I should have put my sweatshirt back on even though it’s so warm right now that perspiration is dripping down my back and between my breasts. I’m too exposed in this tank top. My body is nothing to write home about. I’m short, compact, and was always curvy until getting enough food became an issue. But that man would look at any woman in the same way. Whether she was attractive to him or not. Whether she was in a bikini or a snowsuit. That look is not about me.
It’s only abouthim. Who he is and how he views women.
Damn Logan. He obviously doesn’t care that his soldiers are assholes.
I avoid the guy’s eyes and work to keep any sort of reaction from my face as I pass, snapping my fingers to summon Molly when she slows down with a low growl in her throat.
She doesn’t like those men either.
The big guy elbows the other one with a scowl, and they both turn away from me.
They’ve got Logan’s business to do, and I’m not important.
I wave at an older woman sitting on a ramshackle porch attached to a single-wide trailer when she calls out a friendly greeting. We’ve never had a real conversation, but she sees me all the time when I come for provisions.
Molly and I have passed the last house and are cresting a hill—I only need to stay on this road for a few minutes before I pick up the trail that will take me home—when I realize there are people on the road down the slope.
I check my pistol, even though I already know the safety is off, and get Molly to heel before I start walking again.
It’s a man, a woman, and a boy. The boy is maybe eight or nine. He and his mom live in Cleverly. I’ve seen them occasionally over the past year. The mom has a man—very likely the boy’s father since they have the exact same shade of red hair—but the man down the hill is not the father.
I’ve never seen the man before, but he’s wearing khakis and a collared shirt, so I wonder if he’s a Holy Roller, which is how everyone refers to an insular, ultraconservative religious group that has a compound somewhere south of us. I used to see them around here a lot, proselytizing and trying to scoop up the vulnerable before Logan pushed them out of the region.
The clean-cut appearance is always a clue since no one else wears those kinds of clothes anymore.
This man has a friendly hand on the boy’s back. Thewoman is standing close to them, and they appear to be talking. Not walking.
I move off the road to skirt them at a respectable distance. I’m not going to get too close because I have no idea who that man is.
When I’m nearer, the man says, “The Lord’s blessings on you, sister.”
Definitely a Holy Roller. They’re no better than Logan’s soldiers. Preying on single women with promises of safety and then trapping them in the compound until they submit to becoming one of the elders’ (many) wives.
Even I, as isolated as I am, heard the whispered warnings from women.
Don’t ever accept help from a Holy Roller.
You’ll never get out.
One of the only decent things Logan has done is force the Holy Rollers out.
Warning bells sound loudly in my head as I check the woman’s expression and see fear there.
I nod but don’t respond with words or smile. My palm is sweating around the handle of my gun.
Molly starts growling low in her throat.
A quick glance at the woman shows her to be standing tense, gripping the hem of her shirt like it’s a lifeline. “Everything all right?” I ask her, keeping my voice light and friendly.
“Y-yeah. Thank you.”
“We’re just having a friendly chat here, aren’t we?” Theman’s voice grates on me. He gives the boy a few pats on the back that are obviously supposed to be casual and jovial.
I keep walking, grabbing Molly by the scruff of her neck with my left hand when it looks like she’s going to launch herself at the man.
She knows as well as I do that he’s a threat.
I knew even before I saw that the hand behind the boy’s back is holding a knife.
