The Betrayal

by Diane Noble

  Her eyes had filled with tears. Tears! This from a woman who never cried. She let them fall unashamedly, dripping down her cheeks onto his. He tasted the salt on his lips as she wept. She bent to kiss the tears from his lips, and smiled to see his eyes had filled.

  “Aren’t we a pair,” she’d said. “Strong, invincible, and so much in love it hurts enough to cry.”

  He’d touched her face, and she caught his hand with hers. “Don’t ever leave me,” she’d said. “You can sail the world because I know that’s what you love. But please, my dearest captain, please promise me this one thing. . .

  “ . . . that never, ever, no matter what happens to either of us, you will never leave me . . . that you will always come home to me.”

  Still holding his face between her gentle hands, she bent to kiss him. A deep velvet kiss that seemed to hold all her heart’s love for him.

  He blinked up at the stars, the ache in his heart almost unbearable.

  That was exactly what he’d done. He’d left his beloved Enid.

  Chapter Eleven

  Hosea flicked the reins above MacDuff, the horse he’d won at an auction after finding out it was on its way to a glue factory upriver. MacDuff—a swayback with big yellow teeth and a coat the hue of a mouse dipped in mud—seemed to understand his good fortune. He held his head high..

  They reached the top of the hill, and Hosea halted the horse. Grabbing his walking stick, he eased himself down from the wagon bench. Greyson had arrived before him, dismounted, and now squinted into the horizon.

  “That’s got to be Winter Quarters.” He handed his telescope to Hosea. “What do you think?” Reaching into his vest pocket, Greyson pulled out a small hand-drawn map and studied it while Hosea lifted the telescope to his eye.

  He scanned the landscape, focusing on the village. There had to be thousands of tents, cabins, and wagons. People everywhere, children playing. Men working crops, perhaps alfalfa.

  Brigham Young’s fanaticism showed. They’d heard he wanted everyone to be prepared for the next leg of the journey. The first to arrive a year ago planted crops for those still to come. They left in staggered groups so there would always be some Saints remaining to take the newcomers under wing.

  “Looks like he’s done what he set out to accomplish,” Greyson said. “It’s a beehive of activity down there. We’ve heard about it, but to see it firsthand . . .” He let out a low whistle. “The man is a genius. The U.S. government should be watching his planning abilities. Seems they could learn a thing or two for moving troops.”

  Hosea collapsed the telescope and handed it back to Greyson. “This is no encampment. It’s a small city. I wonder how I’ll ever find Enid—if she’s still here.”

  “From what you’ve told me about your friend Gabe, he’ll be found with the leaders. Most folks know who their leaders are. That’s where we’ll start.”

  Hosea stared at the place for a moment then nodded. “Let’s go. One way or the other, I need to know.” He turned to head back to the wagon.

  Greyson caught up with him. “There’s a chance he could have left when Brigham did.”

  Hosea and Greyson heard snatches of information about the Mormons as soon as they set foot on the Oregon Trail at St. Joe. The big news was that Jim Bridger, the well-known trapper and explorer, had run into Brigham somewhere west and told him about a location that might suit their needs—a great valley in the west, with a lake as big as the Red Sea, and just as salty.

  It was reported that he warned Brigham that the land was arid and unusable, but with those words, apparently Brigham gave the trapper a big smile and thanked him heartily. “That’s just the place for us,” he’d said, and then nodding to the others, he knelt on the ground. His men did the same, and they praised God for leading them to Bridger, and asked for God’s continued guidance.

  Hosea hoisted himself up to the wagon bench and sat back, looking down at Greyson.

  “You going to be all right?” Greyson adjusted his hat, turned the brim down against the sun. “About Enid, I mean?”

  “If I can get my heart to keep beating, I’ll be fine.” He chuckled.

  “Then let’s see if we can find your wife, my friend.” Greyson swung onto the saddle of his bay, and led the way back down the incline. Hosea chirked to MacDuff, who rolled a bloodshot eye at him and then turned slowly forward again to pull the wagon down the hill behind Greyson.

  They trundled along the main road leading into town. People seemed to know they were outsiders. Or was it his imagination? Hosea nodded to a couple of men walking along a boardwalk and attempted to look friendly. But neither tipped their hats or nodded back.

  How could they tell he and Greyson weren’t Saints? He tried to ignore the eerie feeling that traveled up his spine and caused the hair on the back of his neck to stand up straight.

  Greyson slowed the bay and waited for Hosea to catch up with him.

  “Do you get the feeling we’re being watched?” Hosea glanced toward a roughhewn wooden building. A lace curtain shifted like someone was behind it.

  “I just saw a couple of men hurry into the livery, glancing back at us every few steps,” Greyson said. “Couldn’t tell if they were afraid or defiant. Maybe a little of both.”

  Now the street seemed emptier than before. Hosea watched as mothers gathered little children and hurried them inside a shop or home. Again, curtains moved as if someone was watching them ride by, and he thought he saw the glint of a gun barrel.

  The town grew unnaturally quiet. Above, ravens called out their haunting cries as they circled, and along the empty road, the wagon wheels creaked and the horse hooves thudded.

  It was a relief when he noticed a building that loomed larger than the others. “Looks official,” he said to Greyson. “A meeting place, maybe?”

  “Let’s see what we can find out.” Hosea hoisted himself from the bench again, then led MacDuff to a hitching post as Greyson did the same with the bay.

  They entered the building and looked around. A round woman with pink cheeks and a tight gray bun bustled toward them, a mop in one hand, a dust cloth in the other. She frowned.

  “Brother Brigham’s made it quite clear that unless we’re having a meeting—”

  Greyson removed his hat out of respect. “We don’t know your customs, I fear. Please forgive us if we’ve wandered someplace we’re not supposed to be.”

  Her cheeks turned brighter. She blinked, and then smiled. “You’re Gentiles, then?”

  “I suppose so, according to your way of thinking, ma’am.”

  Her smile grew. “Well then, that’s wonderful. We don’t get many folks who just stop by for no reason.”

  Hosea pondered her friendly ways. Her attitude wasn’t in keeping with the strange behavior of the others outdoors. He stepped forward. “Actually, we do have a reason.” He ignored Greyson’s warning look. His friend wanted to get as much information as possible before the woman went on the defensive.

  “We’re looking for someone,” Hosea said.

  She studied him, her eyes filled with compassion as she took in his face with its broken nose and cheekbones, the scars that showed above his beard, the lopsided smile. “Who is it you need to find?”

  “I have a friend who is with you. His name is Gabriel MacKay.”

  Her smile widened. “You know Brother Gabe? Why, laws-a-me. I know him. So does everyone else in Winter Quarters.”

  Brother Gabe? He exchanged glances with Greyson. “You’re hoping to see him again, then. That’s why you’re here?”

  “Partly, yes. That’s why.” He took a deep breath. “Can you tell me how to find him?”

  “You’re about three months too late, I’m afraid. Brother Gabriel rode with the prophet to find our promised land a year ago. Then he returned to lead his family and others to the place they’d found.”

  Hosea tried to breathe, but it seemed the air had been sucked right out of his lungs. He could barely get the words out. “Left for the Salt Lake
Valley?”

  She nodded. “Yes. They’re headed for our new promised land, for our New Zion.” She lifted her chin. “The prophet has already chosen Deseret. It’s in that disputed territory of Mexico, you know.”

  “We’re aware of that,” Greyson said. “However, if the U.S. wins the Mexican-American war, Deseret will be part of the United States, not Mexico.”

  The woman’s face clouded. “That’s not going to happen,” she said. “We’ve been run out of Kirtland, Ohio; Far West, Missouri; and Nauvoo, Illinois. Terrible things were done to us. Brigham is taking us to a place where no one will ever molest us again. God’s spoken to him about it, and that’s that.” She placed her hands on her hips.

  Greyson broke the tension with one of his ear-to-ear smiles. “Well, ma’am, if the other women among the Mormons have even half your gumption, I don’t think you need to be worried about being run out of our New Zion.”

  She laughed. “Our family leaves next week. My husband’s been chosen as captain. It’s nearly too late in the season to make the journey, but he says God will be with us, and we’ll make it fine.”

  “It’s a long journey,” Greyson said, solemnly. “Winter will set in before you get there.”

  “We’ve known hardship before, Mister—”

  “I’m sorry, we should have introduced ourselves earlier. I’m Andrew Greyson . . .”

  Hosea stepped forward. “And I’m Hosea Livingstone.”

  She nodded. “I’m Sister Amanda Riordan. My husband, Brother Hyrum Riordan, is one of the prophet’s closest advisors. He’s one of the twelve apostles. Sometimes they’re called the Quorum of Twelve.” She pulled her shoulders back in pride.

  “Glad to meet you, Mrs. Riordan,” Hosea said, and Greyson murmured the same.

  “You can call me Sister Amanda,” she said pleasantly. “Now, is there anything else I can do for you boys? I need to get on home. Our newest sister wife is, well, indisposed. She’s just a little slip of a thing and scared silly, so the rest of us are taking turns sitting by her side.”

  It took Hosea a moment to realize that Sister Amanda meant one of her husband’s wives was about to deliver a baby. He flushed slightly, glad for once that his face was mostly covered by a lengthy beard and mustache. “Only one more question,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Brother Gabe?”

  “Yes?”

  “How many wives does he have? Or, maybe I should say, how many did he have when he left Winter Quarters?”

  She surprised him by laughing. “Three. Though that last one was a challenge to get down the aisle. He had two to start with—Sister Mary Rose and Sister Bronwyn—and if Sister Bronwyn’d had her way, the number would have remained at two. She tried to stop the wedding between my husband and Sarah, the young bride I just mentioned. Caused quite a ruckus during the ceremony. Carted her off and hid her away, hoping to stop what God ordained. Said she was too young.”

  Hosea tried to take in the information. Bronwyn was married to Gabriel too? He remembered her well from the Sea Hawk—and that she was married to a man named Griffin. Happily, it seemed. Snatches of memory came back to him. They had a baby during a storm. People thought it a miracle that Bronwyn had lived through the ordeal.

  “How old was she?” Greyson asked. “The young bride.”

  “She had just turned fourteen.”

  Greyson looked as shocked as Hosea felt.

  “And she’s with . . .” Hosea couldn’t get the word out.

  Not one to mince words in most instances, Greyson finished for him. “She’s having a baby?”

  “It’s God-ordained,” Sister Amanda said firmly. “The greatest blessing a woman can have bestowed upon her. Bearing a child as one of God’s chosen.”

  “The name of the third wife,” Hosea said, his heart ready to thud through his chest. “The wife that Brother Gabe was going to take before the ceremony was interrupted.”

  Sister Amanda smiled. “Nice woman who has a healing touch. She works with animals mostly, has brought many back from death’s door. She’s from Nova Scotia, I believe I heard someone say. I heard she studied medicine in Scotland, and that’s why she’s so good.”

  Hosea felt the blood drain from his face. He leaned hard against his walking stick as his knees went weak. In less than a second, Greyson was by his side. “From books,” he whispered. “She learned how to be a veterinarian by corresponding with a doctor in Scotland. It was her dream to go there in person, but I don’t think she ever made it.”

  “You know her, then?” Sister Amanda’s face folded into worried lines. She brought him a chair, and he gratefully sat.

  “The woman you describe is my wife.”

  She drew in a deep breath. “You mean she was already married?”

  Hosea wanted there to be no mistake. “Her name . . . ?”

  “Enid,” she said, and then as realization hit, her jaw dropped. “Enid Livingstone.”

  Chapter Twelve

  North of Winter Quarters

  Hosea landed on his back in the roiling waves, unspeakable terror overtaking him as the frigid waters sucked him into their depths. He fought to get to the surface, but the dark foaming waters mixed with black-green sheets of rain. Which way was it?

  Something in the shape of a serpent circled him, watching, waiting, as the currents tossed him like a child’s plaything. He kicked to reach the water’s surface, but it remained just beyond reach . . . or maybe he was kicking himself deeper into the water’s depths, not toward life-giving air. His brain was muddled, his body broken and weak.

  Lungs bursting, strength ebbing, he gave in to the ocean’s power.

  Let it take him. Wasn’t that what he wanted anyway? Wasn’t that why he stood too long on deck? Stood where any master and commander worth his salt would never go, especially during a storm?

  The sea monster circled closer. And closer. He felt it brush against his face. And then his arm. Wasn’t that the way of sharks? Of killer whales? They examined prey to see if it was worth the trouble to kill. He waited for his arm to rip from his torso, blood blackening the dark water. He’d seen what these giants of the sea could do to a man. He prayed death came quickly.

  The thing grabbed him. Shook him. Hosea waited for pain. For blood. None came. Obviously, he was numb from cold and sightless from salt water. Or maybe he was already dead.

  His lungs screamed for air, telling him he wasn’t. He struggled to kick loose, but he might as well have been a mosquito compared to the sea monster’s size and strength. He hit at it with his fists.

  No use. No use at all.

  A strange calm came over him. In the same instant, the monster propelled him through the water . . . to the surface. Hosea felt frigid air blast against his skin and then fill his lungs. Stars filled the black sky directly overhead, though sheets of water raged out of storm clouds around him. It seemed the monster had surfaced in the eye of the storm.

  He gulped the air, but not nearly long enough. The sea monster dove downward again. Then all went black, a deep velvet black. As Hosea felt himself falling deeper into the darkness, he thought the monster’s shape seemed more like a hand, a giant and gentle hand, that had wrapped itself around Hosea’s broken body.

  Hosea woke in a cold sweat. A screech owl hooted from a sycamore overhead, and a wolf howled in the distance. The coals from their cookfire cast a red-orange glow across the pallets where they slept.

  Greyson snored softly, his head on his saddle. The horses stood peacefully under a sycamore a short distance away.

  Hosea sat up to move his aching body before settling into a new position. As he did, the dream that woke him returned in vivid clarity, just as always.

  The monster he remembered from the sea hadn’t taken him in death. It had delivered him to life. To a rebirth upon the rocky shore of Maine. Or as Greyson liked to put it, he’d been vomited out of the whale’s belly right in front of two people sent from God to give him directions to Nineveh.

>   He’d wondered many times about the hand he thought he’d seen. It was clearer in his dreams than it had been the night he almost drowned.

  He looked over at his friend. Greyson had decided to return to Winter Quarters, “ingratiate” himself—Greyson’s word—to the apostle, Hyrum Riordan, and travel with the wagon company the old man was captaining to the Great Salt Lake.

  Hosea saw no sense in doubling back. Or in putting up with what might be open hostility to the “Gentiles.” Greyson had argued the wisdom in joining up with a larger company of travelers. Greater protection with greater numbers, he’d said. But in Hosea’s thinking, it would also take him longer to find Enid. Gabe’s family already had a three-month head start. He wanted to close the distance between them, as many miles a day as his body could take.

  The thought of seeing Enid married to Gabe sickened him, and he struggled with the myriad emotions that filled his heart, mind, and soul. It had been years since he last saw Gabe, ordered him off his ship, and out of his life, but the old feelings of jealousy and loss simmered below the surface.

  He thought he understood himself better, thought he had worked through the darkness of the human spirit. He’d come to terms with his broken and crippled body. He was a far cry from the dashing master and commander of tall sailing ships. But hadn’t he learned to accept life with great humility, love others with an all-encompassing love, take joy in God’s creation and his creatures, do good for others no matter the cost to himself?

  He’d thought the rebirth of his spirit was permanent, that his old self had been left on that bleak Maine shore, like a discarded snakeskin.

  Until now.

  He pictured Gabe. Handsome. Outgoing. Gracious. He’d won the prize, that one. He’d bedded Enid before she and Hosea married. He told himself again that they had been young and impetuous, that they had made love only once. But she’d secretly borne Gabe’s child, not bothering to tell Hosea before or during their marriage. And now he shared her bed again. And Mary Rose’s. And Bronwyn’s.