Chapter 1 - Naomi

I waited until the house had been quiet for nearly an hour before I moved.

 

Not just silent. Silent could be deceptive in the Barlow house. Silence might mean Martha was praying in the pantry, Caleb was sneaking water from the kitchen, or Father was sitting in the dark because he claimed a man heard truth better when the world stopped distracting him.

 

I needed everyone asleep.

 

The old clock downstairs chimed one, its muffled notes crawling through the walls. Beside me, Lydia breathed evenly beneath the quilt we shared, one hand curled against her cheek. I watched her for several seconds, afraid she’d open her eyes and ask where I was going.

 

I didn’t have an answer that wouldn’t make her cry.

 

Carefully, I slipped from the mattress and eased my bare feet onto the cold floor. My dress hung from the bedpost, but I left it there. Either Father or one of the wives might notice if it vanished. Instead, I pulled on the plain gray skirt and cream blouse I’d hidden beneath a loose floorboard three weeks ago, after Father announced Gideon Rathwell had requested me.

 

Requested.

 

That was the word they used when a man old enough to be my father decided he wanted a fourth wife.

 

The wedding would happen in four days.

 

After that, I’d belong to Gideon’s household, and leaving would become almost impossible.

 

I crouched beside the narrow wardrobe and removed the cloth bag tucked behind a stack of winter blankets. Two shirts. One pair of trousers I’d taken from Ezekiel’s old things and altered to fit me. Undergarments. A comb. Tooth powder. Nothing pretty. Nothing anyone would miss quickly.

 

The money came next.

 

I’d saved it coin by coin and bill by bill while balancing the household accounts, shaving a few cents off produce totals or rounding up supply costs when Father didn’t bother checking my figures. He trusted my arithmetic because he believed women were useful when their intelligence served a man.

 

Thirty-eight dollars and sixty-two cents.

 

It wasn’t much, but it was mine.

 

I added my birth certificate, Social Security card, and the state identification that Father kept locked with the family records. I’d borrowed the key from Hannah’s apron pocket, pressed it into soap to copy the shape, then filed a spare until it worked.

 

My hands shook as I placed the documents inside the bag.

 

The final thing was my notebook.

 

Its pages held addresses, bus routes, departure times, and every detail I’d memorized in secret. The closest station. The cost of a ticket west. Places where a woman might disappear.

 

I tied the bag closed and looked back at Lydia.

 

Then I whispered the promise I wasn’t sure I could keep. “I’m getting out.”

 

Lydia shifted beneath the quilt, and I froze with one hand wrapped around the strap of my bag.

 

For one terrible second, I thought she’d heard me.

 

Her lips parted, but only a soft breath escaped before she settled again. I let mine out just as carefully, then leaned down and brushed a strand of hair from her forehead.

 

She was fifteen.

 

Old enough for Father to start considering where she might be placed. Young enough to still believe that every decision made for us came from love rather than fear.

 

The thought made my stomach twist.

 

If I stayed, perhaps I could protect her a little longer. I could warn her about Gideon’s temper, teach her how to hide money, and show her which floorboards didn’t creak after midnight.

 

But if I stayed, I’d be gone in four days.

 

Not dead. Something worse.

 

I’d become part of Gideon Rathwell’s household, expected to obey him, serve his other wives, bear his children, and smile as though surrender were a blessing.

 

I couldn’t save Lydia by letting them bury me alive.

 

I slipped into the hallway and eased our bedroom door closed behind me. Samuel and Eliza slept together in the next room. Through the narrow crack beneath their door, I could see the faint glow of the night-light Rebecca kept burning for Eliza.

 

Samuel had always come to me when nightmares woke him.

 

Eliza still asked if she could braid my hair every Sunday morning.

 

I pressed my fist against my mouth and kept walking.

 

At the end of the hall was Hannah’s room.

 

My mother’s room.

 

My hand lifted toward the knob before I stopped myself.

 

I wanted to wake her. I wanted her to look me in the eye and say she understood. I wanted her to tell me to run and never look back.

 

But if Father learned she’d known, he’d punish her for helping me. Even if all she did was stay silent.

 

Ruth crossed my mind next, but she lived miles away in a house where her husband watched every letter she sent. By the time I reached her, Father would already be searching.

 

No one could help me without paying for it.

 

I went downstairs and placed my bag beside the back door. Then I sat at the kitchen table, took a scrap of paper from the account drawer, and wrote beneath the weak light above the stove.

 

I am safe.

 

I am leaving because I choose to.

 

Please don’t come after me.

 

The words looked too small for what they meant.

 

Father would say someone had influenced me. He’d call it temptation, rebellion, corruption. Anything except choice.

 

I folded the note and left it where he’d see it at breakfast.

 

Then I picked up my bag and reached for the door.

 

The hinge gave a soft whine.

 

I stopped breathing.

 

For one stretched, terrible second, nothing moved. Then a floorboard groaned behind me.

 

I turned slowly.

 

Caleb stood at the bottom of the stairs in his nightshirt, hair flattened on one side, and eyes narrowed against the dim light. His gaze moved from my face to the bag hanging from my shoulder, then to the folded note on the table.

 

He understood.

 

“Naomi?” he whispered.

 

I pressed one finger to my lips and glanced toward Father’s room.

 

Caleb’s jaw tightened. “You’re leaving.”

 

It wasn’t a question.

 

“I have to.”

 

“If Father catches you…”

 

“I know.”

 

His eyes dropped to the floor. I waited for him to shout. To demand that I stay. To repeat Father’s warnings about disobedience and damnation.

 

Instead, Caleb crossed the kitchen and opened the drawer beside the stove. He pulled out a small box of matches and held it toward me. “You forgot these.”

 

I stared at his hand.

 

“Take them,” he whispered. “It gets cold before sunrise.”

 

My throat tightened as I accepted the box. “Thank you.”

 

He looked toward the dark hallway, then back at me. “The back gate squeaks.”

 

“I know.”

 

“Use the side fence. The post near the shed is loose.”

 

I nodded, unable to trust my voice.

 

A cough sounded upstairs.

 

Caleb moved before I did. He grabbed a tin cup from the counter and let it fall.

 

The clatter cracked through the silence.

 

“What was that?” Martha called from above.

 

“Me,” Caleb answered, louder now. “I came down for water.”

 

“You’ll wake the house.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

He jerked his chin toward the door.

 

Go.

 

I slipped outside while he continued making enough noise to keep attention fixed on the kitchen. Cold air struck my face and slipped beneath my blouse as I hurried toward the shed. The fence post shifted exactly as he’d promised, leaving enough space for me to squeeze through.

 

I didn’t look back.

 

The road to the highway stretched nearly four miles through dark fields and scrubland. I walked as quickly as I could without running, my bag knocking against my hip with every step.

 

Each distant engine made my heart lurch.

 

Father’s truck had a heavy rattle near the exhaust. I knew its sound better than I knew most hymns. Every time tires hissed over pavement, I expected headlights to swing around the bend and trap me in their glare.

 

None did.

 

By the time the sky began to turn gray, my feet ached, and my fingers had gone numb around the strap.

 

Then I saw the highway.

 

And, in the distance, the headlights of the early bus.

 

I stepped closer to the shoulder and raised one shaking hand.

 

For a horrible moment, I thought the driver would pass me. The bus kept coming, headlights washing over the road, over the dust on my skirt, over the bag clutched against my side.

 

Then the brakes hissed.

 

The doors folded open.

 

“Heading into town?” the driver asked.

 

I nodded and climbed aboard before I could lose my nerve.

 

The bus smelled like old vinyl, coffee, and something fried. Only four other passengers were inside, scattered among the rows and barely awake. No one looked at me for long, but I still felt exposed as I counted out the fare with stiff fingers.

 

Every coin sounded too loud.

 

I took a seat near the back and kept my bag in my lap. As the bus pulled away, I watched the empty road through the window, waiting for Father’s truck to appear behind us.

 

It didn’t.

 

Not yet.

 

The ride into town lasted less than an hour, but it felt longer. Every stop made my stomach tighten. Every person who climbed aboard became someone who might recognize me. A neighbor. A member of the community. Someone who would call Father before I reached the station.

 

No one did.

 

The bus dropped me two blocks from the terminal just after sunrise. I followed the signs and entered a building brighter and louder than anywhere I’d ever been alone.

 

People moved in every direction, dragging wheeled suitcases and carrying paper cups. A television mounted near the ceiling played the morning news. The ticket board clicked and changed above the counter.

 

Salt Lake City.

 

Denver.

 

Phoenix.

 

Las Vegas.

 

Los Angeles.

 

The names looked unreal, places from maps and weather reports instead of destinations I could choose.

 

I opened my notebook and found the page where I’d listed ticket prices. Denver was too expensive. Phoenix was farther than I’d planned. Salt Lake City was larger than home, but Father knew people there.

 

Las Vegas was different.

 

Father spoke of it often enough, usually during sermons at home. A place of corruption. A city where people worshiped money, flesh, and pleasure. A place where a righteous woman would be swallowed whole.

 

Maybe that meant he’d never think I would go there.

 

Maybe in a city built around strangers, I could become one.

 

I joined the line at the ticket counter.

 

A man in a dusty work jacket stood ahead of me. Behind me, a woman with red lipstick and bright gold earrings kept glancing at my bag. I wondered if she could tell I’d run away. I wondered if everyone could.

 

When it was my turn, the clerk barely looked up.

 

“Where to?”

 

The question struck me harder than it should have.

 

No one had ever asked me that before.

 

Not what Father wanted. Not where Gideon expected me to live. Not which household would benefit from my obedience.

 

Where did I want to go?

 

“Las Vegas,” I said.

 

My voice came out soft, but it didn’t shake.

 

“One way?”

 

I swallowed.

 

“Yes.”

 

The clerk told me the price. Nearly half of what I had.

 

I counted the bills twice before sliding them beneath the glass. The moment they left my hand, fear rushed through me. I could still change my mind. Ask for the money back. Return home before breakfast and pretend none of this had happened.

 

Then the clerk pushed a ticket toward me.

 

My ticket.

 

My choice.

 

“Gate six. Leaves in twenty minutes.”

 

I thanked him and moved away from the counter before he could notice the tears stinging my eyes.

 

At gate six, I sat beneath a window and watched buses pull in and out. My hands wouldn’t stop trembling, so I tucked them beneath my bag.

 

I was terrified.

 

I was also freer than I’d ever been.

 

When boarding began, I handed over my ticket and climbed onto the bus. I chose a seat beside the window, keeping my face turned away as the other passengers settled around me.

 

The engine rumbled to life.

 

Outside, Utah stretched beneath the pale morning sky, familiar mountains rising in the distance. Somewhere beyond them, Lydia was probably waking. Hannah would begin breakfast. Father would sit at the head of the table and wait for everyone to gather.

 

He would notice my empty chair.

 

Then my empty bed.

 

Then the note.

 

The bus pulled from the station.

 

I pressed my forehead to the cool glass and watched the city fall away behind me. Fear sat heavy in my chest, but beneath it was something warm and bright that I barely recognized.

 

Hope.

 

For the first time in my life, no one had chosen what came next for me.

 

I had.

 

And I was going to Las Vegas.