Running to the Cowboy (The Runaway Brides of Darling Creek #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Olivia

The brothers take our shoes away at night.

Mother stands watch by the door as I pass, just another daughter in a single file line of 19 modestly dressed girls returning home at the end of a long day’s work.

I’m tired and cold from working outside. I haven’t eaten all day, so I’m also a little dizzy. With all that affecting me, I take too long to focus on what I’m supposed to be doing.

“Olivia,” Mother says severely.

I sniff as I search for softness in her rigid, cold face.

“I suggest you perk up by tomorrow,” she says. “Delivering a pale, sick bride has consequences.”

She isn’t my biological mother. That one lives at a compound across the border in Wyoming, and I haven’t seen her in months. Not since the new Prophet took over.

This Mother is just the one assigned to this particular dormitory, in this particular compound. She’s in charge of 19 girls, some from her womb and some from others’. Prophet Orlyn Moffat doesn’t care who raises whom in the Celestial Order of the Covenant Kinship.

In fact, the Prophet doesn’t care to see or hear women or children at all, at least not until he comes to arrange the weddings.

My wedding is to take place tomorrow at the Holy Temple, to Brother Nevyn. Not a blood-related brother. That’s what we are told to call the adult men in the church who are not yet married to multiple wives. But none of that matters, because I won’t be participating.

If Mother thinks that a sick bride will mean bad things for her and her “girls,” then a missing bride will be nothing short of hell. And it will be all my fault for running away.

But I have to. I won’t have that disgusting old man putting his hands on me. Not tomorrow. Not ever.

At 21, I’m well past the typical marrying age of a woman in this church. I know that. The Prophet was wary of arranging a marriage for me while my granddad was alive. Granddad was here in the before times. Before the forced marriages, before the dormitories, before the welfare fraud.

Granddad fell ill and passed away several months ago, and that’s when they moved me to the new compound in Montana.

I’ve seen how Brother Nevyn looks at me whenever I tend the dairy cows. No matter how many layers I put on in the freezing cold weather, Brother Nevyn stares at my legs and my breasts like I belong to him.

I’ve begged to be reassigned to child care or to the school. The brethren rarely visit those buildings. But reassignment was not possible, I was told. I’ve been told that it’s my own fault for having large breasts, hips, and thighs; I’ve already attracted the attention of the men in our church. As if that makes any sense. Nevermind that none of my physical attributes are visible under all these modest layers.

Later that night, as I lie in bed exhausted, weak, and hungry, I wonder where I’ll run to.

Out the window, the night is black and moonless. At least there’s no wind or snow tonight.

Still, I must be insane. Who tries to make a run for it without a plan? Without shoes? After working her fingers to the bone on an empty stomach?

If I stay here, my life is over.

Goldie’s blonde hair is like a waterfall as she peers down at me from the top bunk. Mother, one of 18 wives of Prophet Orlyn, has left for the night because it’s her turn with her husband.

“Olivia,” Goldie whispers in the dark. “You can’t go tonight.”

“I have to,” I croak.

She knows me too well.

“Shut up and listen to me. I know you’ve been giving your food rations to the primary school.”

I explain what they already know. “The welfare credits for the month ran out, and I can survive longer than a five-year-old with no food.” Goldie knows this because all of us older girls forgo food at the end of the month so the little ones can eat.

The church may subscribe to the doomsday-prepper way of thinking, but it’s always at the expense of the needs of the here and now. We have flour, sugar, and beans in the storehouses. But can we access them?

“Of course you can, but we need to prepare,” Goldie urges.

“It has to be tonight. My wedding is tomorrow.”

There is no “we” about it. If a group of us leaves together, it’s more likely that one of us will be caught. But if I escape on my own, I am way more likely to succeed in getting help to set up a safe house for as many who want to leave.

Louisa appears out of the shadows, holding a steaming cup. She sits on the end of my bed.

“We can figure out a way to postpone it. You’ll tell him you’re on your period.”

Brother Nevyn is the worst, but the fact that the church teaches women on their periods are unclean at least gives us women a respite from male attention once a month.

I shake my head as I struggle to sit up. “Mother will be back tomorrow. It has to be tonight. I can’t wait another 18 days.” The horrors that would take place between now and the next night Mother leaves us unattended are unthinkable. I could be pregnant by then, or worse.

Louisa hands me the cup, and I drink it gratefully. Ginger and lemon. Louisa’s tea always makes me feel better.

“Thank you,” I croak.

In the dark room, my sisters exchange a look. I can’t see it, but I can sense it. I know these women like I know my own breath. They’ll stay up all night and pin me down to keep me from leaving. Not because they want me to marry Brother Nevyn but because they’re worried I’ll die out there in the cold.

I have to reassure them that I won’t leave tonight. It’s the only way.

“Okay,” I relent, lying through my teeth. “I’ll wait.”

Louisa sighs in relief, and I hate myself for deceiving her. “Good. Don’t worry. We’ll find a way to leave together when you feel better.”

I nod and lie back down, flopping into my flat, filthy pillow with dramatic flair.

Goldie and Louisa’s watch over me is tangible as I pretend to drift off. Soon, I actually do.

When I open my eyes again, the girls are no longer watching me.

I wait until I’m absolutely sure they’re asleep, the sound of their breathing giving them away.

And then I silently slip out of bed, pull on a second, then a third pair of socks, creep to the door, unlock it, and walk out.

The night air bites into my skin. It’s much worse than I thought. I hope the extra pairs of socks will protect me long enough to get to the main road, where I can flag down a passing car.

That’s the best I can hope for.

I head north, cursing the cloudless sky. Not even Mother Nature can be merciful tonight to let me know which way is north. I’m going on instinct alone.

The road has to be here somewhere. I slowly amble and stumble over the frozen, pitted path. But the night is so black. And my feet are increasingly growing colder.

My head is starting to throb, and my fingers are like icicles.

No. I’m not going to freeze to death. I simply won’t, because I refuse to.

I just have to keep moving.

The road has to be this way. I’ve gone too far now, and the grass and trees have to give way to concrete soon. It doesn’t; my feet touch nothing but ice and cold ground.

And then, I’m caught.

Not by Brother Nevyn, or any of the other brethren or elders, with their armory of guns, bibles, and books of the Prophet.

I’m ensnared in something sharp and cold and inhuman.

Barbed wire.

So that’s both good news and bad news. Bad because I’ve now injured myself to where my side is bleeding and my nightshirt is ripped open. Good news, because this means that although I haven’t reached the road, I’ve found the edge of the compound’s property. I’m so close to freedom that a second wind comes on.

Unfortunately, my long nightgown is thoroughly stuck.

Voices break through the silence.

Someone is coming.

In the distance, back where I came from, several pinpricks of light move through the darkness. Flashlights. Three of them. And dogs barking. Someone must have seen me on a security camera feed. Gosh, I hate them so much.

There’s only so much I can do before the elders catch me.

I peel off my dress over my head, the barbs scoring my skin. Like a caged animal suddenly free, I sprint away, stumbling downhill and landing on a sheet of ice.

The creek! I remember hearing some of the brothers talking about the creek that separates the compound’s property and the ranches and farms on either side.

I just have to keep…

As I scramble for purchase, the ice beneath me cracks open, and suddenly, I’m sitting in icy water up to my torso.

So, this is how I die.

No, no, no! This can’t be how it ends.

Must. Keep moving.

I made the dumbass decision to go it alone, so now I have to deal with the consequences.

I just have to find some other people to get help.

Human contact. Just one human contact, that’s all I need. I know the Prophet warns us from the pulpit every Sunday that the outside world is full of “evildoers” waiting to prey on our innocence, but I’ve never believed it. No human beings outside could be worse than some of the people inside the compound. Besides, my granddad used to live in the outside world, and he was a good man who came from, by his account, good people. Sure, he ended up converting to a church that taught polygamy. But the church became something different in the last few years. He wanted me to leave, but I refused to abandon him.

Now that he’s gone, I have no choice. He would want me to go and get help.

So I keep going.

As if Granddad is watching over me, my blurry vision spots a faint bluish light in the distance, and I head in that direction. The light becomes clearer over the minutes, and I soon realize it’s a security light outside of a barn. I’ve seen these bluish lights on chaperoned drives through the country whenever I’m sent to town to shop for groceries. I know this barn. I know this ranch. I don’t know the people who live here because I’m not allowed to speak to outsiders, but I have to believe that a good person lives here.

Eventually, I reach the barn, and I’m able to squeeze through an opening in the sliding door.

The place smells like horses—that familiar earthy combination of straw and hay and dirt. Seven long faces with curious eyes appear over seven stall doors to witness the commotion. I’m in a horse stable, sure enough. I sigh in relief, just to be around these majestic creatures. Even if they are suspicious of me.

I take a moment to breathe and appreciate the relative warmth here compared to the outside.

I speak calmly to the horses as I walk down the center aisle, reading the names on each stall. “Ramsay, hello. Nigella, you’re so pretty. Ainsley. Julia. Marcus. Oliver. Puck.”

The eighth stall has no activity, and I stumble toward it. Finding no animals occupying that one, I make myself at home.

If “home” means stealing a bale of straw and making a bed, then so be it.

I just need to rest for a bit.

I close my eyes and let exhaustion take hold. If I die, at least I’ll die a free woman.