“I am thankful enough to have a home and the comfortable living God has provided,” I’d said. “I’ll not boast of having more.”
The second, smaller trunk was full of things for the girls. Two new dresses apiece and thin, dark canvas riding coats to protect them from the inescapable dust. I also had two small, soft down pillows and one of Mama’s older quilts to help keep them comfortable both during the ride and in whatever overnight stopping places we would encounter. At Mama’s suggestion, I’d refrained from bringing them any new dolls or toys.
“They might want to bring something more familiar from home,” she’d said, and I marveled that there was ever a time in my life when I’d disregarded her counsel.
Within fifteen minutes Mr. Bostwick had procured a young man—maybe fifteen years old—with a shock of yellow-blond hair feathering out from beneath a black knit cap. He had a team of slow-moving horses pulling a flatbed wagon and agreed to take us and our luggage to the hotel for whatever amount Mr. Bostwick had folded into his palm. Mr. Bostwick rode in the back of the wagon after I had been handed up to the springy seat next to the boy.
“First time in the city?”
“No.” Fortunately, the chilliness in my voice discouraged further conversation.
We rolled through the streets at such an excruciatingly slow pace, the horses might have been hauling a temple stone rather than our modest party. The boy himself slumped and sloped at the reins, his head bobbing in rhythm to the horses’ rumps.
Though I’d been gone for just over a year, the change that had been wrought on the city was obvious, even at this late hour. Maybe it was a matter of season. We were, after all, quick on the heels of winter, without having given spring much of a chance to take hold. Everything looked damp, unkempt. Not exactly lifeless, but lacking the vibrancy I’d known this city to have.
I held my breath as we turned onto Temple because I knew we would soon be taking a slow pass in front of Rachel and Tillman’s home. At this hour, the children would all surely be in bed, but I fully expected to see the downstairs windows full of blazing light as she and her sister wives gathered in the parlor to read or sew. I craned my neck but saw only utter darkness lining the street.
Turning in my seat, I asked Mr. Bostwick the time, as it must have been later than I imagined.
“Not quite ten.”
“And everybody packed up in bed?”
“Everybody packed up and gone,” the boy said.
Fear collided with the cool evening air, turning my blood into winter ice. “Gone? Where?”
He shrugged. “South, mostly. Order of the prophet. Pretty soon this place is going to be running over with Gentiles.” He glanced my way. “No offense, ma’am, if you are one.”
“What has that to do with anything?”
“Don’t want to let them all profit on what Heavenly Father gave to us. Wouldn’t do—”
“Stop,” I said. We were right in front of Rachel’s home, and there wasn’t a spark of light to be seen. Without waiting for any assistance, I climbed down from the wagon seat and walked through the front gate, straight up to the front door. Somewhere behind me, Mr. Bostwick was calling my name in a strained whisper, but I paid him no mind. Acting against logic, I knocked on the front door, then pounded, calling, “Rachel! Tillman?”
Soon I felt a comforting hand on my shoulder and heard Mr. Bostwick gently, quietly leading me away.
“Camilla, my dear. The windows—they’re boarded up. There’s nobody here. We don’t want to call undue attention to ourselves.”
Looking up and down the street, I wondered just whose attention we would attract, as there didn’t seem to be anybody in any of the houses. Still, I allowed him to lead me down the front steps and back toward the wagon.
“It doesn’t make sense.” I spoke in a hushed tone straight into the sleeve of his jacket.
“Oh, but it does. Brigham Young feels he’s lost a war. This is his way of leaving a scorched earth to the enemy.”
“But how could he make them abandon their home?”
“You are much more acquainted with the power of his influence than I.”
The thought I’d been too terrified to speak until now came to the surface. “What if Nathan is gone?” I clutched his sleeve, panic rising. “I’ll have no idea where my girls are.”
“How long is the drive to your home?”
“Half a day.”
“We’ll leave at first light.”
By now we were back at the wagon, where our driver looked on in unconcealed curiosity. “You know the folks who lived here?”
“Yes.” I refused to say more.
“What’s your name, son?” Mr. Bostwick asked as he helped me back into my seat.
“Seth Linden, sir.”
“Tell me, Seth, where can I hire a rig to drive us to Cottonwood Canyon tomorrow?”
He scrunched his face. “My pa’s got a brand-new runabout, but tomorrow’s the Sabbath, sir. He won’t do business with you. Won’t nobody.”
Mr. Bostwick got back in the wagon with what I thought was admirable flexibility for a man his age. This time, though, he didn’t dangle his legs over the back edge. Instead, he scooted one of the trunks clear up to the driver’s seat and sat on it. Seth clicked to the horses, and as they began their task anew, Mr. Bostwick leaned forward and said, “Trust me, young man. I’ll find somebody to do business with tomorrow.”
“Nope. Not in this town.”
“What is your father’s rate?”
Seth gave a quick glance backward. “Two dollars a day.”
All of a sudden, Mr. Bostwick’s arm appeared between us, palm up, a small pile of coins stacked in the center. “Perhaps we can do the transaction tonight, then. And you can deliver the buggy first thing in the morning, long before you’re due in church.”
The boy eyed the money. “That’s too much, sir.”
“I might need it for two days.”
“Pa will have my hide promisin’ business on a Sunday.”
“Or he’ll think you an enterprising young man indeed for knowing enough to conduct the business tonight.”
A few more seconds’ thought, and the coins were dropped in a small pocket on the front of Seth’s vest. “You want a one-horse or a two-horse team?”
“Two horses,” Mr. Bostwick said. “And I’ll need them delivered before dawn.”
* * *
The Hotel Deseret was a plain, square, three-story structure that occupied a corner lot. The sign above the door read, “For Businessmen Who Need a Home in Our Great City.” Mr. Bostwick gave Seth another nickel to lift our trunks down from the wagon and carry them into the front room of the establishment.
We walked in to find a large room with several tables scattered about, each occupied by one or more gentlemen reading newspapers or engaging in conversation. To the far left was a long oak counter, and behind it a tall, dignified-looking gentleman with coal-black hair and spectacles pinched to the top of his nose. He was writing in an enormous ledger as we approached and continued to do so for several seconds until Mr. Bostwick quietly cleared his throat.
“May I help you?” He looked at me and one eyebrow rose above the rim of his glasses. “Sir?”
“I am Michael Bostwick, an attorney-at-law. I would like to rent two rooms, please.”
“I’m sorry, sir. But we do not allow women to stay at the hotel.”
His implication was clear, and even if it wasn’t, the stares I felt on the back of my neck gave further clarification. My lips twitched with amusement even though my embarrassment felt close to the edge of shame.
“She is my client,” Mr. Bostwick said, then, softly, “and my daughter.”
“I’m sorry, sir. This is an establishment for businessmen, and we insist on not having the distraction of a woman on the premises.”
“It is only for one night.”
The clerk remained unflappable. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do.”
“It’s the mi
ddle of the night,” Mr. Bostwick said, growing in agitation. “Can you recommend someplace else?”
I listened to this exchange feeling numbing fatigue threatening to take over my body. Home. That’s all I wanted. No, tonight, even less than that. Shelter. Bed. Someplace to collect my thoughts and pray before tomorrow. This close to my daughters—within a day of holding them again—and I could think of nothing but Rachel and Tillman’s boarded-up home. Mine—or the one I left—could be the same. If it even existed. I had to know.
Even if the Hotel Deseret would rent me a room, I knew I’d get no sleep, being tortured with such a possibility. I could not ride in a rented buggy down into the little valley of our home, only to find it deserted. I had to know, and there was only one way to find out tonight.
“It’s all right,” I said, a quieting hand on Mr. Bostwick’s arm. “You stay here with our bags. I have someplace else I can go. A friend.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Mr. Bostwick knew exactly who was on my mind. I’d entertained him and Mama with enough stories after Sunday suppers. “I’m not letting you go out alone at this time of night.”
“I’ll be fine. Look, that young man is just bringing in the last of our things. He’ll take me.”
“Let me go with you.”
“No. It’s bad enough I’m showing up at her door at this hour. I can’t have a strange man with me as well.”
“Pardon me,” the clerk on the other side of the counter interjected. “Sir, will you be taking the room or not?”
“Please,” I said, beseeching, “I’m exhausted. I need a place to sleep. And it’s not far, just a few blocks. Just a few minutes away.”
“You don’t even know if she—”
“Oh, she’ll be there.”
Mr. Bostwick looked past me and got Seth’s attention, pressing yet another coin into his hand, directing him not only to take me to my destination but also to remain until I was safely inside.
“I’ll wait up for one hour,” he said, keeping a firm grip on my arms. “Come straight back here if anything goes awry. If you don’t come back, I’ll assume all is well.”
“That sounds very wise,” the hotel clerk said, and it was then that I realized we’d attracted the attention of every man in the room, with the exception of Seth, who looked like he was beginning to wish he’d never taken our fare.
“I’ll be fine,” I said again, hoping to reassure us both. Then, on an impulse, I fell against him, wrapping my arms as far as I could around his boxlike torso. He hugged me close, and I was reminded of the words he’d said to the hotel clerk just moments before, calling me his client, his daughter. In that moment, I truly believed the lie.
“Give me the address,” he said finally, “and I’ll be there to get you early in the morning.”
I told him, making sure that Seth heard and understood before the two of us walked out of the Hotel Deseret to the waiting wagon outside.
“I’m sorry to be such a bother,” I said once I was seated beside him.
“Likely Pa won’t mind. Business has been slow of late.”
It wasn’t long before we were on very familiar streets indeed, with row upon row of identical clapboard houses, more dire in their need of paint than ever before.
“So you got a friend waiting for you?” Seth asked.
“Something like that.”
We drove past the Square, and though I didn’t want to look, I hazarded a glance to where the temple was being rescued from its grave. Nothing miraculous here; the moonlight shone upon evidence of hard labor—carts of earth sat with shovels still propped beside them, as if the workers had been pulled away with the slap of sunset.
“It’s going to be glorious,” Seth said, following my gaze. “I can’t hardly wait to see it.”
“And I never shall.”
He shrugged and clicked to the horses, and to my surprise they actually picked up their pace. Perhaps they sensed my impatience—or my fear. Either way, the new bounce to their tails was encouraging, and the jostling in the seat made conversation uncomfortable, so the rest of our ride was both brief and silent. In what seemed too soon, we turned onto Evangeline’s street, and to my surprise—and Seth’s—I called out a “Whoa” to the horses.
Seth complied, pulling the reins to bring the team to a halt just down the street from the house I’d taken as a home for a few weeks last winter.
“Is this it?”
“Yes.” I wouldn’t wait for him to help me down from my seat; indeed, he showed little inclination to do so. I thanked him as my feet hit the ground.
“The gentleman told me to wait for you.” He was sitting up straighter, affecting a charming protectiveness beyond his years.
“You’ve done quite enough already.” If I was going to be thrown out on my ear, I didn’t want to burden the poor boy with another destination, especially when I had no idea what that destination would be. It took little more to convince young Seth to agree, and I found myself alone in the dark, in front of the very door through which I’d once escaped.
Looking back, I might have been more reluctant to be left in such a vulnerable spot if it weren’t for the light I saw in the second-story window, from the very room I briefly called my own. Of course, it had been Evangeline’s room long before I could lay any claim to it, and from the soft glow within, it seemed she’d reclaimed it. The thought gave me an odd sense of comfort, perhaps because my memories of her as the miserly spinster curled up on her parlor sofa every night spoke of such hopelessness. Certainly this spoke of a healing to her spirit—a healing that might translate to forgiveness. Or mercy, though I hadn’t resolved whether I was to be on the giving or receiving end of such grace. True, she had given me shelter when I needed it, but she had also openly coveted my husband and covertly wished me harm. But I was here now, in need of not only a bed but also information, for I knew she would never have allowed Nathan to step one foot away from her reach without her knowledge. I raised my hand to knock on the door.
No response.
Patiently, I waited. It was too late in the evening to raise a ruckus by pounding on the door, and while the light in the window indicated that she had not yet retired for the night, it could be that she’d dozed off with the candle burning, or she was looking for a wrap to throw over her nightgown before opening the door. So, after what I estimated to be five minutes, I knocked again more forcefully.
A familiar sound seemed to be coming from inside the house, and I leaned my ear against the door to listen. Soft it was, and muffled, but unmistakable. A child’s cry—more specifically, a baby’s.
Blood rushed to my face and I panicked, stepping away to double-check the number written above the door. There was just enough light to confirm this was indeed Evangeline’s house.
A child? It certainly wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. After all, I’d had a child since last living here. She was a young, healthy woman. Perhaps she’d found the love she so desperately sought. Or at least the marriage she fervently desired. Either way, I felt ever more the intruder than merely an uninvited guest, and I was turning to leave when I heard the door open behind me.
“Who are—?” he said, and I might have made my escape if something in his voice hadn’t forced me to turn around. But I did, and there he was, looking just as he did the first time I saw him and, to be truthful, the way I pictured him in every memory—bathed in light. Sometimes from the sun, other times the moon. Tonight it was a single candle held aloft, casting his shadow on the open door.
“Camilla?”
“Hello, Nathan.”
It was all I could say, as a million words—both unspoken and yet to be—nested in my throat. He apparently suffered a similar malady, as he stood, mouth agape, something between shock and a smile. We might have stood there all night, silent as that moment between darkness and dawn, if it weren’t for the intrusion of two other voices. A squalling baby’s cries were every bit as dry and tortured as the shout that came from the darkness. “Who i
s it at this hour?”
“See for yourself.” And with that wicked grin I knew so well, Nathan swung the door wider and stepped aside, inviting Evangeline Moss into his circle of light. But then, as I saw her small, pointed features unfurl from pinched curiosity to a triumphant sneer, I knew she wasn’t the spinster sister anymore. She sidled up to Nathan’s side, fearless of the candle. Both of them wore an expression of smug victory, nothing like the reception I’d been expecting.
“You don’t seem surprised to see me.” I wavered somewhere between suspicious and sad, but I kept my voice cool as steel.
“We should never be surprised at the work of Heavenly Father,” Nathan said before directing Evangeline to step aside and let me in.
Chapter 28
The baby cried and cried—long, scratchy wails that sounded like tree branches brushing against the wall. At Evangeline’s jostling, part of the blanket fell away, and I could see it was a tiny thing, red and scrunched up like a bean with wrinkled, skinny arms shooting out. The newborn demanded my attention, serving as the center point around which the rest of the picture formed. Slowly, like ripples coming to rest behind a skipping stone, I gained a clear picture of my surroundings. Evangeline’s parlor, yet not hers alone. A neatly folded pile of the Deseret News—a luxury she would never have afforded herself. The unmistakable scent of freshly carved wood, assuring me that somewhere—probably at the kitchen table—a project had been abandoned to the night. A few embers still glowed in the little parlor stove, meaning the room had spent the evening in a state of luxurious warmth.
Then, of course, there was Nathan himself, comfortable and authoritative as he touched the candle to the table lamp, filling the room with soft light. My eyes tracked that little light, and my breath caught in my throat as it touched the wick. There it was, a frosted blue globe etched with the image of young women dancing, a length of twisting ribbon linking them. I knew that lamp as well as I knew the man; it had been painted for me by his sister, Rachel, and had been a special gift to me after one of his trips to Salt Lake City.
Forsaking All Others Page 26
