Page 2 of Liar Byrd
His wife is about to give birth any day now. He should be with her, not watching a girl young enough to be his daughter, yet his eyes keep finding reasons to land on me.
I look away, but I feel his gaze on me like the red ants I keep trying to chase away, crawling up and down my spine.
Chapter 2
Byrdie
In the kitchen, I help the women prepare the meals.
Men do not enter the space filled with savory smells, clanging pots, and countless tasks to prepare a meal for a fifty-strong community. A woman’s place is in the kitchen, serving men, raising children.
Seen and not heard.
“Byrdie, Jeremiah wishes for you to serve him this evening.”
I look up at Rose, stopping my stirring and furrowing my brow. “Me?”
“You will marry soon. You must learn how to serve a man.”
Dread squeezes my heart. That’s all anyone wants to talk about: who I will marry, whose cabin I will move into, and how many children I’ll have.
I hate it.
The people here see the fences surrounding us as a border that protects us from outsiders. I see the fence and I just feel trapped.
This life doesn’t feel like mine, but leaving isn’t an option. If I wanted to run, I'd have missed my chance, and I can’t abandon Mom. She’s all I have.
“But why me?” I whisper.
A frown line appears between her brows. “Because it is Jeremiah’s preference that you do so. Do you argue?”
Conflict in the compound is a ragged discord in a perfect symphony. Hands pause their stirring, and the clanging pots fall silent. Heads swivel my way.
I force a smile to my lips. “Of course not. I just… I don’t want to drop anything or…”
Her smile is as wide as the vast blue sky outside. “Collect a tray and come, Byrdie.”
Before I hand my wooden spoon to someone else to keep stirring the gravy, Enid takes it from me, and Angelica presses a tray of freshly baked bread and small clay pots of butter into my arms.
There’s no way to move slowly or take my time on a task I’m actively trying to avoid, not when the women are practically shoving me out of the kitchen.
This is what Jeremiah wants, and everyone wants to please Jeremiah.
The dining hall is a barn in the center of the compound. Its large doors are almost always left open, letting the smell of the heat of the New Mexico desert and the dried wildflowers circulate.
Everything is handmade, from the plates shaped by the women and baked in a kiln by the men, to the hand-carved knives, forks, and spoons. The wooden tables and benches are roughly hewn.
There are no TVs for us to watch while we eat, no radios or cell phones to distract us. Only Jeremiah has a cell phone, which he keeps with him for emergencies.
Jeremiah always sits with his six acolytes—big, strong men with thick beards, navy T-shirts, black combat trousers, boots, and piercing stares. I served them their bread first, as Jeremiahindicated I should, and he asked me to stay by his chair. He wasn’t ready for his bread yet.
His silver eyes stay fixed on me as I offer him bread and refill his glass of water from a heavy jug that only wobbles slightly.
Even as he talks with his men, I feel him watching me.
“You have such graceful fingers,” he says softly, sitting back in his wooden chair. Everyone else is seated on benches. Only Jeremiah and his acolytes sit in the wooden chairs at the long table in the center of the room.
“Thank you,” I say politely.
