Wife Number Seven (The Compound, #1)(67)

“He doesn’t need to know about this. This money is yours, do you hear me?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t you dare hand it over to Cluff. Promise me.”

Hearing her refer to Lehi that way ran chills down my spine. I was intrigued, to say the least. The expression on her face was sincere, and I could feel her desire to protect me. She reminded me so much of Aspen. They both seemed to want to protect me from harm, to keep me safe.

“I promise.”

Our eyes were locked as we stood there, frozen for a moment. My mouth was agape, and I had no idea what else to say to express my gratitude. I broke our gaze and reached for my chair. But before I had the chance to sit, Jorjina wrapped her arms around me in a tight hug.

“I want the best for you,” she murmured against my hair. “Please believe me.”

“I-I do,” I whispered.

She pulled back, her hands gripping my shoulders. “No, you don’t.” She shook her head hard, her eyes tearing up as she spoke. “You think I’m tricking you. But I swear to you, on the grave of Walter, that I’m not. I want to help you.”

“But why?” I didn’t understand why Jorjina would pledge her loyalty to me rather than her own son.

“I told you I’ve grown rather attached to you and that was the truth. You’re a good girl. And I know that man doesn’t deserve you.”

“Lehi?” I asked.

“Well, yes. Who else would I be talking about?” Her cocked to the side like a bird as her eyes narrowed.

I froze. And my heart raced.

Beep. Beep. Beep. The oven timer broke the tension of the moment.

Quickly, I scurried to the stove, avoiding Jorjina’s prying eyes. She was most certainly on to me. I removed the pie from the oven, then kept my back to Jorjina as I ran water to wash dishes that had piled in the sink.

“Is there . . . someone else?” Jorjina crossed the room and stood next to me as my shaky hand gripped the rolling pin, covered in flour and dried dough.

“Of course not!” I shrieked, still avoiding her gaze. “I’m a married woman. I’m expecting my first child. What kind of person do you think I am?”

As loudly as I protested, though, I was certain she could see through my performance. I clung to my lies, but my burning face and shaking hands gave me away.

“I think you’re a lovely person who is stuck. Stuck with a husband who will never love you. Stuck with sister wives who will never appreciate you. And stuck in a community that will continue to stifle you until the day you die.”

I dropped the rolling pin and turned to face her. “How can you say that? Your husband was the prophet!”

“I know, I know,” she said, pacing the kitchen. “I know Walter would be ashamed of me. I know it.”

“You barely know me, Jorjina.”

My voice cracked as I leaned against the porcelain sink, holding on for dear life. Jorjina stopped pacing and turned to me with her hands on her hips. Her white hair fell from the poof of her bangs, but she didn’t notice. She was disheveled, frustrated, and seemingly desperate for me to hear her.

“I’ve been on this earth for a long time, dear. I know you. I see you for who you are, for what you have to offer this world.”

“To serve the prophet, my husband and Heavenly Father—”

“Perhaps.” She nodded. “But then again . . . maybe this isn’t the place for you.”

The temperature of her kitchen seemed to rise within seconds. The neckline of my dress became damp from the sweat glistening on my clammy skin. I didn’t know what to say, what to believe, who to trust. Did Jorjina think I was damned?

“Why do you say that? Do you think I’m not good enough to be part of the chosen?” I was careful not to raise my voice against my employer, but found myself more confident in demanding the answers I needed.

“No, dear. Absolutely not. If anything, it’s the other way around.”

I gasped. Audibly.

“Things were different,” she went on. “Years ago, when my husband was still with us. He was different. He was kind, he cared for and loved every single person of our faith. He was a man of God, and of his word.”

“What are you saying? That your son . . . that he’s not?”

I knew the answer, just as I was sure most people in the compound knew that Clarence Black was not a kind man, or a loving man. He was not a protector of his people. He was a protector of his role as prophet. But I had to see Jorjina’s face. I had to know her response to that question—it would tell me everything I needed to know.

“Yes.” She hung her head in shame. “That’s what I’m saying.”

“And the money?” I asked, removing it from my pocket. I didn’t have to look at the bills to know that I was holding an outrageous amount of money for a twenty-two-year-old woman of our faith.

“I want to give you every opportunity to go. If that’s what you want.”

“And if it’s not?”

“Then it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I’ve given you an option. And my heart can rest with that knowledge, that I did the right thing.”

Before placing the money back into my pocket, I purposely counted the bills. One by one, I flipped each bill between my fingertips until I reached the end. Jorjina stayed silent, her eyes on me as I counted. The tension in the large kitchen was evident as I raised my gaze to meet hers.