But she knew Uncle Aaron wanted her to remain silent. He was trying to make a point, and he was using her to do so. “Open them,” he ordered her.
With everyone watching, the Orphan Girl opened each of the gifts she’d been given. Many of the items were things she’d asked for, but she could not muster up any excitement for them, knowing they hadn’t been meant for her and thatshe’d only received them by taking them from someone else. The silent resentment of her cousins pressed down on her.
When she finished opening the last present, Uncle Aaron spoke to his children. “Remember that there are sacrifices for living a Christlike life. You have been called to serve and to give. What do we always say about charity?”
“It begins in the home,” her cousins grumbled back.
Then Uncle Aaron looked straight at the Orphan Girl. “And remember to show gratitude where it is owed. Remember where everything you have comes from.”
He did not need to say it directly for the Orphan Girl to understand, even at such a young age. Everything came from her family. She was not owed Christmas presents, or new dresses to wear to church, or anything else. She only received what they were willing to give her—and every time she was given something by them, she was taking something away from them, too.
After that, the Orphan Girl was not surprised to learn she had not been made a new dress, and that she would stay home while the rest of the family went to the special Christmas service and party. There were some things that were just for family, after all.
And she’d already taken so much.
Chapter 16
Wes
Being part of a TV show is a lot of sitting around and waiting, I’ve discovered. As we idle at the Donner Lodge to be transported over to the cabin where most of the filming will take place, I shoot the shit with the other guys. We play cards. I stare off into space. It’s a bit of a letdown, honestly, to see how the sausage is made.
But as we’re loaded into the trucks and nearing the cabin, the mood shifts. Despite myself, I get carried away by the urgency and energy of the show. There are lights everywhere. Cameras surround us that we’re supposed to pretend not to notice.
Wes Ackerman finds this to be extremely weird. But not Nate Russell. Nate R. played football in high school and college to packed stadiums. He’s used to lights and cameras and attention. So I do my best to smile as I bump over dirt roads in the back of a vintage logging truck, surrounded by seven other men in matching flannel outfits. Easy. Not weird at all.
Most of the other guys are joking and laughing with one another, but I notice that Everett, who’s sitting next to me, has gone quiet. Nervous, most likely. I nudge him lightly with my elbow. “Hey. It’s gonna be okay. It’s only a TV show.”
For them. For me, it’s an undercover operation to take down a hardened embezzler who’s ruined dozens of lives. Relatively speaking, I’d say he has it pretty easy.
Everett shakes his head. “I’m not nervous. Just trying to remember my poem.”
“Poem?” I echo, confused.
“Yeah, for the meet-cute moment with the Mountainettes. I’m gonna recite a poem.”
Huh. I look over to Nicky, hoping to see that Everett is talking nonsense, but Nicky nods. “Nice. I’m gonna do a rap with all of their names—hopefully none of them has one crazy-hard to rhyme with.” He shudders. “Like Mildred.”
That sounds like an oddly specific problem. I want to reassure him it isn’t likely, but his face looks haunted, like he’s having ’Nam-style flashbacks to an impromptu rap session gone terribly wrong, so I leave that one alone.
A few others, those sitting close enough to hear the conversation over the rumble of the truck down the road, chime in with their meet-cute ideas. Themed knock-knock jokes. Backflips. Break-dancing.
Uh-oh.
I nod along like nothing about this discussion is surprising or alarming to me because I am totally prepared. Internally, I am panicking like Jaskier in the middle of a battlefield. This seems like the sort of thing Morrie should have warned me about.
Then again, now that I think about it, I vaguely remember something in his notes about the first meeting with the Mountainettes. I assumed it would be more shaking hands, exchanging names, less bursting into spontaneous song.
Joke’s on me, I guess.
As quickly as possible, I run through my talents that could potentially be put to use in a situation like this. Most of them need a prop. Swords, whips, rope drums. I don’t suppose anyone on set has a crossbow ... ? Unlikely.
I could quote Inigo Montoya’s entire monologue to the six-fingered man. But somehow, that’s never been as impressive to women as I feel like it should be.
I got nothing. Absolutely nothing. Unless ...
I scan the area as the truck approaches the cabin, searching for anything that I could use for my intended purpose. Pine cones? Not flashy enough. Stones? Too small—I bet they won’t show up properly on camera. Axes? Too dangerous, even for me.
As I see the row of beautiful Mountainettes awaiting us, I feel the rustle of nervous energy from the men around me. This should be the point where I start to panic—but instead, I hone in on the women’s shoes, an array of brightly colored boots matching the color-coded outfit of the woman wearing them.
