The Sister Wife

by Diane Noble

  “The storm last night,” he said in a worried voice as he rubbed his hands against the cold. “’Twas so much the same as…” His voice dropped off and a moment passed before he could continue. “The sounds and all. I thought Miss Minnie might need me. But Ma said I couldn’t come till first light.”

  “I’m glad you came. Her ears flicked forward when you spoke.”

  The boy’s eyes brightened. “Ye think I might touch her today? Maybe just her neck? I’ll be careful.”

  Enid cracked open the stall door and slipped inside. The big horse didn’t rear, but snorted and tried to disappear into the dark corner. “Come with me,” she said softly to Brodie. “But don’t make any sudden move toward her. Just let her sense your presence. Think about how much you love her, and maybe she’ll see it in your eyes.”

  “’Tis a wonder to even be this near her,” the boy whispered. He moved his gaze from her eyes, then, and fixed his gaze first on her scars, the flap that had been torn open on her neck when lightning hit the tree under which the boy and his horse had taken shelter.

  The boy had told her the story a dozen times, at first sobbing as he described what happened. A branch fell, the tree caught fire, and the horse screamed in terror, bolting under a smoldering, jagged, broken branch that knocked the boy off her back and cut deep into the horse’s neck. Brodie never knew a horse had so much blood. The jagged branch split from the tree and hit the ground and in Miss Minnie’s panic, she caught her hoof in a V-shaped limb attached to the larger branch and dragged the whole thing with her until she disappeared from sight, the child running after her, crying out for her to stop, crying out that he would fix it. Hours later the boy and his pa found Miss Minnie trembling by the ocean’s shoreline, wet with blood and sweat, frothing at the mouth, so fearful she seemed to have lost any recognition of the boy who loved her.

  When she first saw the horse, Enid knew she should be put down, but she couldn’t do it. The horse needed healing and so did she. Over those first few weeks and months, Miss Minnie became her obsession; getting her to trust again became Enid’s life’s work. She thought of little else, even as she treated other animals at neighboring farms.

  Miss Minnie nickered again, her fearful gaze now fixed on Brodie. Enid moved in front of the boy to protect him if the horse suddenly reared and kicked. The mare associated the boy with the lightning storm, her injuries, her terrifying flight, just as she associated Enid with the ministrations meant to heal but that brought greater pain, distrust, and fear.

  The boy slipped out from behind Enid. “Miss Minnie,” he whispered, adopting the same soothing tone as Enid. “’Tis me. Yer best friend Brodie. Do ye remember?”

  The mare nickered, keeping her eyes fixed on the boy’s. Enid held her breath. They had connected, even if for just a heartbeat; they had connected for the first time since the accident. It had nothing to do with actions or movement by the horse or the boy. It had to do with what she saw in both their eyes.

  Enid whispered for Brodie to slowly lift his hand and cup his fingers together. She dropped her handful of oats onto his palm. “Lift it slowly,” she murmured. “Let Miss Minnie see what you have for her.”

  The boy did as Enid suggested, and Miss Minnie eyed his hand warily. “I used to bring ye carrots and apples, and I will again, if ye’ll eat the oats. But ye must eat the oats first, Miss Minnie.” He held out his hand, and Enid held her breath in worry. At the slightest disturbance the injured mare would kick at the stall, rear, and scream.

  “Perhaps this is enough for one day,” she said. “Miss Minnie is making good progress.” She turned to lead the child out the stall door.

  “Look at ’er now, Mrs. Livingstone.” He couldn’t keep the excitement from his whisper.

  Enid heard the telltale sounds of the horse nuzzling Brodie’s hand for food, and turned. As she nibbled at the oats, the horse remained wary and attentive, her gaze locked on the boy’s.

  Brodie stepped closer and patted the dun’s neck. Again, she didn’t shy away. His eyes filled as he laid his cheek just below the worst of the scars. When Miss Minnie didn’t move, Brodie buried his face in the mare’s mane. Enid saw his shoulders tremble and knew that he cried. The mare arched her neck, looked down at the boy, and nuzzled him.

  By late morning, Enid had finished her chores around the ranch and rode back with Brodie to the Flynns’ farm for Sunday dinner.

  The dusting of snow melted, and though the thin winter sun was out with a buttermilk sky backdrop, dark clouds billowed in the north. She told Brodie she would need to leave early because of it.

  “Can ye not just stay the night?”

  Enid laughed. “Then who would take care of all my animals? No, I need to get back after supper.”

  She slowed Sadie to a walk, and Brodie did the same with his horse. He turned to look at her solemnly. “I’m glad ye’ll be with us tonight, at least for supper.” He thought for a minute, looking at the ground. “I’m glad yer back for good.”

  “Well, thank you, Brodie,” she said. “Though I wasn’t gone for long.”

  “We all thought it was going to be forever, sailing off to London and all, like ye planned.”

  “I thought so too, but everything changed the night Captain Livingstone died.”

  “Do ye miss him?”

  “Terribly.”

  “Ma says she’s worried ye’ll run off to find that fellow we bought our house from. What is his name…Mr. MacKay?”

  Enid laughed. “Yes, Gabriel MacKay. He invited me to look him up in a faraway place called Nauvoo. But I’m quite content to stay here and do what I love most. Practice veterinary medicine.”

  “That’s what I want to do when I grow up,” the boy said. “Help animals heal.”

  “You’d be very good at it.”

  “Can I ask ye something?” Their horses clomped along the road. Puddles held ice and were as slick as glass. Enid nudged her horse to take the lead, concentrating on guiding them around the slippery obstacles.

  “Anything,” Enid said.

  “Are ye planning to marry Mr. MacKay?”

  She laughed. “Goodness, no.”

  “Don’t tell Ma I said so, but she and Pa are saying that ye will. She says ye’ll work on animals no matter where ye go.”

  Enid chuckled. “You can tell them I have no intentions of leaving the island again for a very long time.”

  “Ma said it will be in the spring, when the wildflowers bloom again and when Miss Minnie is healed. And when you’re healed too from feeling so bad about the captain.” In truth, Enid didn’t think she would ever heal from her wounds. She had too many, most of them brought on by her own doing, and then, digging deeper into her heart as with a knife, there were the last words Hosea had written about forgiving but not forgetting.

  They reached the highest point of land between the two properties, a place where she and Gabe often came to watch the ships on their way to the harbor, or at night to watch the stars and pick out constellations.

  She halted Sadie as a magnificent sailing ship passed by below. In full sail, it sped along as if on glass. It brought back memories of both Hosea and Gabe.

  Gabe had written her from Boston, just as he’d promised. He reported Hosea’s reaction in a short letter, only three sentences long. Hosea had taken the news harder than expected. Gabe hoped that with time her husband would realize how much they both loved him, and Hosea would forgive them. He ended the missive by letting her know again that should she need him, he would come to her, or welcome her with open arms, should her desire be to come west.

  “When the flowers bloom? That’s when your ma thinks I leave?”

  “Aye, she said herself. Ye’ll leave when the primroses and marigolds bloom. ’Twill make yer heart think of love again—and she’s long thought ye once loved Mr. MacKay…Can I ask ye one other thing?”

  “Of course.”

  “’Twas a bad thing that the captain died the way he did, but it was a good thing that ye came ba
ck to save my Miss Minnie. And ye wouldn’t have done it if the captain hadn’t died.” He scrunched up his face in thought. The sunlight briefly left its cloud cover and touched his tufts of red hair. Two big front teeth had replaced the empty places where the baby teeth had fallen out last summer.

  “How can something bad make something good happen?” He blinked back tears. “It doesn’t feel right somehow.” A breeze came off the ocean, and from a stand of willows a great blue heron took flight. “It doesn’t feel right to be glad the bad thing happened,” he whispered, so low Enid almost didn’t hear him. “But I can’t help it.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Nauvoo, Illinois

  March 17, 1842

  Mary Rose sat at her writing desk near an open window in her bedroom. She chose this room as the one she would share with Gabe because of the view of the sunset on the river, that moment in time when the river turned from silver to gold to bronze and then black. And now, sitting at her desk beneath the window, she could see the sky changing from the vivid blues of midafternoon to a paler wash of scarlet and yellow hues as the sun began sinking into the horizon.

  The farmhouse had been completed the week before, thanks to the efforts of the industrious Saints who, working together in barn-raising style, built town homes and farms almost as fast as new converts arrived. Many of their friends had contributed furniture, and the rest she and Gabe had shopped for in St. Louis and had delivered.

  Bronwyn’s laughter, mixed with that of Coal, Ruby, and Pearl, floated toward Mary Rose through the window. Next week, Bronwyn, Griffin, and Little Grace would move to their new farm on the neighboring property. Mary Rose’s heart twisted when she considered how much she would miss them. They’d become part of the family while living with the MacKays during the building of their new home.

  She looked out at the patch of land where she and Bronwyn had started a garden, thought of the seedlings just beginning to sprout, the growth she would oversee in the coming months…and mostly, how much she would miss her friend who showed her how to plant a garden.

  She opened her journal and began to write:

  This day I am profoundly blessed: by love I would not have known had I not met Gabriel MacKay—my heart, my all—on the voyage from England to this new land; by friendship I would not have known were it not for Grandfather’s insistence that we throw in our lot with the Prophet; by the delight of children I would not have known, yet whose presence bewildered me until I found love in my heart for them. Now I know not what I would do should their real parents come for them. I selfishly pray that day never comes, though the sweet little ones pray each night that their mama and papa would soon come to fetch them.

  I thought my longing to keep them might be lessened by the coming of my own child, but the closer we draw to his—or her!—birth, the more I realize that not even my own will take the place of our Ruby, Pearl, and Coal.

  I long for them to call me “Mama” and call Gabe “Papa” but I am still “Lady,” and Gabriel is still “Mr. MacKay.” If ever I hear the music of any word relating to motherhood from them, I will weep with joy.

  Grandfather has found a true love in his beloved Cordelia Jewel. They were married last month and sealed for eternity. They are now trying to decide if they will have a farm built or continue living in town. ’Tis a wonder that the Earl of Salisbury would marry a dance hall girl from New Orleans, but I suppose conversion comes in all shapes and sizes and backgrounds.

  Sometimes I have to remind myself that when the self-righteous men brought before Jesus the adulteress caught in sin and asked that she be stoned to death according to the law, he said, “He who is without sin, cast the first stone.” Of course, they all turned away.

  Though Scripture doesn’t say, ’tis my belief that it was the woman’s heart that changed that day, not the self-righteous “holy” ones who thought they knew God’s law.

  Forgiveness is not a subject I think about often. But today, as I sit here, with my life the happiest I’ve ever known it to be, I wonder if something more terrible than I can imagine were done to my family, my children (and I count Coal, Ruby, and Pearl my own), my friends, would I find forgiveness in my heart?

  I feel the little one beneath my heart wiggling and kicking and sometimes even tumbling. What greater joy can anyone know but that? I think often of the words that seem to flow from somewhere in my heart’s depths…“Thou hast covered me in my mother’s womb…I will praise thee; for I am fearfully and wonderfully made: marvelous are thy works; and that my soul knoweth right well.”

  To think such a miracle is happening in my own womb even now brings me joy beyond all measure.

  That night, Grandfather and his new bride stopped by for a visit, though what appeared to be a social call revealed itself as something more when the earl helped Cordelia from the buckboard, then headed straight for Gabe and Griffin, who were saddling up in the barn.

  Mary Rose, curious about what was going on, decided to leave the social niceties to Bronwyn who, understanding what she was up to, gave her a wink. Bouncing Little Grace on her shoulder, Bronwyn greeted Cordelia warmly and led her inside the house for tea, the twins trailing behind asking endless questions about the riverboat and if she would teach them how to dance.

  “I’ve alwayth wanted to learn how to danth,” Ruby said. “Will you thow uth?”

  “Me too,” Pearl said. “I want to know how to waltz.”

  Coal’s gaze darted from the house to the barn where the men were talking, likely trying to decide if he would rather ask questions about riverboat gambling or hear about the secret meeting of Porter Rockwell’s militia.

  Mary Rose ruffled his hair. “You’re dying of curiosity and so am I. We can ask Sister Cordelia about life on the riverboat later.”

  He grinned up at her. “If I didn’t already have a mother, I’d want you to be her.”

  Mary Rose stopped and looked down at him, her heart aching with love. “I believe that’s the nicest thing anybody ever said to me.” She rested her hand on his shoulder as they continued to the barn.

  Her grandfather was talking as she entered the dark barn. “Word in town is that there’ve been new threats against us, especially against the outlying farms. You sure it’s a good idea to leave tonight?”

  “There’s only one road in to reach our farm,” Gabe said. “And we’ll be guarding it.” He gave the earl directions: the river road to the intersection of the main road into town. He described the meeting place: outside an abandoned farmhouse that had been recently burned, the family driven out—just behind a stand of pines.

  Griffin gave the earl a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “We know about the renewed threats. That’s what the meeting’s about—the escalating violence and what we will do about it.”

  “If it’s Porter Rockwell who’s heading it up, you must be meeting with the Destroying Angels, not the militia.” The earl looked worried. “Anyone else of importance going to be there?”

  Mary Rose knew the difference between the two armies very well. The militia was meant to show outsiders that the Mormons were ready to protect themselves from invaders. The secret army, sometimes called the Destroying Angels or Avenging Angels, was dispatched to attack their enemies, create fear and trembling among the neighboring communities. They carried out their secret raids in the dead of night, faces covered, identities unknown even among the other Mormons. Mary Rose abhorred the idea of Gabe carrying out such violence.

  “The Prophet and Brigham, a few of the apostles,” Gabe said.

  Mary Rose stepped out of the shadows, unable to be quiet any longer. “If the Gentiles get wind of such a meeting with our leaders, they might choose the place as a target to get all our leaders at once.”

  Gabe smiled and came over to embrace her. “You’re thinking like a soldier, love. We’re actually hoping they do get wind of it.” Then he sobered and looked at the earl. “I’m glad you’re here. You know where the firearms are, should you need them.”

  “I
do.”

  “So do I.” Coal stuck out his chest. “And I know how to shoot.”

  Mary Rose shuddered at the thought of the little boy picking up a gun of any kind.

  Gabe squatted beside the boy. “You need to let the earl handle the firearms—unless it’s an absolute emergency.”

  The boy nodded.

  “We’ll go out shooting again soon, so you can get even better.” He stood and turned to the earl again. “We chose the grove just beyond the turnoff to the river so we can catch the thugs either way they come—by road or by water.”

  “It’s a trap, then,” the earl said.

  Griffin’s horse snorted and danced sideways as he prepared to mount. “We’re hoping it will be.”

  “We’re determined to catch them red-handed,” Gabe said, swinging his leg over his horse.

  She went over to the bay and looked up at him. “Be careful, Gabe. This Destroying Angels business isn’t what we’re all about. The Prophet has said in the past that we’re a peaceable people.”

  “That was then; this is now,” Gabe said. “The Prophet and every last apostle agree, the Destroying Angels are as necessary as the militia.”

  She fell silent for a moment. One of the horses nickered, pawing the ground, and the other shook its mane as if impatient to be on its way. “Are we stooping to their level by attacking their farms and outlying settlements? Isn’t the militia and an impressive show of arms just as effective?”

  “We can go on thinking that,” Griffin said, “until it happens to one of our farms, or if one of our family members is injured or worse.”

  The two men rode out of the barn, but Bronwyn, standing on the porch, called out to Griffin. He halted and she ran toward him.

  “This doesn’t feel right to me,” she said. “You shouldn’t go.”

  Griffin dismounted and stood in front of her. “I’m doing it so we can all rest easier. It has to be done.”

  “Let the militia take care of it, I beg you. Don’t go to the meeting tonight.”