Page 10 of Taken By the Bounty Hunter

How can he just sit there and eat while we’re discussing the end of my life as I know it?

“You know, if you keep eating like that, you’re going to have a heart attack.” I’ll bet Jefferson doesn’t eat crap food like that. He has to stay healthy so he can chase people on foot. Probably.

“Georgie, don’t change the subject.”

“If you can’t work and support your wives, you know what happens.”

“Georgie. I’m fine.”

“I mean, sure, you might not die,” I go on, ignoring his growing impatience. “And maybe your employer over at the chemical plant has disability coverage. Maybe. But you know what the elders will say. You’ll lose your status. The elders have unwritten rules about the disabled.”

His eyes widen at my insolence.

But he knows I’m right. And he knows if he tries to shut me up, I’ll get louder.

He shifts his eyes to another table of customers. People are eavesdropping. People in this town love to know the tea about the polygamists.

“You get downgraded, and they move your wives around. Well, except for mom. She is the legal wife, correct? You have so many, I can’t remember.”

A storm is brewing in Dad’s eyes. “You need to stop,” he says through his teeth.

I don’t want to argue with him. I really don’t.

But then I deliver the knife to the gut. “Do you refuse to push back on this forced marriage stuff so they don’t take you out back and shoot you like a lame horse?”

“Georgeanne Lucille.” The addition of my last name is a warning, but I ignore it.

“Like they did with Trace?”

The color drains from my father’s face, and he drops his fork.

No one says anything for a long moment. He won’t make eye contact with me.

Finally, staring out the window, he grumbles low, so no one can overhear him. “If I’m dead, there’s no one to work the system. If I’m alive, I can use my influence to make sure you marry someone decent. Someone close to your age.”

How did we get here? How did the elders and The Prophet manage to convince everyone that forced marriage and betrothing underage girls in marriage was okay?

“Do you remember the before-times? You and Mom chose each other. That’s what I want. Choices.”

Exhausted and weak, my body slouches in the booth as the tension in the air abates for a moment.

Dad sighs and takes a drink of his pink lemonade. “I was too indulgent with you when you were younger. So was your mother. You walked early, talked early. You were so smart. We knew you were special. We were too lax on spankings. And now,I’m picking you up from the DisciplineCenter on your birthday rather than celebrating your wedding.”

I bite my lip hard, refusing to cry. The Discipline Center? Is that what they call it? My god. “You know, I would have enjoyed some alone time with my dad at 16, even if I was sick at the time,” I say.

He smiles wryly. “Well, what would we have talked about?”

I blink. “Anything. Anything other than me learning to cook and clean and birth babies and how to budget a monthly allowance.”

“What do you want me to say, Georgie? That’s the way things are.”

My face heats, and I shrink into myself. I feel like an eight-year-old again. The first time Uncle Nevyn locked me in a closet for smarting off during my catechism lesson. That was only eight hours.

“Daddy,” I say, swiping the back of my hand over my suddenly wet cheek. Dammit, I don’t want to cry. “Why didn’t you come and get me out of there? Why did you let them shut me up for so long?”

He grimaces. “It wasn’t up to me.”

I slap the table and it rattles the silverware. “Yes it is. You’re my dad. You’re supposed to be the one to protect me.”

---