Page 39 of Running to the Mountain Man

She presses her lips to mine again as our friends, our new family, clap for us.

“One day, when we find your brother, we’ll do this again. With dancing and cake and everything.”

Tears well in her eyes, and she nods. “When we find him.”

Chapter Twenty-One

One monthlater

Goldie

Georgie has been working as a housekeeper at a motel in Bozeman.

They recently offered her a job as a manager, with a place to stay included.

We’ve all come to the safe house to celebrate this news.

Curly, Wylie, Olivia, Louisa, Ellis, Jake, Ennis, Barrett, and me.

The modest kitchen is tight, but I’m happy and proud of my friends.

Louisa’s mom, Jodi, and all of Louisa’s younger siblings moved back to Wyoming. The kids are enrolled in school, and Jodi got a job and a place for them all to live, thanks to help from an organization in that state that specifically aids women and children like her.

I’m so proud of us, and of what we’ve accomplished so far. I’m hopeful things will get better because of the connections we’ve made to help the small number of people who want help.

It’s not enough, and I still haven’t found my brother. But I have hope.

Hope enough to celebrate for one night.

After polishing off two pot roasts and ten pounds of potatoes, we’re in the middle of a dessert of apple crumble when suddenly, there’s a knock on the door.

I go to answer it, but Georgie beats me to it.

“Hello,” she says, her eyes wide and wary.

I hold my breath.

Barrett stands, his shoulders stiff in case he has to jump somebody.

“Good evening, ma’am. I’m looking for an Orlyn Moffatt.”

The temperature in the room drops about twenty degrees.

“You’d better come in,” Georgie says.

After Orlyn — The Prophet — recovered from his bullet wound, the county prosecutor said that Barrett’s trail cam footage did not provide a clear enough picture to identify Orlyn as the shooter of Elder Trace. The police booked him for charges related to the incidents at Sterling Ranch, and that’s the last we heard about his case.

All eyes turn as the man on the porch walks into the house. My shoulders relax slightly, but only because he doesn’t look like a polygamist. This guy looks like a reject from a motorcycle gang:long hair, leather jacket, motorcycle boots, and tattoos on every bit of skin that shows other than his face. I’d be worried, except that he’s not wearing the uniform of men from C.O.C.K.: polo, pressed khakis, and the kind of psychotic “nice guy” smile that makes your ovaries wither away like tumbleweeds.

“Can we help you?” I ask.

“Good evening, I was given this address by the Darling Creek sheriff’s department. I was told that this was Orlyn Moffatt’s last address.”

I look at Georgie, but she can’t seem to take her eyes off the motorcycle dude.

“Who gave you this address, specifically?”

“Deputy Mark something.”

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