Women’s realm, right Pastor Bill?
Stainless-steel pots simmered on top of a wood-burning stove similar to the one that Nicole had in her cabin. Libby picked up a wooden spoon and stirred one of the pots. “We’re having spaghetti. I picked lettuce and early tomatoes this morning for a salad.”
“You shouldn’t lift that heavy pot.” I moved to her side and glanced at the top of the stove, where a cow-shaped kitchen timer ticked down the minutes. “Let me strain the noodles when the timer goes off.”
“I’d appreciate that, Mac.” Libby wiped her arm across her forehead.
“Why don’t you sit down at the kitchen table and put together the salad, while I finish up the spaghetti?”
Sighing, Libby dropped into a chair. She placed a tomato on a cutting board, picked up a knife, and began to slice it. “Have you and Ripper been together long?”
“Only a couple of months.” I stirred the sauce. “Once the pandemic hit, I moved into my cousin’s compound in Portland. Ripper was his next-door neighbor. We met and hit it off, and it turned out we’re both immune. I don’t think that many couples survived the flu together.” I glanced over my shoulder at her. “Except you and Boyd.”
Libby dumped the sliced tomatoes into a giant wooden bowl full of lettuce. “After Boyd’s father was murdered in prison, we all rented a place outside of Battle Ground in Washington. We stockpiled food and weapons. Kept to ourselves. When people started dying from the flu, Boyd and Jerrilyn decided that we needed to get far away from everybody else. To protect the baby, you know. So we packed up and looked for a place way out in the sticks. We found Valhalla.”
“That was lucky,” I said. “Had the people who lived here died from the flu? Weren’t you afraid that the place was contaminated?”
“Nobody here had the flu,” she assured me. “The rancher and his wife and their ranch hands resisted, but Boyd and the men took care of them. The ranch owner’s son showed up a couple of days later. By then, Boyd had figured out that we’d need somebody around who knows how to tend to the cattle and run the equipment. You know, a ranch hand. We kept him alive. He’s here.”
“Here? Where?” I craned my neck, glancing around, as if Bear was in the room. “Is that safe? I mean, he’s got to be pissed that you killed his family.”
“Nothing to worry about. He’s chained up securely in a back room. We bring him out every morning to work. After our dinner, I bring him a plate of food.”
Apparently, Libby was eager to talk to another young woman. Considering that the only other woman on the ranch was her mother-in-law, a scary battle axe from everything I heard, I couldn’t blame Libby for being eager to make a new friend. Good. It meant that I’d be able to glean a wealth of information from the lonely, chatty young woman.
“You look tired,” I said, touching her arm. “Maybe I could carry the food to him so you can rest.” I couldn’t afford to make her suspicious, so I tamped down my eagerness to see Bear. “If you’re sure it’s safe, that is.”
“Maybe. It depends on what the men say.”
She laid a hand on her belly. Her fingers jumped when the baby kicked. I glanced at the timer. Three minutes and forty-five seconds left. I turned to face her and pointed at her distended stomach. “May I?”
“Sure.” She held out a hand, and I knelt down next to her chair. Libby placed my palm on the left side of her belly. Within a few seconds, the baby kicked.
My eyes grew wide. “Wow.”
“I know. Can you believe there’s a real person in there?”
We shared a genuine smile, a sisterly solidarity as we marveled over the new life she was carrying.
Then she opened her mouth.
“Have you and Ripper considered having a baby? The mongrel races are easy breeders. If we’re not vigilant, they’ll overwhelm us and take over. It’s up to people like us to replenish our pure racial stock.”
Mongrel races. Pure racial stock.
My horrified mind blanked for a good twenty seconds, and I struggled to formulate a response. “We haven’t talked about having a baby,” I sputtered. “We’ve only known each other for a few months. It’s way too soon to consider it.”
“For two healthy young white people, it’s never too soon to start considering having a baby. It’s your duty to the race.” Libby leaned forward eagerly. “Besides, wouldn’t it be fun if our babies could grow up together? Who knows, they might even fall in love someday and get married.”
I blinked. I’ve always kept a mental list of fates worse than death, most of them related to my fear of the dark and my claustrophobia. Being trapped in a collapsed building after an earthquake, curled up in a tiny void, unable to see, move, or escape. Being wedged into a narrow underwater cavern while cave diving, my arms pinned to my side, unable to wriggle free, hoping to be rescued before my oxygen supply ran out. Recently, marriage to Pastor Bill joined that list. And now, a new horror, my child—Ripper’s child—marrying into the Wilcox Brigade.
I had to say something, and the perfect thing suddenly occurred to me. “Are you worried about having a baby without a doctor? In case something goes wrong?”
“We have a doctor,” Libby assured me, squeezing my hand. “Dwight and Darryl came across him a few days ago.”
“I didn’t meet him. Where is he?”
“He’s in the back of the house with our other prisoner. I’ll feed them both later on,” Libby said.
Thank God. Proof that Sahdev was still alive and a clue about his location.
I furrowed my brow, hoping to look confused. “Why is the doctor a prisoner?”
Libby made a face. “Unfortunately, the doctor isn’t white. Ordinarily, Boyd would never allow a man like that anywhere near me, but Jerrilyn overruled him. She says the health of the baby comes first, and for the good of the race we have to make sure that I survive the delivery.”
Warm and fuzzy mother-in-law, wasn’t Jerrilyn? She wanted Libby to survive for the good of the race. Libby and I would never be friends. She bought into all of the brigade’s racist bullshit. From everything she said, their treatment of Sahdev and Bear didn’t give her pause or prick her conscience in the least. I despised her choices and everything she believed, but I also pitied her.
The timer went off, relieving me of the need to reply. I jumped to my feet and dumped the spaghetti into the strainer that sat in the sink, then transferred the pasta to the pan of sauce.
“Do we dish up in the kitchen or put the food on the table?” I asked.
“Just carry the pot of spaghetti to the table, through there.” Libby pointed through an arched doorway. “I’ll bring the salad and extra place settings.” I tucked a potholder under my arm so the hot pan wouldn’t scorch the table and followed Libby into the dining room.
The Wilcox Brigade hadn’t defiled the dining room the way they had the living room. No flags were pinned to the walls or pamphlets scattered across the tabletop. I imagined that the room looked much the way it had when generations of Rasmussens dined here. A rustic walnut trestle table anchored the room, surrounded by a dozen sturdy Shaker-style chairs. An oil painting of the ranch hung over the sideboard.