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  Forsaking All Others

  Copyright © 2011 by Allison Pittman. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of woman taken by Stephen Vosloo. Copyright © by Tyndale House Publishers. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of field copyright © by Shaun Cammack/iStockphoto. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of park copyright © by Kim Hammar/iStockphoto. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of valley copyright © by Jun Mu/Shutterstock. All rights reserved.

  Author photograph copyright © 2010 by Lisa Pittman. All rights reserved.

  Designed by Jacqueline L. Nuñez

  Edited by Kathryn S. Olson

  Published in association with William K. Jensen Literary Agency, 119 Bampton Court, Eugene, Oregon 97404.

  Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, King James Version.

  The Scripture quotation on the dedication page is taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Pittman, Allison

  Forsaking all others / Allison Pittman.

  p. cm. — (Sister wife series)

  Sequel to: For time and eternity

  ISBN 978-1-4143-3597-1 (sc)

  1. Married women—Fiction. 2. Mormons—Fiction. 3. Marital conflict—Fiction.

  4. Utah—History—19th century—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3616.I885F68 2011

  813'.6—dc22 2011023617

  Build: 2015-04-23 11:16:18

  To my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, in whom I continue to live . . . overflowing with thankfulness.

  “Don’t let anyone capture you with empty philosophies and high-sounding nonsense that come from human thinking and from the spiritual powers of this world, rather than from Christ. For in Christ lives all the fullness of God in a human body. So you also are complete through your union with Christ, who is the head over every ruler and authority.”

  Colossians 2:8-10

  Acknowledgments

  I am so grateful to my parents, Dee and Darla Hapgood, who made quiet, noble sacrifices in order to raise my brother and sisters and me in a healthy, Christ-centered home. I love our family story: how Jesus Christ became Lord of our family the minute he became Lord of your lives. Thank you for that example.

  For Mikey and my boys—Jack, Ryan, and Charlie—you are the blessings of my life. Thank you all for your patience and understanding during deadline week (or weeks). How lucky I am to be surrounded by men of God.

  Thank you, Bill Jensen, agent extraordinaire, who continues to be my champion. And the wonderful people at Tyndale—the dynamic duo of Jan and Karen, who let me run with this story, and the fabulous Kathy Olson, who can truly bring magic out of a mess.

  Always, I am so grateful for my Monday night group—all of you! Your prayers give me strength, and your words give me joy.

  Finally, to all of those readers of For Time and Eternity. Thank you for your warm reception of this story and for your enthusiastic longing for its continuation. Every e-mail fed me, and each word of this story was composed with you in mind. Your support allows me to continue to do what I dearly love to do—write stories that reflect the awesome power and grace of our God. I sincerely hope you find it worth the wait.

  Contents

  Escape from Zion: The Spiritual Journey of Camilla Fox (née Deardon) as Written by Herself

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Preview from On Shifting Sand

  Preview from All For a Song

  About the Author

  A Conversation with the Author

  Discussion Questions

  Escape from Zion: The Spiritual Journey of Camilla Fox (née Deardon) as Written by Herself

  Of all the questions I am asked—and there are many—none arise as frequently as this: How could any loving mother abandon her children? Each time I face such a query, I am reminded once again that we, God’s very children, are nowhere near capable of extending the same grace to one another as he has given us. It assumes a selfishness in my action, portraying me as a woman so determined to master her own fate that she cared little for the consequences. But there are so many other questions that beg to be answered before one could begin to understand the circumstances that led to that fateful decision.

  How, I wonder, can a young woman be raised in a Christian home, yet know so little of Christ? Yet that perfectly describes my spiritual condition at the time these events began to unfold. I lived my entire childhood never missing a single Sunday service, and I faithfully read one chapter of the Bible each night as soon as my education allowed me to do so. Perhaps I can blame the stern nature of my father or the weakness of my mother in his wake, but I knew nothing of Jesus Christ as my Savior beyond the nature of vocabulary.

  My fellow Christians wonder: How could I have been so deceived by the Mormon doctrine? To that, I must reference my earlier point. If the light of Scripture is given no opportunity to pierce the most superficial layer of the heart, false teachings are bound to find purchase. The Latter-day Saints speak with a Christian vocabulary. The teachings of Joseph Smith are so intertwined with biblical truth that the latter, like cream, may rise to the top but never break free of the mire beneath it.

  And so it was that when I met Nathan Fox, I did so harboring a heart untouched by love of any kind. My parents were sparing with their affection, my faith was a matter of rote exercise, and being just fifteen years old, I was a more-than-willing victim to any semblance of passion. I’ve often wondered, had Nathan been a nice Christian boy from my village church, would I have been so drawn to his charm? Conversely, would the Mormon doctrine have been as enticing if spoken by some dull, homely boy? But they—Nathan and the Mormons—came to me like two twisted cords, and I allowed myself to be braided within them. Such a cord is not easily broken, which is why it is best suited to anchor a boat to a shore.

  Or to create a noose.

  And so, bound as I was to both Nathan and his faith, I left my home. My parents had nothing to offer me; the teaching of my church fit neatly in the back of my mind. For a while, my heart blazed with new truth—or what I accepted as truth. I can hope that, had I been left to my own study, I would not have been so easily taken in. But I w
armed in the glow of my husband’s fire, content enough with my fellow Saints to risk such light.

  Together we built a little home in a valley near the canyon where men like my husband quarried the stone for the Temple. And it was there that I truly felt myself cast from light into shadow. I watched my husband slave, wrenching stone as was his Saintly duty to the Prophet and presenting his carpentry in a vain attempt to win the Prophet’s favor. Even so, I might have been content to remain in that shadow to this very day were it not for two developments that I could not countenance: raising our two daughters in such darkness and being asked to share my husband with a second wife.

  It is this—the matter of a sister wife—that brings the collective gasp of shock when I am afforded the opportunity to speak to women about the plight of polygamy. And behind the gloved hands that hide their titters, women ask, “How could you ever submit to such indignity?” To that, I have no answer, for as a woman inclined to obey what I knew of Scripture, I felt I had no recourse but to submit. Those who live outside the Mormon faith—Gentiles, as they are called—like to envision a great, lascivious nature that drives the Latter-day Saint to engage in such practice. And perhaps there is such, for some. But my Nathan was driven solely by a desire to please the only god he knew and the Prophet he worshiped.

  Despite my own faithlessness, God was very gracious to me, giving me a home, two beautiful daughters, and a dear, if unlikely, friend in Kimana—an Indian woman who lived on our property. Both my daughters and I loved her as one would a mother. In his sovereignty, though, God also took away, claiming the life of my first son mere hours after his birth. This brought to me a sadness that only a Savior could comfort, and I claimed Jesus Christ as such.

  By the time Sister Amanda came to be my sister wife, my eyes had long been open to the falseness of the doctrine that would allow such a thing, and my heart abandoned the Mormon church. By the grace of God, I truly believe that my own soul was safe from its clutches at that point. But every day, I saw my daughters growing more and more indoctrinated by its teaching, which forced the question I could not ignore.

  How could I let my children grow up in a house where they would never be allowed to hear the truth about Jesus Christ?

  And so I set out on a journey to create a better life for them. When men do the same, they are hailed as heroes, while I, in the literature of Mormons, Christians, and secularists alike, have been maligned as the woman who abandoned her children.

  So to revisit the question with which I opened this missive, while I am often bombarded with questions, I do not take the luxury of a retrospective examination. I never stop to ask myself if I should have done anything different. After all, how can you look at the assembled pages of your life and decide which should be ripped out and which should remain to press the treasures of your memories? Seems to me the greatest joy comes out of the pain that nurtures it, and you cannot keep one without the other. So I am forced, here at the end of it all, to fold every leaf together and say, as God did of his early people, that I did the best I knew how. I lived according to my conscience. He alone can forget the depth and breadth of my sin, and I claim the blood of his Son, Jesus, to all others who would judge me. I have lived now nearly forty years with my choices, and sometime hence I will die in his grace. That is the hope no man can steal from me.

  Not again.

  Ladies’ Home Journal

  July 1896

  Chapter 1

  Near Salt Lake City

  January 1858

  Smoke. And darkness. And warmth.

  “I think she’s wakin’. Go fetch the colonel.” A man’s voice, one I didn’t know. A momentary blast of cold air, and I remembered the storm, the roaring wind and swirling snow that carried me here.

  “Ma’am?” Closer now. I felt a warm hand against my cheek. “You’re going to be just fine.”

  I wanted to smile, but my lips felt dry, tight. When I tried to speak, they peeled apart, grating against each other like thin, dry bark.

  “Don’t you try to speak none. Just show me, can you open your eyes?”

  I wanted to, if only to see where it was the Lord had brought me, but already the voice was falling away, like words being dropped down a well. Sight seemed too heavy a burden, so I contented myself with what senses I could muster—the soft sound of a crackling fire, the sweet smell of the wood burning within it, and the warmth, blessed warmth, covering my body from my toes to my chin. The weight of it pinned me down.

  * * *

  Time passed. How much, I couldn’t know, but enough for me to develop an unutterably powerful thirst. I pried my lips apart, worked my tongue between them. Just that little movement brought the presence to my side again. A new touch to my temple, a new voice in my ear. Deeper, stronger.

  “Ma’am?”

  Of their own accord, my eyes opened. I saw nothing at first, but then he moved into my sight. Long hair brushed behind his ears, a full moustache covering his top lip. His eyes were closed at first, and the moustache bobbed as he said, “Thank you, Lord.” Then they opened, and in the fire’s light they shone warm and brown.

  “Where—?”

  “Shh.” He held a finger to his lips. “Time enough for that later. I’m Colonel Charles Brandon of the United States Army. Outside of Jesus himself, you couldn’t be in better hands. Now, how about some water?”

  I gave no response, but I didn’t need to. I tracked him with my eyes as he reached behind himself and produced a blue tin cup. He took a sip.

  “Just testing. Don’t want it too hot.”

  Then my head was cradled in his hand and he placed the cup against my mouth. The first sip burned, then soothed as I swallowed.

  “Little more?”

  I opened my lips wider in response, and I heard him whisper, “That’s a girl,” as he gauged just when to take the cup away. He must be a father, too.

  “Now,” he said, laying my head back, “if you’ll consent.” He reached into his coat pocket and took out a thin, silver flask. “I’m in no way a drinking man myself, and I don’t want to lead you down the path of evil, but if you’ll permit me to mix just a few drops of whiskey in that water, it’ll toast your blood right up.”

  My first instinct should have been to say no, but speaking was still beyond my strength, and truthfully, my thoughts were still cloudy enough that his words had no impact. He took my silence as permission and twisted the lid off the flask. With caution and precision, he drizzled a bit of the amber liquid into the water remaining in the blue cup and swirled it.

  “For this, you’ll need to sit up a little straighter.”

  He moved behind me and, this time, put his arm beneath my shoulders. I could feel the brass of his cuff buttons against my skin, hitting me with the realization that I was fully naked beneath a pile of wool blankets and bearskin. I twisted my head, panicked, and he instantly interpreted my terror.

  “I know and I’m sorry. But we couldn’t have you wearing twenty pounds of wet clothes. Now I wish we’d had some old Indian woman to help us out, but we’re just a bunch of soldiers. If it helps, I held a gun on ’em and kept ’em blindfolded.”

  I didn’t believe him, but I cared a little less.

  “When you’re ready, drink this down.”

  Just the smell of the whiskey in the water brought new life to my senses. Sharpened them, somehow, opened me up to the thought of drinking it down.

  “All one drink,” he said behind me. “If you sip it by half, you won’t drink the rest.”

  I nodded, braced myself, and closed my eyes. I don’t know what I was expecting, but I felt only warmth. Heat was followed by clarity, and when Colonel Brandon lowered me once again to what I now recognized as a buffalo skin–covered cot, I was fully ready to speak.

  “Thank you.” My voice was hoarse, and then I remembered screaming into the storm.

  He cocked his head. “Doesn’t sound to me like you’re quite up for telling your story.”

  He was right. I couldn’t
. But it had nothing to do with my throat.

  “If it’s all right, though, I’d like to ask you just a couple of questions.” He set the cup down on the ground next to him and took a small piece of yellow paper out of the same pocket where he kept the flask. “Can you tell me who Missy is?”

  The name shot through my heart. “My daughter. Her name’s Melissa. And Lottie.”

  He checked his paper, and the pleasant expression he’d worn since my eyes opened to him disappeared, replaced with a furrowed, worried brow. “Are they—were they traveling with you?”

  I shook my head as tears gathered in my eyes.

  “They’re safe at home?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, thank God for that.”

  And I did as my head filled with visions of them, cozily tucked into their bed or sitting on the braided rug in front of the stove, happily playing with their dolls at the feet of—

  “Nathan? Is he your husband?”

  “Yes.” I tried to sit up. “Is he here? Did he come for me?”

  “Shh . . .” Again his warm hand soothed my brow, and exhausted, I lay back. “No, ma’am. Nobody’s come for you.”

  “Then how do you know?”

  He showed me the paper. Three words—Missy, Lottie, Nathan—and one letter: K.

  “Kimana.”

  He smiled. “Private Lambert wasn’t sure of the spelling.”

  “She’s taking care of my daughters.”

  “I see.” I could tell he wanted to know more, but I hadn’t the strength. It wasn’t the time. “You’ve been sleeping on and off for close to twenty hours, and that’s just since we found you. Now, for me you’ve been nice and quiet, but I guess when Private Lambert pulled his shift, you decided to talk a little bit. He picked out a few names.”

  “Oh.”

  “And he said you seemed to do a lot of praying.”

  “Yes.”

  “The way I figure, those prayers brought my scouts out to find you. Nothing but unbroken snow, they said; then there you were, hanging on to that horse. Why, that animal herself is a miracle.”