Forsaking All Others Page 11

  So I closed my eyes and slept. Dozed, really, as I remained aware of the sounds coming from outside the window. Conversations and greetings shouted across the street, a group of women singing an anthem of the Saints. Occasionally something would ring out loud enough to rouse me completely, and I resolved to get up, get dressed, and go downstairs, but the first little movement would bring me to a cold spot between the sheets, and I cowered back to my warm, curled-up ball.

  At some point, though, the instinct for survival overtook the pleasure of sleep, and I realized that only a flight of stairs separated me from true warmth in the form of a woodstove and food to fill what was quickly becoming a hollow, nauseous pain.

  It was enough to send my feet to the floor, and within minutes I was dressed, my hair loosely tied at the nape of my neck. I picked up my Bible and my journal, thinking how nice it would be to read and write in the cozy kitchen, and I thought I would spend this morning in a little church of my own making, with the words of Jesus Christ himself as my sermon. Perhaps one of Paul’s letters for my Sunday school. The heels of my shoes made an echoing clatter as, newly energized, I bounded down the steps. But it was an imperfect echo, sometimes preceding each step, then continuing when I stopped. Not an echo at all, but a completely different sound.

  A knock.

  Two steps from the bottom I stopped. Who would visit Evangeline Moss on a Sunday morning? What Saint visits any Saint on a Sunday morning? Those not at meeting would die of shame before turning this sacred time into a social call. It could only be a stranger. No doubt one with a blue coat and a single, dark brow. The peace that had settled around my heart shredded, replaced by the fear I’d felt every time I’d seen that man.

  Unless—and here my fear abated—it wasn’t a stranger at all, but a soldier. Sent with the official duty to confirm my well-being. Either way, I had no intention of opening the door completely blind to who might be on the other side. Until I knew, I had no intention of opening the door at all. I spun around and bounded back up the stairs, once again accompanied by repeated pounding on the door. The room once occupied by Evangeline’s brothers allowed an easy view to the front porch. Careful not to disturb the curtains, I placed my head against the cool glass, holding my breath in preparation for whatever sight would greet me. All, it turned out, in vain, because nothing could have prepared me for the visitor on the porch. More than that, my visitor knew exactly which window I would choose for an outlook, and she stared right back up at me.

  “Rachel?”

  Far below, she stamped her foot, and I hopped to her silent command, running down the stairs all a-clatter, practically throwing myself against the door upon arrival.

  “I’ve been out here nearly five minutes,” she said, pushing her way right past me without so much as a glance. “My hand is throbbing.”

  “I didn’t hear you.”

  “Well, I’m sure it must be wonderful to adopt the life of a heathen and sleep late on a Sunday morning—”

  “I wasn’t sleeping. Look, all dressed.”

  She quirked her lips to one side and raised her eyebrows, unimpressed with my appearance.

  “And by the way,” I said in an attempt at my defense, “I notice you aren’t at church either.”

  “Bother. By the time Tillman gets the wives and kids out the door, he’ll never even notice I’m gone. One of the few perks of polygamy. You can just disappear for a while. But then, I guess you’ve already figured that out.”

  There was more than an imagined bit of admiration in her comment, so I allowed myself to take no offense. Instead, I invited her to the kitchen with a wide, welcoming gesture.

  “Oh, Camilla. Your hand.”

  “Frostbite. One of the dangers of running away,” I said good-naturedly.

  Never one to be generous with sympathy, Rachel continued on into the kitchen. I’d noticed the basket draped over her arm from my observation upstairs, but it took on new meaning as I followed. She dropped it on the table and rubbed her hands together.

  “Good glory, it’s cold in here.”

  “Sister Evangeline is quite conservative with her fuel.”

  “I’ll tell Tillman to send one of the boys over with a few bundles.” She fed the dwindling fire in the stove and handed me the kettle. Her jeweled hands looked unaccustomed to kitchen work.

  “Fill this up?”

  “Of course.”

  I held the crock pitcher steady, pouring a stream of cold water into the kettle’s narrow spout while Rachel rummaged through the basket, producing several brown paper–wrapped packages.

  “Apple-carrot muffins. Maple sugar doughnuts. Cinnamon scones and a round of fresh butter. We had a few ladies over for quilting yesterday, and these were left over.”

  “Oh my.”

  “And of course—” she held up a small tin box, giving it a playful shake—“tea.”

  “I don’t know why Tillman lets you get away with this.”

  “Tillman doesn’t know, and neither do the sister wives, a situation I’m quite comfortable with.”

  “Your secret is safe with me.”

  “Then you’ll join me?”

  My mouth watered at the thought. “Of course.”

  “Then sit,” Rachel said, taking over the role of hostess—one I was glad to relinquish. “And how is our little Evangeline?”

  “Sad. And lonely, I think. She wants a family.”

  “She wants Nathan.”

  I said nothing, and Rachel let the matter drop. Instead, I took down a small dish for the butter and two cups for our tea. Evangeline had less than a cup of white sugar, but she used it so infrequently, I wagered she still wouldn’t miss a few spoonfuls.

  “Now,” Rachel said, settling in at the table while the water boiled, “tell me everything about where you’ve been.”

  “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

  “You sound like you don’t trust me.”

  “That’s not it.”

  “Come on.” Her smile, identical to her brother’s, led the way as she leaned across the table. “We’ll swap. You tell me something I want to know, and I’ll tell you something you need to know.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  But by then the kettle was spitting drops of steaming water, and Rachel hopped up to fill the pretty china pot she’d brought. Her face was a calm, unreadable mask as she packed the leaves into her silver tea ball and dropped it in to steep. She returned to the table and took her place across from me, drumming her fingers expectantly. “Well?”

  “What do I need to know?”

  “Tell me about the soldiers.”

  “Why do you care? I’m back now. Safe.”

  “As much as I love you, Sister Camilla—and you know I do—it’s not entirely your safety I’m concerned about. You know Brigham has us all up in arms about the government being on the warpath. The things he’s asking us to do—did you see the temple?”

  “Yes.”

  “So—” and here there was the slightest crack in her facade—“are we safe?”

  Had Evangeline posed the same question, I would have known she questioned the safety of the Saints. But Rachel’s heart was with her family—the husband she loved and shared, the passel of children that filled her home, even the sister wives she counted as family.

  “They aren’t seeking bloodshed,” I answered.

  “But they’ll fight?”

  “If ordered to do so. Or forced. That’s why Colonel Brandon—he’s commanding the troops, actually—wanted to keep my presence there a secret. So there’d be no misunderstanding and Nathan wouldn’t feel led to retaliate.”

  “He knew.”

  I remembered the sound of his voice on the other side of the tent wall. “Of course he did. I’m just grateful he didn’t come back.”

  “Brigham wouldn’t let him.”

  “Brigham?” She might as well have picked up the teapot and cracked me over the head with it.

  “Oh yes.” Rachel�
�s calm demeanor did nothing to ease my ever-increasing ire. “The minute he realized you were gone, Nathan was at Brother Brigham’s office. We searched, of course, after the storm, and I don’t know what possessed my brother to head for the Army’s camp. But he begged for a company of our militia to go with him and bring you back. He loves you very much.”

  “I know.” I absently fingered the ring I wore ribboned around my neck.

  “But Brigham doesn’t want trouble with the Army, and he doesn’t care enough about Nathan Fox to brew some up.” As if reminded, she lifted the teapot lid, frowned, and settled it again.

  My heart began to settle, tempered by the sobering memories of Nathan’s often-desperate attempts to win Brigham Young’s favor. “Well, for once I’m thankful for the prophet’s indifference.”

  “Not entirely. He said Nathan couldn’t interact with the United States Army. But Brigham’s personal guard? That’s another story entirely.”

  “What are you trying to tell me?”

  “That you need to be careful.” She reached for a scone and set it on the plate in front of me. “Nathan knows where you are.”

  “Now?”

  “This morning at breakfast, Tillman says, ‘So did you know Nathan’s wife is staying with Sister Evangeline Moss?’ I just about dropped the bowl of scrambled eggs.”

  “I’ve seen a man across the street. He seemed to be watching the house. Watching me.”

  “What does he look like?”

  I described him. Tall, broad, dark, scruffy beard growing from the cleft in his chin.

  “Doesn’t sound familiar, but who knows? The prophet has plenty of men to do his bidding.”

  Rachel picked up the teapot and filled our cups, adding, without question, a tiny bit of milk and sugar to each. Something danced in her eyes as she pushed my cup across the table. Triumph, I think, taking my surprise—my fear, in fact—as some sort of victory.

  “So,” she said after sending a cooling blow across the surface of her drink, “are you ready to go back home? I can arrange for Tillman to drive you.”

  “I’m not going back, Rachel.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Brigham won’t give you a divorce.”

  “I don’t care. I’m not just leaving my marriage; I’m leaving the church, this place.”

  “What about your girls?”

  “I’ll be back for them, when I’m settled.”

  “Where?”

  “Home. With my parents. If they’ll have me, that is. I’ll know this spring, as soon as the weather is safe for travel. But if I go back with Nathan now, I know I’ll never leave. Not only will he never let me out of the house, he’ll just . . .” I brought my cup close to my face, hoping the steam would explain the flush on my cheeks. “He lured me away once before with nothing more than his words. He’ll do it again.”

  “Then maybe you don’t really want to leave.”

  I took a long sip of the drink, relishing both the warmth and the rebellion of it. “If I had a choice, I’d stay. But I can’t. It’s like some sort of veil has been lifted, and I can just see. I know it’s hard for you to see it too, but this religion—it’s all lies. Joseph Smith was a false prophet, and now Brigham Young is abusing your faith. I know the truth now, in my heart. My life is in God’s hands, my heart given fully over to Jesus Christ. And I know if it were just me, I could live here, with Nathan, and never lose that.”

  “So why don’t you?”

  “Because my girls . . .” My throat closed, tears choking the words. How could I explain? I’d read where Jesus told others to leave their families, their loved ones—to abandon their very lives to follow him. Saturated in the Latter-day teachings, Rachel didn’t even know the same Jesus I followed. “I won’t abandon them to these lies.”

  “Nathan will never let you take them.”

  “He’ll have another family. With Amanda. Maybe even a son and other children. Maybe even another wife.”

  “Tell me something.” She gestured with a corner of scone pinched between her fingers. “This unveiling of yours. Do you think you would have had your own personal revelation if Nathan hadn’t taken a second wife?”

  “It came long before. In my heart, I renounced the teachings of the prophet the day my son died, but I remained faithful to my marriage. I chose my husband over my faith. But when the time came for me to ask the same of him, I begged him not to bring another woman into our home, but I held no such place in his heart.”

  “But shouldn’t a man—or woman—love God above all?”

  “Yes, if it is the true God. His isn’t. Brigham’s isn’t.”

  “Dangerous words, sister.”

  “I know.” Despite her argumentative nature, I knew she spoke out of concern rather than threat.

  “Brigham wants unity—in this world and the next.”

  “And he has a fleet of Saints at his disposal. He won’t miss me.”

  “No, but Nathan will.”

  Chapter 11

  Rachel and I cleaned up the evidence of our visit long before Evangeline was expected to be home. I insisted she take back what we didn’t eat—though, in truth, that amounted to little more than a single muffin and half a scone. I’d have no way of explaining their arrival to Evangeline, and I myself would be eaten away with guilt if I kept them upstairs for a clandestine snack.

  She’d hugged me close before leaving—a warmer embrace than I ever remembered between the two of us. But it did little to ease my mind. I slid the iron bar as I closed the door behind her and went immediately to my knees in prayer. Looking back, I cannot articulate exactly what my appeals to the Lord were that hour. My safety, of course, though I loathed to think of my own husband as being any kind of threat. More like the safety of my own mind, that I would remember my purpose and the promise I had of God’s protection.

  I went into the kitchen, where the last of the tea warmed in a small saucepan. Rachel had offered to leave me both the tea and the pot, but I would not infringe on Evangeline’s hospitality so blatantly. Still, I relished the thought of savoring a final few sips while reading my Bible at the sunny table. Whatever questions plagued me, the answers would be within these pages. I curled my finger around the cup’s handle and bowed my head over the precious book.

  Oh, to have a prophet—a true prophet—who would walk into this kitchen and speak the words of God into my life. Give me the truth I longed to hear. I would suffer any reprimand for my choices, withstand any holy chastisement for my actions, if it meant hearing a true word.

  But then, hadn’t God already given his Word? It was the desire for a new revelation that had given Joseph Smith a foothold in the hearts of his followers.

  I lifted my head and opened the Bible, turning through the pages listlessly at first, then with more purpose. If my heart sought the words of a true prophet, they were to be found here—words recorded by men who were ordained of God.

  I turned to the book of Jeremiah, written to those in another time, another captivity, but meant for me in this moment as well. My eyes flew across the chapters, seeing my own sin in the sins of Israel. Hadn’t I abandoned my Lord when I first ran away with Nathan? Hadn’t I snubbed my nose at his blessings when I took to the wilderness?

  It had been scarcely more than a month since I’d left my husband, and though I did so in order to find a new life for my daughters, I felt so lost. Misplaced, actually. Like I’d been hidden away from God’s eyes, left to scramble through life’s darkest corners.

  And then, after nearly an hour’s reading, my heart found hope, as God promised to rescue the remnant of Israel—those who clung to their faith. He promised to gather them together, and I claimed my place in that remnant.

  My eyes had grown weary, but by the time I came to the twenty-third chapter, my vision became the least important of my senses, as the voice of the Lord of hosts seemed to fill the empty kitchen, shouting from the printed page. “Am I a God at hand, saith the Lord, and not a God afar off? Can any hide himself in secret pl
aces that I shall not see him? saith the Lord. Do not I fill heaven and earth?”

  I belonged to a God who saw me, sitting in that cold kitchen sipping tea. The same God who rescued me from the snowstorm, who guided me across the plains, who would see me restored to my family. I closed my eyes and tried to see my little girls through his eyes, for surely he saw them, too. At this moment they would be walking home from church. I opened my hands, palms raised to the ceiling. In that moment I felt restored, healed, not maimed in any way.

  “Oh, protect them, Father. Let the cold wind of your creation blow over them, clearing from their heads and their hearts the teachings of the Saints until I can bring them to a home built on your truth.”

  I wept, wondering just how many times my own mother had offered up that same prayer. Perhaps she was in such supplication right now, at her table. With her tea. Her hands outstretched, maybe grasping my father’s. And had she done so every day since my leaving? True, she hadn’t responded to my letters, but that didn’t mean she’d abandoned me in her heart.

  “Oh, God, restore us to each other, just as I’ve been restored to you.”

  The words on the pages of my open Bible blurred as I dropped my head upon it. The paper felt cool against my brow, and I breathed in the smell of—I don’t know what, exactly. Ink? Leather? My own touch, as I’d pressed my palm so often against the open pages?

  There had been moments before—and many since—when I truly sensed that God was at hand, but none so strong as that moment. The Mormons speak often of the “burning in the bosom,” but this had no such isolated sensation. Joseph Smith had this testimony of the revealed presence of God in the forest, but I saw nothing. Heard nothing. In truth, felt nothing. No touch to my upturned hands, no warmth coursing through my veins, no comforting weight between my shoulders.

  I simply knew.

  God was here. God was within me. No power on earth could sway me from that fact. I needed no angel to come to my bedside. No vision in my path. No recitations or explanations or revelations. He filled me just as he did the heavens and the earth. I needed only my own breath with which to pray.

  I sat until the tea got cold, gulping it down in one swallow the minute I heard the front door open.