Page 3 of Taken By the Bounty Hunter

But that all changed since Orlyn Moffatt has been on the run. He has ruled in exile with an even more forceful iron fist. The rules were tightened while at the same time, he encouraged the menfolk to get jobs in the community to make everything seem more normal.

Church at the compound became a daily thing, with regular lessons from The Prophet, who still haunted the area from secret locations.

“What are they doing?” I asked, gaping at the bonfire outside the doors of the library.

“God is ridding us of sinful influences,” Nevyn said.

The tone and the words sent a shudder down my spine.

“I don’t know what that means,” I said. I had an inkling of the literal meaning, but I’d been so disconnected by that point that I’d begun to shed the entire belief system. It was more of a question that meant, what’s the meaning of any of this?

Uncle Nevyn harrumphed and tugged me forward as he limped along.

I thought about how Olivia had managed to injure him enough to subdue him when he came to Sterling Ranch trying to kidnap her. It makes sense that Olivia would be the first to escape. And Nevyn and The Prophet sorely underestimated her when they tried to get her back.

“The number of young women in the church must be dwindling if you were so desperate to scare me into coming back,” I said to my uncle. “Congratulations. I’ve returned.”

I said this as if I wasn’t being marched to the temple to marry some creepy old ugly elder or pimple-faced brother. Ho hum. It’s a tired old story.

But then we’d arrived somewhere else. He propelled me through the door of one of the old dormitories into a narrow hallway so bright I had to blink and cover my eyes.

Temporarily disoriented, I didn’t fight as I was forced into this dark cell. Nor did I notice at first when the metal door was locked behind me.

Only when my eyesight recovered did I realize the old dormitories, or at least this one, had been converted into a prison.

And so here I am. Trying to keep it together, 31 days later.

I often disassociate from my captivity by reciting old recipes and creating new ones. I sing the songs taught in primary school, complete with the motions. I piece together every branch on every family tree that I am familiar with.

Sometimes, all I can do is cry. Or scream. Or fantasize about taking revenge on my uncle.

When I’ve exhausted everything else, thinking about Jefferson lifts my spirits.

Today is a crying day. An ugly, angry, tired, red-faced, snot-and-tears-running-down-my-face kind of day.

When I’ve got no tears left, my mind bypasses everything else in my mental toolbox and goes straight to thoughts of Jefferson.

I start with the facts. He is a bounty hunter. Has ways of finding people, which I find fascinating. He had long hair, wore aleather jacket, and drove a loud car. He carried a weapon in a holster. What sort of weapon? I ask myself. A handgun. A .38, I think. I wish I knew more about those. I wish I’d spent more time with Olivia, learning to shoot more than a .22 I carried with me when I traveled to and from work during my month of freedom.

What else do I know about Jefferson? He is a full head taller than I am, making him about six foot four inches. He smelled like leather and something spicy that reminded me of a homemade soap I idly sniffed at the farmers market. I bet I could recreate that soap smell with herbs and flowers in the greenhouse. Maybe I’ll start making soap when they let me out. How difficult could it be? Honestly, a lot of these folks in this church could stand to use more soap.

But back to the vital subject at hand—Jefferson. His amber eyes had looked at me like I was a puzzle he was trying to decipher. Jefferson’s shoulders made you want to grab on tight and never let go. He was the kind of sturdy that makes me go wobbly in the knees.

Exhausted from crying, I fall asleep thinking about Jefferson. Thinking, and clutching my makeshift writing implement.

I wake at the sound of my cell door opening.

Wynella, my daytime guard, is here with my food.

The guard refuses eye contact when she enters my cell. As usual.

She intrigues me.

“I’ve been watching you for 31 days, and I still can’t seem to trace your family tree,” I say groggily.

She smirks. “You’ve been watching me? How amusing.”

Her eyes still won’t meet mine.

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