Free Rustled by Natasha Stories Page A

out the stolen car problem, but those
sons-of-bitches will never get you .” The emphasis on ‘you’ puzzled me,
but I was so grateful that I ignored it and turned my face up for a kiss. Russ
kissed me ardently, and then said, “Come on, let’s get outta here while the
gettin’s good.”
    Wrapping me
tightly in the quilt, he carried me to the pickup that was warm from idling. It
didn’t occur to me then to ask for my shoes, and I would learn later that he
had lost one getting me out of the SUV, but I felt safe and at home in his arms
as he carried me.

Chapter 7
    As far as I
could see in any direction, the world was white and flat, but I knew that
somewhere in the misty horizon were occasional mountain peaks. Drifts of what
looked like white dust crossed the road and swirled in front of us and in our
wake, as Russ sped down a narrow strip of gray tracks in the wasteland. Weak sunlight
against a dark gray sky made the ice crystals in the air sparkle and dance. We
traveled for what seemed like hours, first down a snow-packed road that led
from the cabin to what Russ assured me was a major highway, then down the almost-deserted
highway for miles, then off to the right on a ranch road that seemed to have no
end.
    From time to
time, Russ peered out to the west through my window, watching the darker clouds
build on the horizon. It seemed that this storm was coming in waves from the north,
but another was brewing in the west. Weather from the west wasn’t unusual for
Utah, I knew, or for Arizona. But Wyoming was prone to getting storms from both
directions. In any case, it seemed that Russ was anxious about outrunning the
next wave. I wondered aloud how much further it was.
    “Not more than
twenty minutes, now. It’s gonna be touch and go, though,” he said, a hint of
worry in his voice. “We need to get there before it starts blowin’ again, or we
could lose the road.”
    I sat back and
stayed silent, the only contribution I could make to our race, so that he could
concentrate on the road and wring out every bit of speed possible on the icy
track. My mind was busy trying to sort out today’s drive in the light of the
story he had told me about seeing my crash, riding on horseback all this way
and returning with the pickup in only a couple of hours. It didn’t seem
possible.
    Outside the
four walls of the cabin, the past two days took on the semblance of a dream,
and my life before the cabin seemed unreal as well. Had I really spent three
years as an unwilling member of a church run by dirty old men? I puzzled over
the reasons I hadn’t run before, when I turned eighteen, maybe, or at any time
since then when I was terribly unhappy over my lot. I examined my feelings for
my father, and could find none but the loathing that filled me when I thought
of the sweet fifteen-year-old child who thought he was god’s personal gift to
her.
    It occurred to
me then that these girls must be brainwashed from an early age, since I had
known none who wanted to escape the life as much as I did. And even I had a
sort of lethargy about it. I had seen older women run, though. When they were brought
back, their hair covering desperate, tear-stained faces, they’d disappear into
the Prophet’s compound. Having their hair loosened from its married-woman’s
top-knot and bun was a show of disrespect, tantamount to declaring them harlots
or worse. But, after a few weeks, they would return to the community, forgiven
or punished, I never knew which, because none of them would ever talk about
their ordeal.
    Young men
sometimes disappeared from the community, too. Driven out, like Johnny, or
escaped, it didn’t matter. They weren’t welcome to return. That left more young
women for the older men, as far as I could tell. My mind drifted over that day
of headlong flight in the Prophet’s stolen SUV, stopping only for gas and a
restroom, maybe a candy bar to keep my energy up.
    And then the
black ice. They called it that, I knew, because you