CHAPTER FOUR Luke

Iliked this time of day at the bakery the most. We closed at four every afternoon, after opening at seven, and for three days of the week, I was always the last employee there for an hour as I did the final cleanup and prepped for the following day.

It was this last hour when I was alone with my thoughts and found quiet time just for me. My day began at six to assist with the early morning baking and moving of heavy bags of flour and other supplies. Saturdays, like today, were even better because I knew we'd be closed on Sunday.

I worked at two of the several businesses our community owned and operated in Madras. Here, at the bakery, and our handcrafted furniture store, located on the highway in Bend. I split my six-day work week into halves, three days at each location. Most of Sunday and two additional evenings of the week were spent in mandatory worship.

Before my father tragically died in a farming accident, I was being groomed to be an elder and eventually take over the leadership of our community. Half Moon Ranch was the name of our community, but most folks outside of the ranch referred to us members as the Moonies—usually not said respectfully. Names like The Jesus Moonies or Loonie Moonies were common nicknames.

Our controversial leader had not gone out of his way to endear himself to the small town of Madras. Unlike my own father, the latest leader, Franklin Smith, was flashy, aggressive, and dead set on angering the townsfolk. He was abrasive to folks and petty in his behavior. If he ever felt wronged, he'd go out of his way to seek retribution on whoever had offended him. And that meant if you were a business owner, he'd open a competing business and try to drive you to bankruptcy. He was hated countywide, which, of course, helped none of us who lived and belonged to his group.

My father, Luke Oliver Sr., had been our leader until his untimely death five years ago. Franklin Smith and his family had been shunned three years before that and forced to leave the ranch. Franklin's father, also Franklin, had been high in the church hierarchy, but had spouted off and practiced some extremely controversial beliefs, so he and his family were excommunicated. We may have been unusual to the townsfolk, but spaceships weren't picking us up anytime soon, like Franklin's father believed.

Upon my father's premature passing, Franklin managed to avenge his now-dead father and came back to lead the flock, sidelining my mother, myself, and my little brother. We were relegated to smaller roles, stripped of our family hierarchical rights within the church, with my mother shunned and unable to remarry.

It had been a living hell ever since, but I could not convince my mother to leave the compound because Franklin and his posse had convinced her she'd fail in the outside world. Because my mother had been born within the walls of the ranch, she knew nothing of the modern world outside our walls and believed Franklin was correct.

The powers that be didn't like members leaving and informing the outsiders about what went on within the complex's walls, and they had no problem enforcing their policies. No promises of mine to take care of her and my little brother David, or starting over in a new town, could convince her to leave.

Because my father had been held in such high esteem in the past and truly cared for his flock, my family was now feared by the new leader. Many of the recent leadership group had served with my father, but feared the same retribution my family suffered, so they followed Franklin's rules to the letter, leaving us outside of the family group, one my father used to nurture and mentor.

Now that I was nineteen, I spent much of my time planning my escape. Had it not been for a mother who wouldn't leave and a brother I didn't dare leave behind, I'd have departed the day I turned eighteen. Unfortunately, for my freedom, I would never leave them behind. That didn't stop me from working on my mother's mindset at every opportunity to convince her to join me in exiting the oppressive system within the strict walls.

The one horrifying detail I hadn't shared with my mother was that our leader was sexually abusing me. A more important fact I should share with her was that I now spent my days obsessively worrying that David would be next. That sort of information could get me killed, in my opinion. Because I'd never been convinced that my father's death was an accident, the possibility of being eliminated seemed quite real to me.

I was at the front door of the bakery locking up, preparing to turn the open sign to closed, when I recognized the flashy sports car pull into the parking lot. The same man from a few days ago stepped out of the car and came up to the entrance door as I flipped the sign to closed.

"Sorry, sir, but we closed thirty minutes ago. I just forgot to lock the doors at four," I explained, opening the door a few inches to be heard.

He pinched his lips in dismay. "Well, darn," he said. "I was hoping for more of those cinnamon rolls you sold me on Wednesday."

I'd never seen a man so well dressed in my life. He reminded me of the men in celebrity magazines I saw in the grocery store checkouts on rare trips to town. He was tall, but not as tall as me, with perfect teeth that shined whiter than the bread flour I worked with daily.

His caramel-colored hair was styled and looked to have been cut with precision, unlike the buzz cuts men at the ranch were forced to wear. His hair was neatly trimmed above his ears, but worn fuller toward the front, almost flopping over his dark brown eyes.

He also looked like he needed a shave, even though he didn't really have an actual beard or a mustache. The facial hair was almost on purpose, like he wanted his face to look that way. I had to admit it added a handsome quality to his overall appearance.

A tight black T-shirt tucked into stylish gray shorts that were just above his knees gave him a casual, but expensive, look. His gray belt with an LV insignia matched his same-colored shoes. Men in these parts didn't dress this way. They didn't match stuff. Like his tanned face, the rest of his visibly smooth skin was a warm golden color, and his calf muscles were well-developed for such a lean man.

I didn't recognize the feelings coursing through me, but he was pleasing to look at. Like the first time I'd spoken to him here at the bakery, I felt tongue-tied again with his unexpected arrival. I wanted to know this man, and yet couldn't have told you why. Not to mention, I would never be allowed to get to know him outside of my jobs.

"I'm sorry about being closed," I stated, unable to stop my heart from pounding. My knees felt weak around him and I wanted to ask him a million questions.

"Not even one roll left?" he asked. "I'll pay you extra."

Madras was a sleepy town once you turned off the highway that led drivers to Bend, the larger neighboring city forty-odd miles down the road. I wanted to let him in but was afraid to do so. I quickly looked left and then right at the quiet side street. The bakery was a block off the highway, so traffic was practically nonexistent in the afternoons when most businesses around the bakery were closed as well.

"We box up the day-old goods," I began. "And tomorrow is Sunday, so maybe they won't be fresh on Monday morning," I continued, trying to make a decision. "Maybe it would be okay if…"

"I'll buy them," he interrupted me. "All of them."

"We only have one box of cinnamon rolls left," I said, still visually probing the parking lot, looking for other people. His car stood out like a sore thumb, so I worried about what town folks may think if they saw him inside after closing. "They're our best-seller," I added, buying time.

"I know. I've had one."

He smiled at me, reigniting whatever was happening in my body, overcoming any reluctance I should have had. "Do you have cash, sir?" I asked, remembering his last visit.

After a slight laugh, he grabbed the edge of the door, our fingers touching. My knees were so weakened by the feeling that I had to lock them in place. "Yes, I have cash. I also have the four dollars I owe you," he said. He gazed at me as I thought about what to do. "So, you'll sell them to me?" he inquired.

"Come in," I said, standing to the side for him.

He walked past, and his scent immediately hit me. He smelled fresh, a hint of citrus and soap, filling my nose with pleasure. Every single thing about him was foreign to me, and yet so appealing to my senses. I'd always wondered why, when the other young men in the compound whispered their deepest secrets of desires about girls, and I never fully understood what they were feeling. Seeing this stranger caused my stomach to feel dizzy, and I imagined this must be the feeling they'd described.

But this newfound sensation had to be a sin, didn't it? This person was male like me and probably couldn't relate to what I felt the two times I'd been near him. He was a man of class, as far as I could tell. We didn't get men like him in our town often, so seeing someone who was so perfect in every way was disarming.

I was disgusted by the things Franklin had done to me, so why was I experiencing sinful thoughts like how I wished this man liked me, would touch me, want to be with me? Where did those feelings come from? What would that even be like?

"Thank you," he said, waiting for me to relock the door and join him at the counter. "You're all by yourself?" he asked.

"Yes, sir. I clean up and close most days alone," I said.

"All alone, with no help?"

I made my way around the counter, leaving him on the dining room side, using the barrier to keep my senses in check. "The sisters do a lot of the cleaning to help me out," I said. "They spoil me because I help them with the heavy lifting."

"Yes, I can see how you might be able to handle the heavy items. Do you work out at a gym as well?" he asked, staring and seeming to examine my body. "I mean, well, you're in great shape."

"We aren't allowed to focus on our physical bodies," I admitted, unsure how that may sound to an outsider. "I guess all this just happened because of farm work," I added, holding my arms up and examining my muscles. Nervous from his staring, I crossed my arms, conscious of how he was studying me.

"My name is Tate," he said, offering his hand over the glass case I stood behind. "I'm new in town. Well, not this town. I moved to Bend earlier this week when I saw you before."

"I remember," I said, extending my hand. "Luke."

He held my hand, and we stared uncomfortably at one another for what seemed like an eternity. I didn't want to let go of him, and he didn't seem to be in much of a hurry, either. After only a few seconds, we released one another.

"The rolls?" he asked, looking at the glass case to see where they were located. "I mean, if you have them," he added.

"Yes, sir. They're in the kitchen. Let me grab them," I said.

He smiled and shook his head slowly. "What are the chances you can stop calling me, sir?"

I felt my face reddening like it did when I got called out or felt embarrassed by an action I may have messed up. "I can't do that, sir," I explained.

He seemed surprised and raised his eyebrows in curiosity. "‘You can't do that?'" he asked. "Even if I ask you to call me by my first name?"

"But you haven't asked me to do that, sir."

"Will you please call me Tate?" he asked. "I'd feel a lot younger if you would."

I'd call him anything he wanted me to but had waited for the formal permission to do so.

"Yes, Tate. I will."

Tate studied me for a moment. I was familiar with his look of confusion regarding my behavior because I'd experienced it many times. I braced for the questions. "Forgive me for asking," he began, turning to his left and reaching for some napkins from the dispenser. He hesitated and then pulled his hand back, not removing any napkins. "The sisters you mentioned before. The ones that help you clean. Are you related to them?"

Here came the answer that always leads to more questions. "Like are they my actual sisters?" I asked. He nodded. "They're my community sisters. I am not related to any of the women here, but I do have a brother."

"Community?" he asked.

"Half Moon Ranch," I replied. "I take it you haven't heard of us?" I asked, surprised by the fact but suddenly remembering he hadn't been in town long enough to have heard of the so-called Moonies out at Half Moon.

He seemed a bit confused by my answer. "You all live on a ranch?" he asked. "But aren't a family?" he added.

This would be hard to explain to an outsider, especially one not from our area of the state. How to explain and not paint my life as a complete freak show? I'd heard the gossip, witnessed the stares, and experienced my share of prejudice because of our beliefs, so I hoped I could answer him without scaring him off.

"We practice our faith on a ranch. We refer to it as a ranch, like one would for a community of people."

Tate seemed nonplussed and listened intently to my explanation. "Like the Latter-Day Saints?" he asked.

He had the right idea. "Similar, yes, but with a few differences," I shared.

His next question caught me off guard. "Are you allowed to have friends that don't live at Half Moon Ranch?"

I wanted to be his friend and worried I would not get that chance if I told him the truth. "Sure, we can have other friends," I fibbed. I hated lying, especially to this man, for some reason. "We don't often get the opportunity though," I confessed, suddenly feeling a triggering emotion the moment I lied to him. My pulse quickened, and I knew I had to get away from him to regain my composure. "Let me get the rolls."

My nerves got the best of me after lying to him only the second time I saw him. I hurried to the kitchen and leaned against the oversized table in the middle of the room, catching my breath and wiping small beads of perspiration from my brow. He was handsome, unlike any man I had ever seen, but my feelings had to be wrong. A sin for sure.

I'd never felt anything like how I was reacting to being near him, and I felt panicked with unknown emotions. I stood silently for several minutes, attempting to calm my nerves by taking slow, deliberate breaths, but awful images and bad memories waged a war within my brain.

The swinging doors opened, and he stood watching me. "You're taking a long time. Are you okay, Luke?"

His voice was intoxicating, the tone one of concern and caring. The dampness under my arms and on my forehead was giving me away, and I couldn't focus.

"Yes, thank you," I answered, grabbing the box of cinnamon rolls. "You want the whole box?" I asked, holding them in the air. He nodded, and I walked past him and into the safety of the dining area. He followed.

"You're sure you're feeling alright?" he asked, remaining by my side. "You look sort of flushed."

I shoved the box in his hands and stepped around him, feeling overwhelmed and like I could lose consciousness. Horrible scenes played in my mind. I was being held down on bales of hay, unable to fight off my assailant. Ropes restrained me, preventing my escape. The memory was vivid enough for me to experience genuine fear at that moment. The stranger in the bakery was going to hurt me. He would attack me and make me do bad things. I had to escape the nightmare.

I hurried to the door. "You have to leave now, sir," I stated, struggling to unlock the door, my fingers fumbling with the twist lock. "Please. You need to leave right now.

"But I haven't paid you, Luke," he declared, staring at me with obvious concern. "You don't look well," he added kindly, reaching for me, which caused me to jump backward.

I quickly gathered my arms to my side, focusing on the floor as I fought the panic attack I recognized was coming on fast. Focus, Luke. He is not a bad man.

"Please just go," I pleaded. "No charge. Can you please just leave?" I cried.

The most amazing-looking man I'd ever seen looked shocked by my sudden change of demeanor. His eyes pleaded with me to explain what had occurred, but where would I even begin?

"Yes, of course," he whispered, rushing past me and through the open doorway. "I'm so sorry," he added, as I slammed the door and locked it. He stared through the glass as I gazed back at him. We locked eyes until he finally turned around and walked toward his car, stopping twice to glance back at me. He must think me a child.