Just Keep Sweet (The Compound Series) (18 page)

“Excuse me?” I asked, my brow furrowed. “I don’t think I heard you right.”

Paul stood tall, an interesting mixture of anger and calm. “You heard me
just
fine. Let’s take that son of a bitch
down
.”

Chapter 16

(Three days ago)

I couldn’t stop staring at those lips. They were the same as they always were—plump, pink, enticing. It didn’t matter that she was currently punishing our oldest daughter for her entitled attitude. I didn’t care that her hands were placed on her hips as she scolded. I ignored the rolling of her eyes as she spoke to Ruthie. No, all I could see were her lips.

And I hated myself for it.

I could feel myself softening toward Aspen over the past few weeks. And even though I knew some of that was undeniably the sexual attraction I had toward her, I also knew there was more to it. Her personality: she was this fierce, protective, and tough woman who stood her ground and fought for herself. And as much as I tried to reel her in and condition her to be more like my other thirteen wives (passive, submissive, and void of opinions), I’d be lying to myself if I said I didn’t admit that a large portion of my attraction to her was in that tough outer shell, that fiery personality. Aspen was a true individual—which was rare in our community.

Since I’d done the unthinkable and essentially disowned her as my wife, I’d been filled with a deep, nagging regret. My outburst was said in anger, in the heat of the moment. I was hurt, betrayed, and furious. She’d put her trust in a police officer instead of me. How was I supposed to react?

As time went on, I found myself replaying our discussions over and over. Rehashing our arguments in my mind, and little moments that had slipped my mind earlier came barging back with a vengeance. Aspen had begged me to believe her when she made the outlandish claims against our prophet. I, of course, would hear nothing of it. And even though I knew I acted accordingly—in a way to show deference to my brother and to continue to support my family—a small part of me knew she was right.

Unfortunately that small part of me could get myself kicked off the compound. Clarence said it himself. And I couldn’t have that. I had fourteen wives and almost sixty children to feed. And Clarence made things abundantly clear when I attempted to ask him about the gentile Aspen saw in the field, the man with the leather face. Any and all questions were not welcome and should see themselves out the door. My brother was a man of his word. He didn’t make threats; he made commitments, promises. And he kept them all. So when he threatened to take away everything I held dear, I had to listen. I had to stop the questions.

Aspen never forgave me for that, and her lack of forgiveness was the seed that grew into an abundance of resentment on my part. All my other wives understood it was unacceptable to question the prophet. Why on earth couldn’t she? Why did she have to make things so darn difficult?

“Papa, please tell her she’s wrong,” Ruthie said with hands on hips, her head tilted to the side.

“Listen to your mother. You need to help prepare the supper just like everyone else,” I said. Aspen offered a small, respectful smile, and Ruthie stomped toward the kitchen sink. “
And
keep sweet.”

Ruthie kept her eyes straight ahead and away from us. Aspen shook her head, a few small hairs hung above her forehead.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “She doesn’t really listen to me these days.”

“Well, she’s not married yet,” I said with a comforting smile, but Aspen’s forehead fell.

You moron. Why did you have to mention the marriage?

Ruthie was set to marry Clarence in a few short weeks. In fact, I was pretty sure the girl had a calendar in her room where she was eagerly counting down the days. Little Susan mentioned it to me over breakfast one morning and a knot formed in my stomach.

Initially, I’d supported the match, knowing I had no choice. However, as we approached the date and I could tell Ruthie’s ideas of marriage were nothing but castles in the sky, I worried for her. I worried that she was in for a very unsettling dose of reality the moment she said “I do” at the new temple.

I wanted to apologize to Aspen as we stood awkwardly in the kitchen together. I opened my mouth to do that but was interrupted by the clearing of a throat. Flora. That woman always knew exactly when to interrupt any interaction I had with my fourteenth wife. With a sigh, I walked away to join the little ones in the parlor as we waited to be called to dinner.

I wondered if Aspen would agree to speak with me about the future of our marriage. I didn’t want to remain strangers who shared children. Heavenly Father wouldn’t approve of such a union, even though I knew it was more common in our community than anyone cared to admit. I was drawn to her, I appreciated her, and frankly, I missed having her in my presence. I made the decision right then and there to speak to her.

Eventually.

A gentle nudging roused me from my sleep. It took a moment for my eyes to focus and for me to realize where exactly I was.

Green curtains, striped wallpaper, decorative owl trinkets.

Sarah’s room.

“Papa,” the voice said through tears. “Papa, wake up.”

“What is it, son? It’s the middle of the night.” I glanced at the clock. One thirty in the morning. My seventeen-year-old, Isaac, was standing at the foot of the bed, something he’d done since he was only three years old. If he had a nightmare, he didn’t cry from his bed; he’d walk into his mother’s room in silence and wait to be heard. He’d sniff loudly or cough. But this time he said my name. Just hearing it made a chill run down my spine. Something was wrong—very wrong. Without hesitation I turned on the light, and Sarah woke with a start. Once my eyes adjusted to the harsh light of the room, I gasped.

“What happened?” I asked, ripping off the covers.

“Isaac, sweetheart, what’s wrong?” Sarah asked, wiping the sleep from her eyes. Unfortunately we’d both grown so used to Isaac standing at the foot of the bed, that her sense of urgency was muted, dulled, no longer accommodating to her oldest boy. And she must still have been asleep when he called my name. When she saw me hurtle myself from the bed and run to him, however, Sarah woke up completely. He was covered in scrapes, cuts, and forming bruises.

“It hurts,” he said, choking on his tears.

“What on earth happened to you?”

“I said no,” he said over and over again. Sarah turned on her light and joined us at the foot of the bed, putting her arm around Isaac and guiding him to sit on top of the mattress. When he attempted to sit, he screeched, jumping back to his feet.

“I have to stand. Don’t make me sit. I have to stand.”

Isaac was a unique child—that’s the way Sarah always described him. At a very young age, we knew he was different from our other children. He was an early talker but didn’t quite like to make eye contact. Before he could tie his shoes, he was using advanced words his older siblings didn’t understand. He was fascinated by trains, even though he’d never been a passenger on one. He could tell you almost anything you wanted to know about anything having to do with a locomotive. He was our mini professor. Emotionally, Isaac was a little behind. He didn’t care to be hugged and would sometimes rock himself back and forth when hurt. There were a handful of boys like him on our compound, and Sarah went to great lengths to make sure he was able to spend time with them as much as possible.

When he was younger, she would spend countless hours obsessing about his differences from our other children. “He’s different,” she’d say when the other wives would complain that he wasn’t behaving as expected or only wanted to discuss trains instead of other topics. And my response was always, “And what does that mean? How can we
help
him?” For years, her answer was, “I don’t know.” Finally one day, I replied, “We just need to
love
him, Sarah. Just love him.” So that’s exactly what we did. We gave Isaac our love in the way he was most comfortable and aside from his lack of physical affection, he was one of our most loving children. And tonight, he was seeking our love and comfort after a major injury—we just had no idea what had happened.

“Isaac, sweetheart, slow down,” Sarah said. “Where were you?”

“Scout . . . Scout got out. Ruthie left the gate open again. This is the sixth time she’s done that this year.” It amazed me that despite how beaten and battered he appeared, and how emotional he was, he could still remember the details. Isaac
always
remembered the details.

“Did you fall? How did you get so many bruises?”

“He, he told me he needed to speak to me. He brought me to the temple.”

“Who?” I demanded. “Who brought you to the temple?”

But I knew my son. Once he started a story, it was difficult to stop him. For lack of a better word, he was like a speeding train—full steam ahead. My questions would have to wait.

“It was dark . . . and someone kicked me. Here.” He pointed to his stomach. “And it was hard to breathe. So hard.”

“Oh my word.” Sarah clutched her hand over her mouth.

“Did you see who kicked you?” I asked, even though I knew his brain was already too far ahead of me to answer. He was my son, and I had to ask the questions even if they were never answered. I had to protect my son.

“They did it again and again and then I fell asleep.”

“You fell asleep?” Sarah asked, her eyes pained. Confusion hung in the room like a fog as Sarah and I attempted to piece together the puzzle Isaac configured.

“And then it hurt . . . so bad, Mama. So, so bad it woke me up.” Isaac closed his eyes and buried his head in his hands, no longer looking at us.

“Where, sweetheart? Where did it hurt?”

Still hanging his head, he pointed to his backside. “He pulled my pants down . . . my underpants too.”

Sarah gasped, closing her eyes tight and clutching her mouth with her hand. “No.”

My stomach dropped to my knees.

“Who did this?” I pressed, my voice raised, placing one hand on his shoulder, but he said nothing. He kept his eyes shut and shook his head.

“He’ll kill me. He said he’d kill me.”

“C’mon, Isaac, I’ll protect you. But I can’t do that unless I know who did this.”

Isaac opened his eyes, bloodshot and swollen. He shook his head. “I don’t want to die, Papa.”

“You’re not going to die, I promise you.”

“But he said—”

“I know what he said, but I’ll never let that happen. Do you understand me?”

Sarah chimed in, still rubbing his back. “Sweetheart, we
have
to know who did this to you. I know you’re scared, I am too. But please tell your father who it was.”

Isaac sniffed, wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve and said matter-of-factly, “Uncle Clarence.”

“What?” I roared, taking two steps back. I was shocked, bewildered. “Uncle Clarence hurt you? At the temple?”

Aspen’s accusations of gentiles at the temple came flooding through my brain. She was right . . . about all of it. She was right.