Page 1 of Stolen By the Hit Man

Chapter One

Jasmyn

The man by the kitten formula keeps staring at me.

And I’m starting to think he’s been following me up and down the aisles.

My husband, Braydon, is busy talking about deer spray with the owner of the feed store. Out of boredom, I wandered over to the cat aisle. I just can’t shake the feeling that I should be looking after a cat.

I peruse the shelves of catnip toys while the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. My hand pauses on a mouse made of scratchy rope and felt, flashing my ugly gold wedding band. Maybe the strange man will leave me alone now, getting the message that I’m married.

And trust me, he does not want to mess with anyone married to that mean ol’ Braydon Smoot.

The ring is not my taste, but then again, neither is Braydon. How did I end up married to him? Beats me. Sometimes I sit and stare at it, hoping it will jog my memory of my wedding day.

But nothing is ever jogged.

A week after the accident, I asked to see the piece of paper with my signature on it. There it was, plain as day.

Not that I remembered my own name until my husband told me.

I’ve accepted that this is the way things are: my name is Jasmyn Smoot, I’m 28 years old, and I was born in Wyoming. My parents were polygamists who raised me in the Celestial Order of Covenant Kinship. I just call the church Kinship because it’s hard to remember all those words.

The doctor says my memories will eventually come back with time, and then everything will click into place.

It’s been a few months since the accident, and though the bump on my head is healed, I still feel like Kinship and my husband Braydon and my entire life in Darling Creek just feels like I put on someone else’s clothes.

If I weren’t married? I’d say this strange man by the kitten formula looks like a lost Tom Hardy after an all-nighter. How do I know who Tom Hardy is, but I can’t remember anything else? Good question.

A better question is this: what have I done to catch the attention of those bloodshot eyes? And what does he want from me? I don’t carry cash. I don’t have anything he wants. What he clearly needs is a good night’s sleep and a hot meal.

Don’t let your mind go there, Jasmyn. Don’t go thinking you need to nurture a strange man just because he’s cute.

I pick up the cat toy and awkwardly sniff it. I tend to do impulsive things when I’m scared, freaked out, or uncomfortable. Great, now I look like a toy-sniffing weirdo.

The man clears his throat. I look over and catch the color of blue denim in those puffy, tired eyes. What is he staring at?

I can answer that on some level: a hollow-eyed sister-wife in frumpy-dumpy work overalls and a cheap, ill-fitting gold band on her ring finger.

I wish Braydon would hurry up. Then again, I don’t cherish being alone with Braydon. Ever. Even as I think this, the feed store manager can be heard cracking a joke, which is quickly followed by my husband’s fake, overcompensating laughter echoing through the store.

God, I hate him. Our marriage makes no sense.

“Hi,” says the man by the kitten formula.

I cut my eyes at him. Embarrassed at the rise in my heart rate, I look away and stare at the toy in my hand. “Hi,” I say, the word catching in my throat. I clear it and repeat, “Hi.”

Heat radiates up my legs. Sweat drips from the backs of my knees.

“Try not to look so pathetic and lost out in public today,” Braydon had said to me this morning when he agreed to take me with him to run errands in town. “People will think I’m a shitty husband and try to kidnap you like they did with Elder Blatch’s young wife.”

“Which one?” I had asked. Many wives and children are being spirited away these days, despite efforts to lock down everything.

I can’t keep up with all the lore of Kinship, so it was an honest question. But thinking I was being sassy, Braydon answered my question with the back of his hand.

I was being sincere.

I worry often about being kidnapped, especially when I have no phone, no credit cards, and no photo ID.

I think that would be worse than suffering with a mean husband who visits me barely once every couple of weeks.

He’s only touched me that one time out of anger, and—thank god—he’s never tried anything else.

He says he’ll be patient with me until I remember how in love with him I used to be.

Posters have been popping up all over the compound and in the public square, warning women to stay away from the “Wylie Gang.”

They’re accused of kidnapping, breaking and entering, and theft. They prey on sister-wives because we’re alone a lot. And I’m the most vulnerable because Braydon visits me the least, and I have no children.

I swallow, nervous that maybe this strange Tom Hardy-looking man is with the Wylie Gang.

I look up into this stranger’s eyes and wonder what he wants with a lost-looking person like me.

“You okay?” the man asks.

Most certainly, I’m not okay.

I nod.

He nods back.

“You got a cat?”

“No. Just waiting for my husband.”

Something nags at me when I say “my husband” out loud. Like it doesn’t have the ring of truth.

I wish the marriage wasn't the truth. But I saw my signature.

The slight eyebrow raise, followed by the “Sorry to hear that,” makes sweat pour down my thighs.

He’s sorry? Sorry that I’m married or sorry that I’m waiting?

I blink slowly and study his face. He doesn’t look like any of the men in the posters warning about the Wylie Gang.

I have to focus on something other than the way those blue eyes and thick eyebrows make my neck feel all goose-pimply.

He gestures toward the door with his thumb. “That his silver King Ranch pickup outside?”

I nod.

“Your man makes good money,” he says.

My lips part at the forwardness of this statement. If only he knew my husband is behind on truck payments. People in town have been gradually declining to do business with people associated with Kinship. The church is bleeding money. That’s the latest gossip among the sister-wives.

And, that’s one of the reasons Braydon had to go to town today: he’s trying to kiss ass and look for a job.

“I wouldn’t know,” I say to the stranger. “And I don’t carry cash, if that’s what you’re after."

The strange man’s forehead wrinkles in concern. Heat surges all over my body, and the sweat is starting to pool inside my underclothes. I’m just out here sinning and dripping all over the place.

God will forgive me. The underwear stuff is unintentional sinning, which isn’t good, but not as bad as having an affair, no matter how stupid and mean my husband is.

“It’s not. Just wondering what someone as sweet as you is doing with a lowlife like that.”

I need to put this man in his place, but everything he said is so true, I’m shaken and speechless.

“I…um…”

He sees my shoulders jump when Braydon’s voice echoes through the store. “You take care, now, Vern, and I’ll be waiting to hear about the assistant manager job!”

The strange man closes in and speaks quickly. “Listen. I know you’re not safe with that guy. You want to get out of here?”

The man asks this scandalous question with the deep voice of someone who has lived a hard life, though he doesn’t seem that old. The sound of it reverberates down my spine and hits every pleasure nerve on its way down.

Goodness.

His wrinkles of concern deepen when I don’t answer. I should close my mouth before I catch flies.

The man asked a simple question.

But it’s really not that simple.

“I’m just waiting for my hu?—”

“You like cats?”

My eyes snap to his. “What?”

“He won’t let you have a cat, will he?”

“How did you?—”

“The alley behind my place is lousy with strays. I’ll get you one for free."

Is he for real?

I get lost in those intense, denim blue eyes. Yes, he is for real.

“Jasmyn!”

I nearly jump out of my skin.

“Jasmyn! You ran off. Time to go.”

Braydon is going to grab my arm hard, but make it look normal. He’ll gently scold me for hanging around the cat aisle. And then I’m going to clamber into Brandon’s lifted pickup and ride back to the farm as he really boxes my ears. Because he doesn’t let himself get too mean to me in public.

I don’t turn away from the stranger and go to my husband like I’m supposed to.

Because I don’t want to get back into his truck, and I don’t want to go back to the farm.

I don’t want to go back to my lonely house with no food in the fridge and a jealous sister-wife showing up to help herself to the meager bits in my pantry.

I look up at the strange man, now scowling at my husband.

Fear rolls over me. I clutch my purse under my arm.

There’s thirty bucks in there and not much else.

I hate this purse. It’s a huge, ugly mom purse, and it’s not my style, but it's a hand-me-down from one of the sister-wives.

Everything I have is a hand-me-down, and nothing fits.

Not my clothes. Not this ring. Not my marriage.

“Jasmyn,” my husband says sternly and low. He’s really mad now. That’s the trouble with Braydon. He has a short temper, and I seem to exacerbate it, no matter what I do.

And yet I can’t bring myself to go with him. I can’t make my feet go to my husband. I can’t even look at him.

All my eyes want to do is notice the bare forearm that props him up against the metal shelf. Tendons and lean muscles shift and bunch under golden skin, a roadmap of sinew and veins.

And then, that rumbly voice again. This time, it’s not so innocent or simple. Nor is it a question.

It’s a key that unlocks something so powerful in my brain, I’m questioning everything I thought I knew.

He says with a sly smile, “You don’t have to go with him.”