Forsaking All Others (9 page)

“It’s their way,” Colonel Brandon said when I mentioned we should share what we had. “He has his own. He’ll eat when he’s ready. Probably not until the end of the journey. These are proud people.”

“And private.”

“That’s right. You keep an Indian woman, don’t you?”

“
Keep
is an ugly word. Makes it sound like slavery. We had . . . There was some trouble a while back with the natives. Kimana’s family—her husband and child—were killed. She was wounded. Nathan and I cared for her, and then she just . . . stayed.”

“That was good of your husband.”

“He’s a good man, Colonel Brandon. In all of this, we must remember that.”

Chapter 7

After two endless, exhausting days of riding, we arrived at the northernmost ward of Salt Lake City under a cloudy veil of muted moonlight.

“You lead us from here,” Colonel Brandon said, his horse pawing impatiently in the muddy street.

Coyote Tom declared he would go no further into town, and I couldn’t blame him. It was a strange relationship the Saints had struck with the native Indians. Joseph Smith’s revelations taught that Jesus walked among these people, but they themselves garnered little reverence. Few were ever seen within the city, and being in the streets at night would bring Coyote Tom—and all of us—unwanted attention.

“This way, toward the temple.” I sounded more confident than I felt, as I’d never come into town from this direction before. However, Brigham Young’s meticulous planning—straight, ordered streets—soon displayed the logic he’d intended, and we moved through the grid with measured, quiet steps. Even the horses seemed to sense our clandestine intent, as each hoof was raised and lowered almost silently upon the packed mud and snow. I held Honey’s reins loose in my hand, guiding her right, then left, then right again as the streets became more familiar. After a time, the houses on either side of the street ceased to be simple, wood dwellings with darkened windows and became grand, multistory brick structures with soft lights glowing from within.

I whispered over my shoulder, “This is the street,” and Colonel Brandon responded with a low, appreciative whistle.

“If I’d known you came from this kind of money, I’d have considered holding you for ransom.”

“None of this is mine. I have a sister-in-law who married well to a man who married often.”

“You mean there’s profit to be made in polygamy?” Private Lambert asked.

“No,” I said, lowering my voice and indicating he should do the same. “There’s profit to be made in obeying Brigham Young.”

Rachel and Tillman lived in an enormous, three-story home built of bricks the color of overripe cherries. A wide porch ran the length of the house; I’d spent many a summer evening sitting on the bench swing watching our children chase fireflies in the front yard. A short picket fence surrounded the lot, and I called our party to stop at its corner. Although lamplight shone through the front window and several upstairs, the hour was late and we were hardly expected. I could only imagine the ruckus that could follow if Tillman came to the door to greet this wayward Saint accompanied by two soldiers. Besides, I hardly knew how I was going to explain myself, let alone my escort. To my surprise, Colonel Brandon agreed.

I said a quick prayer, asking God to guide my words as surely as he had guided our steps here, and dismounted Honey, handing her reins to Private Lambert. The street was otherwise deserted, making my steps sound louder than had any of the horses’. I ran my gloved hand along the tops of the pickets, remembering the rattling sounds the girls and their cousins made by racing along them with sticks. Those were the memories that made me think I could make a home for us here. For a while, anyway. Until the spring.

I was still at the gate when I saw Rachel through the window. Her blonde hair with its long, loose curls tied back by a single, thin ribbon glowed golden in the firelight. She was laughing at something, her head thrown back, and for just a moment I panicked. More than anybody, Nathan could make her laugh like that, and the thought of his being just outside my line of vision stopped my heart. But then, one of her sons—Bill, I think—ran into her arms and she embraced him in a hug I could feel all the way out in the cold. Whatever he’d done or said to inspire such joy in his mother I could only imagine, but then I’d shared such moments with my own daughters, and I knew that the smallest gesture, the tiniest trinket could lead to such a treasured embrace. The cold night air turned to fine crystal within me, and I ached to hold my children.

Just then, Rachel picked the boy up and gave him a spin, turning his back to the window while bringing herself to face it head-on. And that’s when she saw me. I know she did because all trace of mirth left her face. Her hand came up to cup the back of her son’s head, pressing him more closely to her, and she looked straight at me over his fine blond hair. I don’t know how long we stayed there, staring at each other—she in the light, I in the dark—but it felt like a small eternity. Her gaze held me frozen at the gate and I sensed Colonel Brandon approaching to my rescue. Wordlessly, I held up a hand to stop him—just the slightest flicker of my wrist, never taking my eyes off the warm tableau on the other side of the glass.

Inside, Rachel put little Bill down and stepped away, saying something that sent him out of the room. Moments later she came through the door, and then it was I in her embrace, the small iron gate between us.

“Camilla Fox—you had us all scared half to death.”

Her words, though whispered, were urgent, and she held me so tightly, I could not respond until she stepped away, and then I could manage only “I’m sorry.”

“Where have you been?”

“I can’t tell you that right now.”

“What happened? Why did you leave?”

“Nathan didn’t tell you?”

Before she could answer, the front door opened and Tillman’s body filled the doorway.

“Rachel? Sweetheart, what on earth are you doing out there?”

In one fluid motion, Rachel grabbed my arm and turned me so that my face was hidden. “Just chatting with Sister Delia, darling. Learning how she makes that walnut cake you liked so much at the last Sunday supper.”

“It’s late,” he grumbled.

“Well, it’s not often we get a chance to chat, dear. I’ll be right in.”

Rachel’s was a voice that could soothe any beast, and without a word her obedient husband turned and walked inside. She looked over my shoulder, waiting for the sound of the latch before turning her attention back to me.

“I’ve been hoping that what Nathan told me wasn’t true,” she said, picking up our conversation.

“So he told you I left?”

“He told me that you were leaving the church. That when the bishop came to question you, you renounced our faith and refused to be rebaptized. He told me you left him without a word, that you abandoned him and your children.” All of this she spoke through perfect, gritted teeth as if she herself had been wronged by my actions. “So, please, Camilla, tell me he was wrong.”

“It’s true. All of it.”

She frowned with an expression more like pity than anger. “You stupid, stupid girl. What were you thinking?”

“I—”

“I told you, give yourself time to accept the new wife. The first few months are hard, but you’ll adjust. It’s the way things are.”

“I didn’t leave because of Amanda. Not entirely.”

“Oh yes, you did. You were jealous. Not about a new woman coming into your home, but the fact that my brother chose to obey Heavenly Father and Brigham Young over your selfish wishes.”

“I cannot be part of a church with the false teachings that would encourage a man to make such a choice.”

“Stupid girl,” she said again, and this time she grabbed my arm and hauled me through the gate. Such a bold action would surely bring Colonel Brandon to my side, so I once again held up a hand to stay him. Once we were safely tucked around the side of the house, true darkness settled all around us. She spoke close—close enough that I could feel her breath on my face. “Do you know what kind of danger you may have put yourself in?”

“There was no sign of a storm when I left,” I said, recalling that morning when, fully assured I was within God’s will, I’d walked out of my home. “I was going to come here to see if you could take me in. Just for a while, just until—”

“I’m not talking about a
storm
. I’m talking about when Nathan couldn’t find you. You’d disappeared after speaking such ugliness against the church. These are difficult times, Camilla.” She gripped my arm, and I could tell she was shaking. She’d left the house wearing only a heavy shawl, but her tremors were not from the cold. “You know the persecution we’re facing. The troubles Brigham’s having. We have to stand together.”

“I assure you, I’m no threat to Brigham’s church.”

“You’re tearing your family apart. You’re choosing to be disobedient to your husband, to the prophet, and to the church. They won’t stand for it, Camilla. You have to go back home. Throw yourself on Nathan’s mercy. He still loves you—he loves you so much. You’re the first wife. Go reclaim your place.”

“I can’t,” I said, but a gentle tugging on my spirit amended my words. “Not yet, anyway. I want to go home—to my parents. I’m planning to leave come spring. All I’m asking is for you to let me stay here with you until then.”

“Here?”

“Yes.”

“Absolutely not. I’m sorry, Camilla.”

“I wouldn’t be a burden. I’d do my share—”

“I have three sister wives. Do you really think I’d risk my marriage to have a little extra help with the dishes? Tillman wouldn’t stand for it.”

“If I am in danger as you say, how can I risk bringing that to my children? I—I can’t go back home.”

Rachel took a step back, studying me as she wrapped her shawl more tightly across her shoulders. “You never answered my question. Where have you been since you left?”

I felt a guard built up around my tongue, and I knew with absolute certainty that this was not the time for total truth. “Somebody found me after the storm died down. They took me in.”

“Somebody who?”

I chose my words carefully, picking my way across cobblestones of facts. “A man named Charles and his . . . family.”

Rachel furrowed her brow. “Do I know them?”

“They’ve just arrived. I was sick—from the cold, you know. They were quite kind. But I could never impose on them further.”

“Then you’ll need to find someplace else.”

“There is no place else.”

“Of course there is.” She spoke as if willing me to see a giant, invisible secret. “I’m not going to have a hand in this misguided adventure of yours, but surely there’s someone who’d welcome a little bit of company to while away the long, dark winter. A friend in need of a friend?”

As I listened, Rachel’s intent became clear, but with that clarity came a shadow of reluctance. “Oh, Rachel, I could never—”

“Rachel!” Tillman’s voice boomed into the night, no doubt alerting every neighbor.

Rachel stepped away to poke her head around the corner. “Just finishing up, darling. I’m on my way.” Then, back to me, every ounce of sweetness drained. “I’m through talking. And for both our sakes, this conversation never happened.”

I remained in the shadows of the side of the house until I heard the opening and closing of the front door. Drawing my hood down to hide my face, I moved quickly through the front yard and out the little iron gate, making my way back to the corner where Colonel Brandon and Private Lambert waited with the horses.

“Private Lambert will carry your things,” Colonel Brandon said. Indeed, the young man already bore my small bundle of belongings over his shoulder.

“Not here,” I said before giving a brief rendition of my conversation with Rachel. “But there’s one other place I can go.”

“More family?”

“Not quite. It’s a little way from here, but the horses will attract too much attention. I’ll be fine on my own.”

“Nonsense,” Colonel Brandon said. He turned to Private Lambert. “Coyote Tom is setting up camp just outside the city. Take the horses, and I’ll meet you there.” He took the bundle from Private Lambert and slung it over his shoulder before bowing to me in a gesture that clearly said, “Lead on.”

The wide streets that comprised Rachel’s neighborhood and those just past it, hosting every kind of shop and boutique, were lined with lights that would blaze until midnight—at least one more hour, according to Colonel Brandon’s timepiece. Heads down, we walked swiftly and spoke very little, our silence complementing the muffled sounds around us. When we came to Temple Square, however, I brought us to a stop.

“Normally,” I said, “this place would be a beehive. Just the way Brother Brigham likes it. Men hauling stone, climbing scaffolds. Constant, constant noise. Hammers and wagons and—”

“Shh.” His gloved fingers came to my lips. “Listen.”

I saw. Low-lit lanterns hanging from the scaffolds. Oxen and wagons positioned in the street. And men. Absent were the rich baritone voices raised in songs glorifying the sacrifice of their labor. Instead, nothing but muffled footsteps and the occasional whispered command.

Colonel Brandon drew me close to his side and brought us under the eave and against the window of a print shop on the corner opposite the temple. As we watched, it soon became clear that while this late-night workforce might lack joyous tribute, they exhibited no shortage of fervent dedication. It was constant motion—dark, shadowy figures milling all around the temple’s foundation. Shovels and buckets and spades in an ever-marching brigade. One wagon being led away, and another falling in line behind. All in a perpetual silent agreement of purpose.

“They’re burying it,” Colonel Brandon said, his voice no louder than that of a shovel stabbing soil.

“But why? They’ve worked so hard . . .”

“They’re hiding it so it won’t be destroyed.”

“But who would—?”

“We would. Or so Brigham Young seems to think.”

Somehow, the sight of those men burying that temple struck a chord of fear in me that no enemy’s blaze ever could. Every stone in that foundation came from the quarry not far from the home I shared with Nathan. I’d seen the men toiling under the weight of them—each giving one day in ten as free labor to the church. I’d seen the great slabs lashed to the wagons, pulled by teams of eight oxen one brutal step at a time, making a journey of three days out of one that would normally take an afternoon. It was all we talked about, that temple. Its blueprints were almost as sacred as
The Book of Mormon
. Men and women alike devoted as much to it as to God himself. The workforce of the pharaohs of Egypt was no more enslaved than Brigham’s Saints. And to think, now, at his word, to tear down what they’d built? To create one massive, domelike grave?