Wife Number Seven (The Compound, #1)(70)

“Trust that Heavenly Father will give me the knowledge to make the right decision in this matter.”

“Yes, of course.” Leandra remained in her seat, hands folded in her lap, waiting to be dismissed by the prophet. She glanced again at Rebecca, whose leg was bobbing up and down. Her nerves were clearly getting the best of her. It was obvious that, despite her anger, Rebecca still cared for Burt Jameson, and that the anger she felt earlier that day was being replaced by fear.

But what was done was done.

“Thank you for the visit today.” The prophet rose to his feet, and Leandra and Rebecca followed suit. “Give my regards to your husband. I’ll be in touch.”

Leandra and Rebecca nodded in silence, then walked to the front door of the Black household.

? ? ?

“That was a mistake.”

Rebecca hadn’t said a word for two blocks. Leandra shook her head at the misguided eighth wife.

“Pish posh,” she snapped, knowing that their visit with the prophet was entirely necessary for the survival of the Cluff name. She couldn’t allow a foolish twenty-two-year-old girl to tarnish the reputation she’d spent decades building and maintaining. “Do not speak a word of this to anyone but Lehi. And make sure you deliver the letter as the prophet requested.”

“Yes, Leandra.”

“I’m serious.” Leandra planted her feet and glowered at Rebecca. “Brinley and the other wives can never know about this.”

“I understand. I have no intention of saying anything to anyone.”

“Good.” Leandra nodded. “Keep it that way.”



Chapter 25

Porter hadn’t answered my texts. All day.

I wanted—no, needed—to tell him about my experience with Jorjina that day. I needed him to know that I was contemplating packing my things, contemplating leaving the Cluff home. I just wanted the green light. I needed to know that I had a place to stay.

But he wasn’t answering.

The blue suitcase called to me from my closet.

Go.

Do it.

Be brave.

Just go.

But I couldn’t, not without talking to Porter first. While I waited to hear from him, I removed the pile of money from my pocket and placed it inside the front pouch of the suitcase. I sorted through the dresses in my closet—blue, green, lilac. They were all the same, and they were items I would never wear in the outside world. Jorjina’s money would see to that. I’d be able to buy new clothes, and help Porter with the cost of groceries until I was able to find a job. Perhaps Tiffany could put in a good word for me at the free clinic. I’d be a loyal worker, earn my own money, and make my way in the world.

My mind continued to spin as I pondered what else to pack. Certainly not my dresses or long underwear. I looked around my bedroom, searching for items I didn’t want to leave behind. The trinkets from Aspen’s children, those would come with me. They’d remind me of the sister wife who actually cared about my well-being. I’d miss her, miss her instincts and her honesty. But she wasn’t enough to keep me here. I needed Porter.

The photographs of my family called to me from the wall. I couldn’t pack them yet, or else Aspen or the other sister wives would be aware that something was amiss. But I made a mental note to pack them when the time came.

I pulled the phone from my pocket. Still no texts from Porter. Perhaps he was working on the house.

Whenever I thought of the tiny cottage, I got goose bumps on my arms. The thought of living there, just Porter and me, delighted me to no end. When I daydreamed, I envisioned an endless loop of possibilities playing out in my head like a picture book.

Maybe we’d paint the walls a beautiful sea green, and he’d chase me around the living room until he caught me, pulled me to the floor, and wiped fresh paint on the tip of my nose. I’d pretend to be upset and swat him on the chest.

We’d make love in the empty room, reveling in our privacy, in the home we were creating together. Maybe I would teach him to cook my famous apple dumplings, show him how to peel the apples and roll the dough. He’d flick bits of flour at me as I instructed him, distracting me with his humor, then he’d grab me by the waist and hoist me up on the counter. My bare legs would wrap around his waist and I’d kiss him hard before insisting we get back to baking the dessert. Maybe we’d . . .

Boom.

What was that?

I gripped the corner of my dresser, wondering where that loud noise had come from.

Boom.

There it was again. It was coming from the window. I’d left it open slightly since a thunderstorm had begun earlier in the evening. I sent up a quick prayer to Heavenly Father that Porter was on the other side of the glass.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Someone was at my door. I had to decide—window or door? Window or door?

I chose door. I had to.

Aspen was standing on the other side. “Did you hear that?” she asked, peeking over my shoulder into the room.

“Yeah, I did. I think it was a raccoon.”

“A raccoon? No, I don’t think so. That seems very unlikely.”

“It was. I watched as it pounced toward my window,” I lied, “practically scared me to death. But it’s gone now, it ran away.”

“Oh.” She hesitated, narrowing her eyes, still looking past me. “All right. If it comes back, let me know.”