Desert Wives (9781615952267) by Betty Webb Page B

genetic load I carried, I never drank anything stronger than Diet Coke. For all I knew, both my vanished parents had been druggies or alcoholics, and I didn’t want to risk traveling the Addict Highway. I’d already lived through Hell and didn’t feel the need for a return visit.
    â€œI’m gonna put your stuff in Number Eight, but don’t bother unpacking,” she said, stopping before a door at the very end of the hall. “You might not stay all that long.”
    I frowned. Jimmy’s mother had given me the impression I’d be operating out of West Wind for the next couple of weeks, using it as my home base while I interviewed anyone who would talk to me. Had something changed?
    â€œUh, Virginia, I’d planned…”
    â€œMan proposes and God disposes,” she said vaguely, putting my suitcase down and unlocking the door to Number Eight. When she pushed it open, the afternoon sun streamed in through the window, revealing a pine dresser, armoire, and a bed with a Navajo-print spread. The Bible and the Book of Mormon rested on the night stand next to the phone. Photographs of at least a dozen young women, all wearing old-fashioned clothing, adorned the walls.
    â€œIt’s very nice,” I said, studying the photographs.
    She put my suitcase down on the bed, then answered my unspoken question. “Those are girls we helped after they ran off from Purity.”
    â€œHow often has that happened?”
    She gave the photographs a cursory look. “Not as often as we’d like. Problem is, Purity’s a long way away from everything, even West Wind. A woman’s got to walk, what, twenty-something miles down that old dirt road before she makes it to the highway. But some gals have done it. Nobody carrying babies ever has, though.”
    I looked at her, puzzled. “Why don’t they just call you to pick them up? Surely even Purity has phones.”
    She sat down on the bed with a thump, making the springs squeak. “Sorry, but my feet are killing me. Tourists expect us all to wear these Western boots, but I never even rode a horse, so it’s kinda silly. Phones. Yeah, Purity’s got phones. And electricity, indoor plumbing, and satellite TV, too. But the men keep all that stuff locked up. Every now and then they’ll let the women call family in other compounds, but they always listen in to make sure they’re not up to funny business.”
    Funny business such as what? Talking to divorce attorneys? I felt my blood pressure spike, so I crossed the room and stared out the open window, breathing in the sharp tang of juniper. The call of a canyon wren fluted over a bilingual conversation below then died away as more voices emerged from the stable area. The trail riders had returned.
    Over my shoulder, I asked, “If they’re so cut off, how do the women find out about this place?”
    â€œFliers.” A deep male voice.
    I turned around to see a lanky man of about sixty standing in the doorway. With his straight black hair and weathered face he could almost have passed for a Native American, but his blue eyes revealed Anglo ancestry. The scent wafting off his faded jeans and brown, snap-front shirt was pure Eau de Horse.
    He walked toward me, spurs jingling. “I’m Leo, Virginia’s husband.” He held out his hand.
    His callused hand enclosed mine gently. “Fliers? How would women back in Purity get their hands on any fliers?”
    He let my hand go and grinned, revealing teeth so white they almost looked false, a feature not uncommon among Mormons since they didn’t indulge in such teeth-staining substances as coffee, tea or cigarettes. “I leave fliers all over the Zion City grocery stores and other shops. Down by the welfare office, too. The women pick them up when they’re driven into town, but they have to grab them pretty fast before their husbands catch on.”
    I leaned against the window sill.