Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Olivia
I dream about a clammy hand holding me down.
When I wake up, a warm towel covers my forehead.
I peel away the cloth and try to get my bearings.
This is not the barn I passed out in late last night.
I’m in a bed. An actual bed. A big, warm, comfortable one, at that. Not a thin, sagging mattress with broken springs on the bottom of a metal bunk.
This is unexpected. I blink my eyes and take in my surroundings. A bookshelf is crammed full of books, photos, and little hand-carved hunks of wood. The walls are made of honey-colored timber logs, and on them hang paintings of wild horses. A tall dresser stands at the far wall, opposite the bed, and there are two matching nightstands on either side of the bed with lamps made out of antlers. I smile at this, assuming that it must be two married people who share this room.
The space smells like wood and leather and clean linen. Is this what a vacation feels like?
Who could have brought me here?
The last thing I remember was covering myself with straw, ignoring the cuts on my skin, and passing out in an empty horse stall.
Carefully, I push the heavy quilt away and sit up. I’m still groggy from exhaustion, and my fuzzy brain is a little dizzy as I sit up.
Scanning the room, my eyes land on an open door leading to a bathroom with clean white tile and a modern toilet. A private bathroom? Gosh, what is that like?
I’m about to find out. Someone must have been getting fluids into me somehow while I was passed out. I gotta go. Bad.
Shuffling slowly to the bathroom, my hand goes to my ribs, where the barbed wire had dug into my side. A large bandage covers that area. My feet are covered in thick, woolen socks. A man’s socks.
My heart rate immediately jumps. I hadn’t thought about a man taking care of me while I was unconscious and mostly naked.
I’m either the stupidest or luckiest woman on the planet.
After I finish in the bathroom, I wrap the bed quilt loosely around my shoulders and sit on the bed, feeling still very weak and tired.
On the night table to my left stands a framed photo of a woman with a little boy. I pick it up and run my fingers over the grain of the wood frame. The woman in the picture is smiling and holding the hand of a little boy. They seem to be at a parade somewhere. The child is holding up a piece of candy and wears a stocking cap. The street behind them is decorated with festive garland and bells…
Christmas.
They celebrate holidays. Whoever this photo belongs to can’t be all bad. They’ve looked after my wounds, and they celebrate Christmas.
The door facing me opens. As if I’ve been caught snooping, I set the picture frame back on the nightstand and shrink back, clutching the quilt tight around my bare skin.
I’m not quick enough.
The man who enters the room sees me, and his eyes widen in surprise. He immediately averts his eyes and raises his arm defensively against the hideous sight of me mostly naked.
“Oh shoot, you’re awake.”
In the half a second that his eyes were on me, I saw his face.
He has large, kind eyes, a square jaw, and two days’ worth of scruff on his chin. He has worry lines on his forehead, dark hair, and a prominent brow.
I think he’d be punished by the elders at my church for not shaving. The idea of a kind man who would upset the morals of my church elders sends a thrill of excitement through me, though I don’t know why.
While the man’s eyes are averted, I scramble to cover up, embarrassed that he saw me in nothing but my underwear.
“I didn’t mean to startle you. Sorry for falling asleep in your barn. I was on my way out of town and…”
In the hand not blocking me from view, the man carries a small tray with a cup and a plate on it. “I was just coming to check on the wounds and to bring you something to eat,” he says.
My mouth salivates at the mention of food, and I sit up straighter, eyeing the tray.
He sets the small tray on the nightstand, and I follow his movements. There’s toast with a generous layer of grape jelly, a red apple cut into slices, a cheese stick, and yogurt. Strangely, the sight of apple slices triggers a lump in my throat. When I was little, one of the big sisters at the church school used to cut up my apples to get me to eat when I wasn’t feeling well.
The man misreads the emotion on my face. “I…I apologize for tending to you without permission, but you were injured and I wanted to take care of those cuts before they got infected. I swear, I’m not a creep…”
Ignoring him, I snatch one slice of apple and shove it into my mouth.
The sweet juice coats my parched throat, the flavor exploding in my mouth. When was the last time I ate a nice piece of fruit? When was the last time anyone prepared a meal for me?
So stupid of me to take off the way I did without putting any fuel in my proverbial tank.
The man grunts in approval as he watches me eat. Curiously, I like him watching me eat.
I’m sure the juice dripping down my chin makes me look like a maniac, but I don’t care. I demolish the apple and then snatch up the toast, shoving both pieces into my mouth at once.
“I’m gonna check you for fever to make sure you don’t have an infection from those cuts.”
My chewing slows as his hand goes to my forehead. I shrink back.
“Now,” he says firmly. “I’m not gonna hurt you. I need you to be still.”
His words are kind, but his tone is firm. Something about the way he speaks to me makes me believe him. He says he’s not going to hurt me, therefore he won’t.
I give a slight nod and let him touch me.
As he assesses my temperature, I get a better look at his body. He’s tall and fit, and wears a waffle knit shirt that hugs his chest beneath a bulky, lined western shirt with snaps. The lined shirt hangs open and reveals a large silver buckle on the belt of his jeans.
“Are you a cowboy?” I ask, rather impolitely, as I chew my toast.
He chuckles. “I’m a rancher, but sure. You can call me a cowboy.”
Years ago, one of my biological brothers was cast out of the compound in Wyoming. He returned one day to try convincing some of us to leave with him. He wore clothes like the men we would see in town miles from the compound. My brother had said he had found a job as a ranch hand. But I was too young to understand the danger that my brother saw coming—the power grabs rising up to tighten controls on all of us and force us into hiding. And I would never leave without Granddad.
This cowboy’s hand is big, rough, and warm on my forehead.
I sigh quietly at the contact.
It lasts all of ten seconds, maybe, but it makes up for a lifetime of scarce human touch.
“You ever had a tetanus shot?”
I shake my head.
“What’s your name?”
I swallow what’s left in my mouth and say, “Olivia.”
“Where you from?”
I only stare up and blink.
Wylie says, “You come from that place east of here, right?”
I can’t hide the shock that he guessed it right away.
“Thought as much,” he says softy.
I wait for him to give me the third degree. I wait for questions about my family, about what we do on the other side of the fence. I wait for him to ask if the rumors are true.
But he doesn’t ask anything like that.
“I’ll get you something to wear. Sorry to tell you, this house is full of men: my two brothers and me, as well as our cook and housekeeper. But later on, I can get one of our ranch hands—a woman—to take you to town and help you pick out some clothes. Have you looked at by the doctor in town.”
“Will you be there?” I ask, ashamed of my neediness.
Wylie shakes his head. “My brothers and I have a lot of work today.”
“Maybe I can help,” I say, perking up. “I’ve worked with animals before.”
He smiles. “In what? The ripped-up pajamas I found wrapped up in the barbed wire this morning?”
It takes a moment to realize he’s gently teasing. “Right,” I say.
“Besides, you’re still sick and injured. I’d be irresponsible to put you on a horse.”
I chew on my bottom lip and think of what else I can do to repay him for his kindness and earn some money to get my siblings and friends out of the compound.
“Maybe you have indoor chores I can do?”
Again, Wylie chuckles, and it’s starting to annoy me. He’s friendly but seems to think I’m not cut out for ranch work.
He sees I’m irritated and covers his mouth with his hand. And then, unexpectedly, Wylie sits on the bed beside me.
My breath catches in my throat. My instinct is to back away because I’m not supposed to be alone with a man. But the pull of this cowboy fights against my better judgment.
“Listen,” he says. “I appreciate your work ethic. But you need to heal, do you hear me?”
I nod as I try to keep my bottom lip from jutting out. “And I’ll be out of your hair as soon as possible.”
Something in what I said doesn’t sit right with him.
I clutch the blanket tighter around me, waiting for him to voice his disapproval.
But he doesn’t do that.
“Let me have a look at your feet.”
I scoot myself back against the headboard, frightened at the thought of any man touching my feet. Touching my forehead was intimate enough. “My feet are fine.”
“I’m not arguing with you, Olivia.”
The heat that floods my veins at his sternness truly must be evidence that this is a sin. I want too much for him to touch my feet.
Honestly, I want too much for him to put those strong cowboy hands everywhere.
Maybe the elders were right. The outside world is already corrupting me, and I’ve been out for barely a day. Straight out of the gate, I’m going to hell for the sin of lust.
To my horror, Wylie moves the blanket aside, uncovering my feet all the way up to my bare knees. I let out a shy little squeak and squeeze my eyes shut.
When nothing happens, I open one eye. Wylie’s hand is frozen in midair, inches from the woolen socks he put on me when I was asleep.
“I’ll wait until you’re ready, but I need to make sure you’re not frostbitten, sweetheart. Those little piggies of yours were awfully red when I found you.”
It’s the “sweetheart” that kills my resistance. No one has ever called me that. My granddad used to call me his smart little Peanut because I was a quick learner around the church’s farmyard in Wyoming. He taught me to birth calves, ride horses, and shoot rifles. Granddad always said, You can do whatever you put your mind to, my clever little Peanut.
But “sweetheart”? Never. It feels different.
It feels good. It makes me feel mature, yet dainty at the same time.
I suck in a breath. “You can touch my feet. I’m ready.”
Silly of me to even resist, really. After all, this man had to touch my bare feet while I was passed out, didn’t he? How else did I get those big, woolen socks on?
Ever so gently, Wylie rolls the socks down and examines my skin, making small talk along the way.
“What were you doing out in the cold with no shoes, anyway?”
I swallow. “They take away our shoes at night.”
Wylie grunts disapproval at this. “Sonsabitches,” he mutters under his breath.
At my gasp, he looks up apologetically. “You’ll have to get used to the language real quick in a house full of grizzled old cowboys.”
Examining his kind face and work-worn hands, I’d hardly call him “grizzled.”
“You’re not old,” I say.
Wylie chuckles as he runs his fingers over my skin, sending shockwaves of pleasure up my thighs. “I’m not, huh?”
I shake my head. “You’re well-seasoned.”
He throws back his head and laughs. “That’s a new one!”
The sound of Wylie’s laughter, the closeness, and his hands on my feet all combine to put me more at ease than I should be. I’m in a cowboy’s bedroom, wearing only an old quilt. I am blushing head to toe, and I’m loving everything about this even though everything about this is shameful.
“That’s how my granddad referred to himself.”
He says, “I think I like your granddad. Assuming he’s not one of the ones who stole your shoes.”
I shake my head. “He died a few months ago. But no, sir. He would never do that to me. He would never do that to anyone, especially not the women and children.”
“I’m sorry you lost him.”
“Thank you.”
Wylie’s eyes meet mine for a long, long moment. In that liquid brown gaze, I feel all the kindness and concern he’s already shown me, but I also see an intensity that unsettles me. It’s a spark of anger toward the men who kept me captive.
He seems to catch himself staring and looks away bashfully, making me smile. Wylie clears his throat and says, “Doesn’t look like frostbite.”
I exhale. “Good.”
He goes to replace the socks on my feet, but I curl my legs under the blanket and reach for the socks myself. I’ve enjoyed him touching my feet way, way too much. “I’ve got it.”
Reluctantly, he stands up and tucks one hand under his outer shirt, absently rubbing his stomach. “But you’re going to need the doc to check you over and probably get you inoculated for tetanus, and god knows what else.”
I wince at the thought of doctors. Doctors mean answering lots of questions, which could get authorities involved. That means my plan to set up a safe house and work strategically will get shot straight to hell. Little ones could be sent away to foster families, or who knows? The elders could pack up and move everyone away. I need to be careful. Really careful.
“Don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to you,” he says.
Another long look passes between us, and I believe him. Even if he has no idea what he’s getting himself into.
“Okay,” I breathe.
Wylie nods. “Rest up. If you get bored, I’ve got lots of books to read,” he says, nodding toward the bookcase. “Don’t have a TV in here, but I can get you set up with a laptop if you want to watch a movie or something.”
I shake my head. “I wouldn’t know what to watch even if you did. But it’s nice to meet someone who likes to read as much as I do,” I say.
For all his sternness, Wylie turns beet red when I flip the focus back on him. God help me. I like my shy cowboy.
“I’ll be back to check on you later and let you know what the doc says. Oh, and if you need anything, here.” He fishes a phone out of his pocket and sets it on the nightstand. “This is a spare phone we keep around for new ranch hands. My number is the first one programmed in the contacts. You know how to work one of those?”
I nod. “I used one once, a long time ago. I think I got it.”
It’s too embarrassing to elaborate. On a supervised trip into town years ago, the church van broke down. The chaperone Mother’s flip phone had no signal. We had half a dozen children with us who were tired and hungry, and I took action. A kind shopper let me borrow her iPhone when I asked for help. The following Sunday, Prophet Orlyn droned on for two hours in his sermon about how there are demons living inside smartphones.
A shadow of concern crosses Wylie’s face when he sees me biting my lip. “Right. Well, text me if you need anything. You can borrow some of my clothes and help yourself to the kitchen if you get hungry.”
I watch him walk away, marveling at what properly fitted jeans can do for a person. I’ve never worn jeans. The only pants I wear are thermal underwear underneath dresses for working in the barn.
My main focus is establishing a safe house and developing a plan to help people get out of the church. But I can’t help but feel excited about the idea of wearing whatever I want.
Dumping the quilt on the bed, I go through Wylie’s dresser, feeling like a criminal even though I know I can borrow whatever I want. I pull on a pair of gray sweatpants that are tight over my ass. The inside of the pants are so soft that I don’t mind them hugging my frame so tightly. I also grab a tee shirt and a flannel, both of which are not built for my size chest. The scent of detergent and Wylie’s natural scent is all over them, and it makes me smile.
Oh my. I really like these kinds of clothes. I let out a long exhale, feeling relaxed and comfortable in my body for the first time ever, it seems.
Also, I can’t wait to read whatever I want. I go to Wylie’s bookshelf and examine the titles. Not a single Bible, Book of Mormon, or religious text of any kind sits on these shelves. A “true heathen,” as the elders would say. I smile.
I pull down a book with a splashy cover. Across the top, in tiny letters, it says, “thrilling suspense.”
Grabbing the quilt from the bed, I curl up in a chair in the corner, then open the book and read the first page. Then, I re-read it when I fail to focus on a single word.
No matter how often I re-read the first page, only one thought sticks in my brain.
Nothing can be more thrilling in this book than real life right now, and the sweet cowboy who found me.