Page 1 of Stolen By the Hit Man
Chapter One
Jasmyn
The man by the kitten formula keeps staring at me.
And I’m starting to think he’s been following me up and down the aisles.
My husband, Braydon, is busy talking about deer spray with the owner of the feed store. Out of boredom, I wandered over to the cat aisle. I just can’t shake the feeling that I should be looking after a cat.
I peruse the shelves of catnip toys while the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. My hand pauses on a mouse made of scratchy rope and felt, flashing my ugly gold wedding band. Maybe the strange man will leave me alone now, getting the message that I’m married.
And trust me, he does not want to mess with anyone married to that mean ol’ Braydon Smoot.
The ring is not my taste, but then again, neither is Braydon. How did I end up married to him? Beats me. Sometimes I sit and stare at it, hoping it will jog my memory of my wedding day.
But nothing is ever jogged.
A week after the accident, I asked to see the piece of paper with my signature on it. There it was, plain as day.
Not that I remembered my own name until my husband told me.
I’ve accepted that this is the way things are: my name is Jasmyn Smoot, I’m 28 years old, and I was born in Wyoming. My parents were polygamists who raised me in the Celestial Order of Covenant Kinship. I just call the church Kinship because it’s hard to remember all those words.
The doctor says my memories will eventually come back with time, and then everything will click into place.
It’s been a few months since the accident, and though the bump on my head is healed, I still feel like Kinship and my husband Braydon and my entire life in Darling Creek just feels like I put on someone else’s clothes.
If I weren’t married? I’d say this strange man by the kitten formula looks like a lost Tom Hardy after an all-nighter. How do I know who Tom Hardy is, but I can’t remember anything else? Good question.
A better question is this: what have I done to catch the attention of those bloodshot eyes? And what does he want from me? I don’t carry cash. I don’t have anything he wants. What he clearly needs is a good night’s sleep and a hot meal.
Don’t let your mind go there, Jasmyn. Don’t go thinking you need to nurture a strange man just because he’s cute.
I pick up the cat toy and awkwardly sniff it. I tend to do impulsive things when I’m scared, freaked out, or uncomfortable. Great, now I look like a toy-sniffing weirdo.
The man clears his throat. I look over and catch the color of blue denim in those puffy, tired eyes. What is he staring at?
I can answer that on some level: a hollow-eyed sister-wife in frumpy-dumpy work overalls and a cheap, ill-fitting gold band on her ring finger.
I wish Braydon would hurry up. Then again, I don’t cherish being alone with Braydon. Ever. Even as I think this, the feed store manager can be heard cracking a joke, which is quickly followed by my husband’s fake, overcompensating laughter echoing through the store.
God, I hate him. Our marriage makes no sense.
“Hi,” says the man by the kitten formula.
I cut my eyes at him. Embarrassed at the rise in my heart rate, I look away and stare at the toy in my hand. “Hi,” I say, the word catching in my throat. I clear it and repeat, “Hi.”
Heat radiates up my legs. Sweat drips from the backs of my knees.
“Try not to look so pathetic and lost out in public today,” Braydon had said to me this morning when he agreed to take me with him to run errands in town. “People will think I’m a shitty husband and try to kidnap you like they did with Elder Blatch’s young wife.”
“Which one?” I had asked. Many wives and children are being spirited away these days, despite efforts to lock down everything.
I can’t keep up with all the lore of Kinship, so it was an honest question. But thinking I was being sassy, Braydon answered my question with the back of his hand.
I was being sincere.
I worry often about being kidnapped, especially when I have no phone, no credit cards, and no photo ID. I think that would be worse than suffering with a mean husband who visits me barely once every couple of weeks. He’s only touched me that one time out of anger, and—thank god—he’s never tried anything else. He says he’ll be patient with me until I remember how in love with him I used to be.
