From what I know about those elders, they have zero qualms about shooting trespassers. They’ll shoot a man even for talking to one of their wives.

Might as well play dumb.

“All right, I’ll talk. My name is Jake. I’m just a rancher trying to dig a drain and I guess I lost my way.”

One perfect eyebrow lifts, but she keeps the gun trained on me. “Really. A drain.”

It’s less of a question and more of an “I don’t believe you” statement.

There is no way a woman this mouthy woman is one of them.

“Really!”

“Bullshit.”

I smile at her. “That’s not how a nice plyg wife talks,” I say, using the slang term for polygamists.

“I’m not a plyg wife.”

I look at her left hand. No ring, but that doesn’t mean much as far as I can tell. A lot of these wives don’t walk around wearing a ring because their husbands are selfish sonsabitches, obviously. So I’ll have to take her word for it.

“Okay,” I say. “Then you’ve got a lot of explaining to do if you expect me to believe you’re one of these people. They don’t cuss. At least, the women don’t.”

But it’s not just the cussing. I can’t put my finger on what it is about her. She’s just…different from the women I’ve seen following behind the men from this church when they come to town. She even has a different vibe from Olivia, Louisa, and Goldie. Less haunted, somehow.

“I don’t owe anybody an explanation, least of all someone trespassing.”