Page 30 of Wyoming Cowboy Undercover

Whenever they got close, he turned her into a messy bundle of sensual frustration. No one else did that. Ever. Alex had never even come close.

“Lead the way,” he said, his voice low and deep.

Mercy guided him through the dark depths of the basement, with the heat of his body tickling, teasing, almost pressed against her back. Having him so close, unable to see and only feel, made her dizzy.

She knew every inch of this house and could make her way through blindfolded, if necessary, but Rocco was a distraction.

Forcing herself to focus, she extended her other arm. They’d reach the far wall soon.

Her fingers grazed cool cement. She turned left. “Not much farther.”

A few feet ahead and they came to the last shelving unit that was always kept empty.

She placed his hand on one of the steel racks. Then she grabbed onto it as well. “Help me pull it.”

Together, they gave it a hard tug. There was a faint click and the fake wall attached to the shelving unit slid open with barely a whisper.

She felt her way around to the lever. Yanked down on it and pulled open the door to the bunker. She stepped inside, ran her palm along the wall, fumbling for the switch and flipped on the lights. Fluorescent strobes flickered and buzzed as they came alive. Everything inside Light House drew power from the solar panels. Her father believed in being prepared in the event of a worst-case scenario.

Rocco entered the bunker.

Quickly, she tugged the faux wall back in place, but didn’t bother closing the heavy steel door to the bunker. Unfortunately, she couldn’t lock it. Her father had never entrusted her with a code to do so. It was possible he was indeed a prophet, a spiritual seer who’d foreseen that she’d one day betray him like this.

But Rocco made her feel—impulsive, reckless, selfish—in a good way. He brought out the most intense version of herself.

Rocco wandered deeper inside and glanced around, peering at the long gun rack filled with rifles and automatic weapons. He took a 9 mm from the wall, pulled back the slide and peeked inside the chamber.

“Empty,” he said.

“They’re all unloaded. We store the ammo separately.” She went to the cabinet beside the rack of weapons and used one of her keys to unlock it.

Rocco grabbed a loaded magazine from one of the many stacks. “I can’t believe you have a full armory down here as well as in the security building.” He inserted the loaded clip into the gun, working the slide to chamber the first round.

“The tunnel is this way.”

They ran by shelves stocked with nonperishable food: dried beans, rice, jars of preserved fruits, vegetables, crackers, jams and black walnut butter. In another part of the bunker, they had cases of Meals, Ready-to-Eat—not enough to feed five hundred for weeks—a stockpile of toilet paper, and other essentials. They passed the small kitchen, toilets, shower rooms and an infirmary that was fully supplied with medicine.

“What’s with the bunker?” he asked. “Are you preparing for Armageddon?”

No, they were prepared for a siege. Everyone in the commune believed that if they ever faced any danger, it would come from the outside.

“Better safe than sorry. At least that’s what my father says. He wants to prevent another Waco from happening here in Wyoming.” He’d protect his people at all costs. This was only one measure. “Come on.”

She led the way through a large open bay of three-tier high bunk beds that they’d made on the compound. It was the same kind they used in the bunkhouses for novices.

Whenever someone asked what they did with the unaccounted-for extras, her father had told the carpenters that they’d sold them, like their other products that brought in a profit. And some had.

After a couple of turns through an area that was designated as restricted for most of the commune, in the event that they had to use the bunker, they entered the private quarters—another open space for Empyrean, her, Alex, the council of elders and their loved ones.

They reached the door that led to the tunnel.

She slid back the heavy barrel bolt. There was no lock or code on this door in case of an emergency and they needed to evacuate. She pushed it out, opening it. The first set of motion-sensor lights flicked on.

“Follow the tunnel. It goes for less than a mile and will let you out in the woods, closer to town. There are three different paths you can take, depending on where you want to go, but I’d recommend staying off them. If you hurry, they won’t be able to intercept you once they realize you’re gone.” She gave him the wooden wedge she’d taken from her dresser. “It’s a doorstop.”

On her fourteenth birthday, when her father had declared her awomanto the community because she had gotten her first menses, she asked the carpenters to make one for her to keep Alex from slipping into her room. There were no locks on the bedroom door handles to stop someone from getting in. But there were padlock hasps fitted to the outside in case her father wanted to lock either of them in. Something she had never questioned. That was simply the way things were done and she’d never known anything different.

“Use it, just in case,” she said. That way they wouldn’t be able to follow him through the tunnel.

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