Page 3 of Running to the Mountain Man

Swift indeed.

The wedding happens so fast, I don’t remember saying my vows.

“By the authority of our heavenly father and by his anointed Prophet, I declare you husband and wife.”

That’s all that Elder Nevyn says about it.

Three ugly old sharks hover over me while I stand in front of the altar, the paperwork laid out before us. I look at the man who’s just been declared my husband. Elder Peter Blatch leers at me with liquid green eyes. He licks his lips, and his yellow teeth make my skin crawl.

His six other wives stare back at me when I peek around his shoulder. Ashlyn, JoNeal, Margaret, Nicole, Tabby, and goddamn Floydean herself. They all have murder in their eyes.

The second their husband turns around to look at them, they’ll be as sweet as strawberry pie. A bunch of toddlers.

I don’t know what’s worse about this arrangement: being forced to act like a wife to a disgusting old pervert or being left alone to fight over scraps with my horrible sister wives.

It’s simply not happening. I choose none of it.

My chances of happiness are further limited by the fact that I’ve got a lot fewer people left on my side these days. Olivia’s gone. Louisa’s gone. My brother Theo was cast out a long time ago. My mother and grandmother are too deeply entrenched. So are all my sisters and most of my brothers—at least all those who haven’t been shunned.

Turning to my right, I send a pleading gaze to the men overseeing this ceremony. Elder Nevyn smiles, then rests a hand on his belt. By doing this, he pushes his suit jacket backward to make sure that I notice his holstered gun.

He’s sending a chilling message.

“What are you waiting for, little one? The head of your household is eager for the wedding night,” Nevyn says.

Sweet baby Jesus on a motorcycle, rescue me, please.

I close my eyes and wait for my prayer to be answered.

But it’s not answered. No one is coming to help me. I have to rescue my own damn self. We all have to rescue our own damn selves, and that’s just the way of things.

First, it was Olivia. Then I helped Louisa run away.

My hand shaking, I sign the document.

Did I really just do that?

What have I done?

I’ve just made running away from this horrible place even more difficult for myself. Now that I’m somebody’s wife, my status as property is locked in.

The stroll through the maze of hallways in the temple feels more like a death march. I know what is expected of me tonight, which makes the bile rise in my throat.

There’s no way God is real if he’s letting this happen to me.

Elder Peter Blatch leads me outside, across a field, to an unimpressive hideaway. He opens the door with zero pomp or circumstance.

I scan my surroundings once we’re inside. So this is the honeymoon cottage, where we are expected to spend a week in seclusion, undisturbed by outsiders.

I try not to think of what that is supposed to entail.

My secondhand luggage is propped up against the foot of the worryingly sagging bed. I’m told my sister wives packed the bags for me. Without my input, obviously.

The only other thing I have to hold on to are the crushed greens in my hand that served as a brave little wedding bouquet.

Abruptly, Elder Peter jerks away from me and hits the bathroom. Before he slams the door, he announces he’s hungry and expects me to cook him a hearty dinner so he can keep up his stamina.

Stamina, he said. I want to die.

---