Wife Number Seven (The Compound, #1)(11)

Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved a folded piece of paper and handed it to me. His cheeks reddened slightly as I opened the folded advertisement. The model looking back at me had lips the color of a ripe plum, deep and dark. Her lashes were long and the color of night. I stared at the paper in my hand, its edge ragged, obviously torn from a magazine.

We weren’t allowed to have magazines or books or television. Newspapers were forbidden to everyone but the prophet. My eyes widened and met Lehi’s, silently asking where it came from. But the lack of connection between my husband and me prevented him from understanding my body language.

I paused a moment, then asked, “Um, where did—”

“On a job site. An obstetrician’s office. We’re remodeling the waiting area.” He shrugged, apparently not embarrassed or upset with me for asking, which was a relief. I didn’t want to anger him when he was being kind to me. “It made me think of you, and I’d like you to buy this.”

“The lipstick?” I croaked, attempting not to shudder at the sultry nature of the shade.

“Yes. And anything else from Leandra’s original list that you would like to wear.”

I didn’t want to wear any of it, but I nodded and hid my disgust. We’d only been married three years, and already I’d grown tired of his treating me like a doll. Maybe I could love him if he saw me . . . the real me. Not the painted face he insisted upon.

“I’ll speak to the prophet this evening,” he said. “Perhaps you can go into town tomorrow.”

“But—” I interrupted, hoping he wouldn’t become angry with me.

“Yes?”

“If you’re sending someone with me, they’ll know”—I gestured to the advertisement in my hand—“about this.”

“Oh. Well, let me handle that. I’ll specify that they should wait for you outside any store you visit.”

“Yes, sir,” I muttered, masking my elation at the possibility of tracking down Porter. I could only hope the prophet wouldn’t assign someone to accompany me, that I’d be able to ask one of the guards myself.

And I would ask Samuel.

Perhaps there was hope for me yet.



Chapter 6

Sunlight streamed inside my small bedroom, rousing me from sleep. I sat up and glanced out the window, struggling to focus my sleepy eyes on a tiny bird perched on the ten-foot wall that lined the Cluff property. Its beak pointed to the sun as if it were bathing in the glow of its warmth.

Propping myself up on one arm, I watched the bird, a desire building inside me to take on the day ahead. To bathe in the glow of the sun. To thank the Heavenly Father for my blessings. But something in the pit of my stomach wouldn’t allow that.

The memory of my missing purse.

The loss of my pills, and the letter for Rebecca.

My cage.

My reality.

Wiping sleep from my eyes, I noticed the yellow sheet of notebook paper lying on the nightstand.

Brinley,

I have spoken with our prophet. He is unable to spare any of the guards from their posts at this time. The outsiders have been especially sneaky as of late. However, you have my permission to ask one of your sister wives to accompany you into town if you are comfortable.

Blessings,

Lehi

Rebecca. I would ask Rebecca.

She would keep my secret. She would be invested in finding Porter, if I was brave enough to tell her about the letter addressed to her inside the bag.

But what if we found Porter, the bag, and everything inside it . . . everything except for her letter?

She’d hate me, despise me. And I’d lose an ally in my family. No, I couldn’t tell her. Not until I knew I could give her that letter. With new determination in having a plan, I walked to Rebecca’s room and tapped on the door.

“Come in, please,” she said.

The door creaked as I pushed it open. She looked up, her weary face brightening as I entered the room.

“Good morning, Brinley,” she said, tying the laces of her youngest son’s sneakers. His face was red, tears streamed down his cheeks. He’d been sleeping in bed with her the last few nights, missing his father like crazy, refusing to acknowledge Lehi. He missed Burt. They all did, including Rebecca.

But unlike her sons, Rebecca was obligated to hide her sadness, her mourning, her grief. She was required to obey the prophet’s revelation and honor Lehi as her true husband—even when he slapped her oldest son across the face when he refused to call him Father like the rest of Lehi’s brood. Even when he sent all four of her children to bed without supper because they wouldn’t look him in the eye when he spoke.

They were unable to cope, but that didn’t matter to Lehi. They were expected to fall into line and obey. Lehi had to demonstrate to the prophet that he was worthy of this choice, of this reassignment. If the boys acted out, his standing with the prophet would be lessened. And he simply couldn’t have that.

Watching their struggle pulled at my heart, knowing that their father loved them—all of them—and wanted to be with them. I had to find that note. I just had to.

I knew it was wrong of me to have such thoughts, to want Rebecca and her boys to reunite with the man whom was deemed unfit to have them in his life. But there was this part of me, a tiny bit of resistance in my spirit that captured the portion of my brain that held my imagination. And I imagined. Oh, did I imagine.