Taken Bride

by Alta Hensley

  “She wanted to go with them! Why can’t you listen to me? It was her choice!” I’m not used to seeing my mother get so frazzled, but then again, she’s not used to people not listening and not complying to her every whim either.

  “She left because she felt there was nothing else to do. You mentally tortured her, Mother! You made her think she was losing her mind. And all but ignored her.” Sickness rolls around in my belly as I run my hand through my hair, trying to control the fury and the deep guilt inside me. “I thought I was protecting her, and all I did was…. Fuck. She deserved so much better.”

  “You can be angry at me,” Mother says, calmer this time. “But I did what I did to try to fix a mistake that should have never happened. You brought your nightmare home with you.”

  “No, Mother!” I shout. “I brought home my wife. I brought home a woman who doesn’t have a mean bone in her body. She’s genuine, true, loving, and, frankly… the kindest woman I’ve ever met in my life. And she loved me. She truly loved me for who I am, rather than what I am. Money didn’t mean anything to her. The Davenport name held zero value to her. She loved me for me, and I’m standing here watching her slip between my fingers. Because of you, and because of me… I could lose it all.”

  “She’s gone, Christopher. There’s no finding her. So be mad, grieve, or do whatever you need to, but she’s gone. Accept it and move on.” She takes a step toward the door to leave, then pauses and adds, “I’m not going to apologize for what I did. You’re my son. There’s nothing a mother won’t do for her son. My job is to protect you, and that is exactly what I did.”

  “No. What you did was awful. It was cruel. Frankly… it was downright evil.”

  She makes eye contact with me but shows zero emotion. It’s as if my words aren’t even being heard.

  “And you’re going to help me make it right.”

  “I won’t,” she says, stiffening her spine. “Good riddance.”

  “You are going to help me,” I say with conviction. “Either you help me find her, or I call Agent Martinez right now and tell him that you assisted Richard in kidnapping Ember. You broke the law, Mother. You’ll go to jail for this.”

  Her lips purse, and for the first time in this entire conversation, I see a mixture of fear and defeat flicker in her eyes. It’s brief, but I can see my words have finally sunk in a little.

  “I don’t know where they are,” she snaps. “All I know is where the pilot flew them to. I can give you that information, but that’s it.”

  Renewed hope surges inside me. “Good. At least we can start there.”

  “You’re making a mistake, Christopher.”

  “I’m fixing a mistake. I’m going to offer her options. I’m going to save her from her hell but will never bring her into another version of one again. Don’t worry, Mother,” I say with a sneer. “You won’t see her again. I’ll make damn sure of it.”

  “Christopher—”

  “Get me the location, now!” I interrupt with enough anger in my voice that she flinches. “I don’t want to discuss this any further. I have my wife to find. I have to make it right.”

  Not saying another word, she leaves in a huff, but I know she’s going to do exactly what I demand.

  I quickly begin sending texts off and emails to make arrangements to take some time off. It’s no easy task canceling all my upcoming photo shoots, and that alone should tell me something. I was practically burying myself with work when I had a wife at home who truly needed me. I should have been here with her. Had I been, my mother wouldn’t have had the power to play her twisted mind games on her.

  Am I pissed at my mother? Yes. But I’m angrier at myself. I fucking know better. I know exactly how my mother operates, and I knew all along that she didn’t care for Ember. Did I really think she would treat her with any compassion or respect?

  I can stand here all I want and rage at her, but Louisa Davenport is never going to change her stripes, and I didn’t want to face the truth and deal with it. I should have moved us into our own place right away, but if I’m being honest with myself, I was too busy with… me. And I didn’t want all the responsibility of Ember on my shoulders.

  Yeah, I had been a bastard.

  No wonder she left me.

  The saddest thing of all is she chose that sick killer over me… which truly shows just how much I failed her.

  A knock on the door pulls me away from my self-loathing.

  “Christopher?” Marissa opens the bedroom door and peeks inside.

  “I don’t have time for this,” I snap, seeing straight through this woman too. My guess is that my mother used her to fuck with Ember as well. “Convenient that you come up here right after I tell my mother to basically go fuck herself. Don’t make me do the same to you.”

  She takes a step inside and lifts her hands up as if she means no harm. “Yes, Louisa asked me to come up here to try to talk some sense into you.”

  “Don’t bother.” I give her a dirty look as I reach for a bag and start throwing clothes into it. “I expected better from you, Marissa. I don’t know why I did, but I did.”

  “I didn’t come up here to do her bidding,” she says as she walks fully into the room and closes the door behind herself. “But I do think you should pause and think this through. You’ve always been impulsive—”

  “Don’t stand there and act like you know me,” I cut in without even bothering to look up at her. “I tried to be nice to you. I tried to be… sensitive, considering you were an innocent victim in all this too. But I’m not blind. I know you want Ember out of the picture just as much as my mother does.”

  “Do you blame me?”

  “You act as if you and I were engaged or something. We were dating. It was far more casual than you’re making it seem.”

  “You’re just being mean now,” she says as she walks around me so she’s in my line of sight. “And I don’t deserve that.”

  “No?” I ask, looking up at her with a raised eyebrow. “Really? You and my mother have been in cahoots from the beginning. Perfect example is right now. Why is it you’re here? Let me guess. My mother called you and told you to rush right on over here to be by my side. To try to console me and also tell me I’m better off without that ‘loon.’ And let me also guess, that when my mother tells you to jump, you always reply with ‘how high’.”

  She takes a deep breath, her shoulders rising and falling. “Yes. You’re right. But—”

  “I don’t want to hear any more,” I say as calmly as I can, but there isn’t much more restraint in me, so I know I sound short and pissed.

  And who the fuck cares how I sound?

  I am pissed.

  “Fine, I get it. You and I are over, and whatever we had is done.” She glances down at her feet. “But I did want to come up here and tell you I had no part in helping bring that Richard man here. I didn’t know your mother was doing that. The first I heard of it is right now when she filled me in on what happened and why she did it.” She takes another deep breath. “I know you’re angry with her, but do know she did all this because she loves you. She only wants the best for you.”

  “She doesn’t know what love is, and I’m not going to have this conversation with you. So, if you don’t mind, get out.”

  “Christopher, I just don’t want to leave here with you thinking I helped Ember leave. I may have been on your mother’s side, and I did want her…. Well, I didn’t do this.”

  I still look at her skeptical, not sure I believe a word she’s saying. I was too nice in handling her. My own guilt and people-pleasing personality got in the way of thinking about Ember. I shouldn’t have had a drink with Marissa in LA, no matter how innocent—in my mind—it was.

  And really, that is exactly why I’m here right now, wondering where the fuck my wife is.

  I didn’t put Ember first.

  Her feelings, her healing, her coping with a new way of life should have been my number-one priority, and it simply wasn’t. And now I�
�m facing the consequences of that.

  “I mean it,” she says. “I didn’t like Ember. I wanted her gone. But not really gone. Not like this.”

  It really doesn’t matter if I believe her or not at this point. I need to leave. I need to go hunt down my wife. And I need to walk away from this toxic life for my own well-being. I just hope to God I can find Ember and, when I do, that she won’t send me away.

  I focus my attention on folding a T-shirt to pack. “I wish you luck in the future.”

  “So, you’re really going? Do you actually think you can find them? If the police can’t, what makes you think you can?”

  “I’m going to try,” I say. “I owe Ember that, and I won’t be able to live with myself if I don’t. She deserves someone to fight for her, which is something I should have been doing all along.”

  5

  Ember

  * * *

  The hike to an unknown destination from where the plane left us was brutal. The brush was thick, the trails nonexistent, and the incline so steep I had to use my hands at times to climb. For the first time since wearing shoes, I was really happy I had them on during the trek.

  I had no idea where Papa Rich and Scarecrow were taking me, but I wasn’t going to ask. I knew we were back in Nevada or maybe California, simply because I recognized the terrain—the trees, the plants—and based on how long the flight was. It made sense that we would return to Papa Rich and Scarecrow’s stomping ground, but this time, it wasn’t the desert. We were in the mountains, and based on the ridges and cliffs around, the elevation was high.

  The plane ride had been quiet. Neither one of them spoke to me but kept their conversation to themselves. I could tell Papa Rich was disappointed in me by how he avoided eye contact, and Scarecrow was smug, as if he knew he’d been right all along, and now he was helping clean up the mess.

  The silence was far greater a punishment than if he would have just yelled. I burned down his town, and for that, I feel guilty. I know why Christopher and I did it, but that doesn’t take away the fact that it was our home. And now, because of me, Papa Rich is homeless.

  “I have to hand it to you,” Papa Rich says, winded. “You picked a location that is secure. No sane man would make this climb to find us.”

  Scarecrow huffs, somehow seeming to make his way up the mountain easier than both Papa Rich and me, and considering he only has one leg and crutches, the feat is definitely impressive.

  As we reach the top of the mountain, Scarecrow uses his crutch to point at a dilapidated—but still standing—church on the edge of a cliff. “There it is, Ember,” he says. “Your new home.”

  I brush off my hands and pick out the thorns that are embedded in my palms. “It’s so high up here,” I say more to myself than anyone else. The lower clouds surround us, filling my taxed lungs with moisture.

  “They were smart back in the day. The folks built this church on this here ridge to keep a look out for Indians. You can look below and see for miles, and as you just saw from our hike, it’s not easy getting here. Gave them the upper hand against invaders, just like it will do the same for us.”

  “People lived here?” I see an old church, an outhouse, and there do seem to be signs of houses from a long time ago, though the structures are not standing and are nothing but a pile of debris.

  It reminds me of Hallelujah Junction simply in the fact that there are signs of the past, of a civilization once here, and whispers of the ghosts of settlers. But unlike Hallelujah Junction, there is not a full town remaining. If there ever was one, Mother Nature destroyed it.

  “They built a mighty fine church,” Scarecrow says, wiping the sweat off his brow. “And it makes a good homestead for me and my wives.”

  Wives? Scarecrow wasn’t married when I lived in Hallelujah Junction. And he said wives, as in plural. I still remember how he wanted to marry me. He wanted Papa Rich to find him a wife as well. Had he actually found two?

  “Come on, let’s get settled in before nightfall,” Papa Rich finally says, his breathing getting back to normal quickly.

  We follow Scarecrow as he hobbles his way to the white chapel that reminds me of the schoolhouse I spent most of my life in with my cat in Hallelujah Junction. It feels like a lifetime ago, and yet, at the same time, it seems as if time has stood still. I’m back to where I started. I’m in an old settlers’ town. I’m with Papa Rich and Scarecrow. And I am hiding from the rest of the world once again.

  “It ain’t much,” Scarecrow says as we approach the door of the chapel, “but my wives are fixing it up mighty nice.”

  He opens the chipped white door, and two wide-eyed women turn to face us. They cower, and I can’t tell if it’s because they think we’re invaders, or if that’s simply how they respond to seeing Scarecrow return home.

  I can’t say I’d blame them for either.

  I scan the room as we enter. So much of this chapel reminds me of the old schoolhouse I once loved. The musky smell, the chill in the air, and the feeling of old. I can almost hear the whispers of the ghosts that still lurk in the shadows, and it brings me to a place I didn’t realize I actually missed.

  The old pews are missing, and in their place is an old wooden table, four hardy chairs to go with it, and a rocking chair nearby. In the far corner of the room, where the altar would have been, is a camp cooktop hooked up to a small propane tank. There is also a hole that has been created in the ceiling; beneath it is a fire pit that has a cast iron pot hanging over it. A green tarp is being used to try to shield some of the wind coming in through the hole, but not too much, as the hole was clearly created for ventilation for the fire.

  There are parts of the open church that are sectioned off by hanging, tattered curtains. I’m assuming they’re the wives’ rooms. Maybe Scarecrow has a private space? I have no idea how the sleeping arrangements work with having multiple wives, and I can’t see behind the curtains to know how many beds there are—if there are any.

  There is also a clothing line running from one end of the room to a post where other dresses, some undergarments, and some blue jeans for Scarecrow hang. The women have obviously tried their hardest to keep the place organized and as homey as possible, considering. It even appears as if the beginnings of a chimney of sorts is being worked on. I see a pile of stone and a bucket of mud near the hole. It’s a wise move, considering winter is coming, and having a fairly large hole in the chapel will make for a chilly living space.

  “This here is Wife Number One, and Wife Number Two,” Scarecrow says to me.

  I notice Papa Rich is taking off his jacket, putting down his bags, and paying no attention to the introductions. He obviously already knows who these women are, or he doesn’t care.

  “Wives, this here is Ember. She’s going to become Wife Number Three.”

  My heart stops, and I make eye contact with Papa Rich, who looks up at me when he hears Scarecrow’s statement. His eyes say it all. He agrees with me marrying him. He gave me the opportunity to marry someone else, and we know how that ended.

  But I don’t want to marry Scarecrow.

  I’m married to Christopher!

  Even though I’m not physically with Christopher, surely our wedding vows mean something. How can Papa Rich want me to go against my vows said under God? If that’s not a sin, then I don’t know what is. And even if he wants to deny that Christopher and I are truly married—just as Louisa did—how can he possibly think Scarecrow is a good match for me? Especially since he already has two wives!

  But I also know this is not the time to argue. I’m not sure if I can ever truly speak freely to Papa Rich again, but I know now is too soon. I can’t read his anger yet. All I see is disappointment and even sadness in his features, but something tells me he is on the very edge of what could turn into pure rage if pushed the right way.

  I redirect my attention to the two women who Scarecrow hasn’t called by name yet. Both women have stringy brown hair that is braided loosely down their backs. They are dressed
in worn and faded flower dresses that go to their ankles and remind me of dresses I once wore back in Hallelujah Junction. They are also both barefoot, and suddenly my shoes feel very foreign, out of place, and extremely restricting on my feet.

  “Where’s supper?” Scarecrow asks.

  Wife Number One looks at Wife Number Two, and this time there is no denying the fear in their eyes.

  “We didn’t know you were coming back today,” Wife Number One says softly.

  “We would have had supper ready, but we were trying to ration out the food until your return,” Wife Number Two adds, wringing her hands in front of her as she refuses to look Scarecrow in the eye.

  The wives look close in age and appearance. Sisters maybe? Regardless of their relation, they both respond to Scarecrow the same way. It makes me want to step in and offer assistance somehow. Maybe I can suggest that I make supper and deflect some of the tension in the room. But before I can say or do anything, Scarecrow grabs Wife Number Two by the arm and leads her to the table and chairs.

  “Bend over, dress up, drawers down,” he says as he begins to unfasten his belt.

  I see her lips tremble, but she quickly complies with his order as only an experienced punished wife would do. I can’t help but glance at Papa Rich and wonder if I’m next. Is he saving my punishment for when he’s more settled? It’s been a long time since I’ve felt the strike of leather on my bare skin, but not so long that my heart doesn’t skip, and my knees weaken in anticipation.

  “You know I like to come home to a cooked meal and a clean house,” Scarecrow begins to lecture as he doubles over the leather in his hand.

  Wife Number Two is bent over the table, and her bare bottom is on full display for all of us to see. Scarecrow clearly doesn’t care about discretion or who sees his wife’s nudity, nor does he care that we are about to watch him whip her.

  “If you don’t meet my expectations, there will be consequences,” he says as he brings down the belt onto her creamy flesh.