Wife Number Seven (The Compound, #1)(16)

“You have so much to explain,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “How did that mongrel know my name?”

“He’s not a mongrel,” I said, surprising myself with my defensive tone and the bite of my words. “He’s just . . . trying to live on his own. Out here, surrounded by evil.”

“He’s a lost soul, Brinley. Now, how does he know my name?”

Unzipping the tattered bag, I reached inside and felt the folded envelope. I pulled it from the bag and placed it in Rebecca’s hands, which shook. Clasping the envelope with one hand, she covered her mouth with the other. The envelope had been opened. Obviously, Porter had been curious.

“What . . . when?” Rebecca’s eyes grew wide and her mouth fell open.

“Yesterday, before it was stolen. I was going to give it to you, I promise. But I didn’t get the chance. Please, please forgive me.”

Rebecca didn’t respond, she was too engrossed in the letter from Burt. Her hands trembled as she read it, one clutching the simple white paper, the other covering her quivering chin. When she finished, she handed the letter to me and dropped to her knees.

“Heavenly Father, please give me the strength to resist. Give me the strength to follow the revelation you have given, and to deny my earthly desires so that I may serve you in heaven.”

I’d heard this prayer every night when Rebecca shared my room. It was her penance, her way of begging our Lord for forgiveness. She loved Burt, she missed him, and for that the guilt was eating her alive.

When she stood, I held out my hand. “May I?” I asked. She closed her eyes tightly and nodded.

My dearest Rebecca,

Every day since you were taken from me has been worse than the one before. Yesterday I was installing drywall at the diner I took you to years ago—when it was just you and me after our wedding ceremony, do you remember that? Anytime I visit that place, I think of my sweet Rebecca.

A song played while I was working, and I asked the owner what it was called. He said it was “I’d Die Without You.” I swear, my dearest, the words could have been taken directly from my heart, from my soul. I miss you and am not sure I can live without you as my wife. My only wife.

Please meet me tomorrow night. Eight p.m. by our tree. There is so much to discuss.

With all the love in my heart,

Burt

“He wants to see you . . . tonight.”

“I can’t do that,” Rebecca snapped. “He’s not my husband anymore. My obedience and my love belong to Lehi now.”

“But you don’t love Lehi,” I argued. “You love Burt.”

“That doesn’t matter.” A tear rolled down her cheek. “None of it matters.”

We walked in silence to the Cluff house. Rebecca never asked me about my pills, and I dared not say Burt’s name again. With each step I took, I was desperate to know the rest of the words to the song Burt mentioned in his note.

And desperate, now more than ever, to feel the intense love that Burt felt for Rebecca. So much love that he felt he’d die without her. I was fascinated, captivated, and wanted their love story to succeed.

And in that desire, I realized one very important thing.

I wanted Rebecca, my sister wife and friend, to sin.

What was happening to me?



Chapter 7

Rebecca was avoiding me. Even though three weeks had passed since she’d read the letter from Burt, she wouldn’t look me in the eye. She volunteered to assist Leandra in her sewing projects, even though she’d told me weeks ago that she despised sewing. Leandra was selective about who she’d ask to assist her, and I was one of the many who were banned from her tiny little sewing room in the garage.

When Lehi and I had first married, Leandra had attempted to take me under her wing, to teach me everything she knew about creating dresses, bedding, and curtains for the family. But after just one week with me as her apprentice, she was done.

“You’re not ready, dear,” is what Leandra had said to me. What I knew she wanted to say was this: “You can’t sew a straight line, you’ve ruined a dress I’ve worked on for weeks, and you butcher the fabric when you cut it.” And she would have been absolutely right in telling me those things, if she could have ignored the command to “keep sweet” and held back her emotions. Regardless, I knew I was no longer allowed in that room.

But Rebecca was another situation entirely. She hated sewing, since in Burt’s household she had been in charge of mending any holes in the children’s clothes and creating bedding for the newborn babies. She told me she had hoped for a fresh start in her duties when she joined our family. But Leandra was smart—she saw the talent that Rebecca possessed, and she noticed a break in the bond she and I had formed when Rebecca first joined the family. She took every advantage of our estrangement and kept Rebecca busy in the garage.

I missed her, and my heart broke for Burt as I wondered how long he had stood by that tree, hoping Rebecca would tiptoe toward him in the darkness. How long he stood there before he gave up, before he resigned himself to a life without her, the woman he felt he’d die without?

So I kept busy. Busy hands helped me avoid thoughts of Rebecca or Burt or Porter.

Porter.

That face. His face. It kept popping into my thoughts several times a day. When I was washing dishes, especially, remembering the suds splattering around him when I’d surprised him with my presence. Last night, I’d even dreamed about him.