by Diane Noble
His stomach lurched, and the sting of bile filled his throat. He bent over and dropped his head between his knees. Oh, wretched man that I am, kept playing in his mind like a discordant symphony. More accurately, a single instrument, off pitch, broken beyond repair.
Why had the dream come back to him after all this time?
With Giovanni’s help he’d come to believe it had been the very hand of God that reached out to save him. The old fisherman said many times that the whole of his being had nothing to do with his broken body. The precious part of him, his soul, had been healed. It was that which the big hand had reached down to pluck from the roiling waters.
Giovanni. Cara.
His eyes watered as he thought of them, remembered that first Christmas they’d spent together. He wanted to go back, though something told him that if they were sitting beside him this minute, they would disagree. They would also tell him that God’s work in him was unfinished and if he hadn’t figured out what that work was, then he needed to continue on his journey until he did.
For a long while, he stared at the dying embers.
How could he go on, knowing that soul-deep healing was still needed? How could he look upon Enid’s face with the same love and forgiveness that God had offered him? Was it possible?
Just do today what you must, came to him. Tomorrow will take care of itself. Not an audible voice. He almost chuckled, thinking about how often God seemed to speak to him with Giovanni’s voice, or at least the memory of his voice. He fought a sudden longing to return to the fisherman’s cabin on the rocky Maine coast, to sit in the company of Giovanni and Cara, warm himself by their fire, and soak in the peace of their presence. And God’s.
He reached for the walking stick, and stood, wincing as the familiar pain shot through his back and down one leg.
“I could use that Giovanni voice in my head a little more often,” he muttered with a half-grin, talking more to God than to himself. “That’s the honest truth.” He stoked the fire, added a few pieces of wood, and then put on the skillet.
Sister Amanda had insisted on giving them fresh supplies the day before. By the time Greyson woke, Hosea had two thick slices of ham frying in the iron skillet.
His friend stretched and scratched his head. “I could get used to this kind of food.”
“You’ll likely be eating like this every morning if Sister Amanda has her way. Something tells me that life for the apostles’ wives might be easier than for ordinary Saints.”
“Brother Hyrum’s got some thirty-four or thirty-five wives. How can he feed that many?” He stood and scratched again, and then went off into the brush to relieve himself. He came back chuckling. “Can you imagine having that many wives nagging at you at the same time?”
Hosea laughed. “One was plenty for me, thank you.”
Greyson sobered. “I know this is hard for you . . . traveling alone to catch up with her. Sure I can’t talk you into coming back with me?”
He shook his head. “I came close to changing my mind during the night. But in the end, I know it’s the right thing to do—to carry on, I mean. And the faster, the better.”
Frowning, Greyson headed to the nearby creek, stooped, and splashed water on his face. When he turned back, his mouth was set in a grim line. “For weeks you’ve been telling me your love for Enid is so great that no matter what she’s done, you’ll follow her to the ends of the earth and try to win her back.”
“I still feel the same way.”
“I saw your face yesterday. I know what the news did to you.” He sat down on a log near the fire. “You sure you want to be alone?”
“What if the Saints won’t let you join them?” Hosea said. “Have you thought about that? If they find out your reason for joining them is to write about them, I doubt you’ll be welcome.” He raised his eyebrows. “Not sure it’s a good idea to be in their company.”
They both laughed. Hosea went on. “I know the news rocked me off my heels, but these Saints are making a sham of real marriage. Enid thinks I’m dead. She’s been pulled into a religion built by a man, not God. She’s been blinded—I owe her the truth.” He shook his head. “It’s the least I can do after what I’ve put her through.”
Hosea cracked some eggs into the iron skillet, flipped them a few times, and then scraped the ham and eggs into two metal dishes. He handed one to Greyson.
“It’s going to be hard to leave you, my friend,” Greyson said as he shoveled the food into his mouth. He grinned. “Though you can be assured I’ll miss MacDuff more than I will you.”
On cue, MacDuff rolled back his lips, showed his large yellowed teeth, and snorted. Greyson shot a grin at Hosea. “If you ever need me, you’ll know where to find me.”
“Traveling west with hundreds of Saints . . .” Hosea said, picturing the wagon train. “I think you’ll be easy to spot.”
They finished their breakfasts, then shook hands. “We’ll meet up in the place they call Zion. I am looking forward to stirring things up a bit with you in the kingdom of the Saints.”
“It’ll be a pleasure.” Greyson looked worried. “You take care now.”
“I started this journey knowing the dangers I’d be in. Traveling alone, I mean. Never thought I’d meet up with a traveling companion who turned out to be a good friend. In my book, I’m money ahead.”
Greyson kicked the ground with his boot, following the action with his eyes. “I’m not one to voice my religious views, my thoughts about God . . .”
“I know, my friend—though you certainly have no trouble voicing your opinions about everything else on God’s green earth.” He chuckled.
“This is more, well, personal. Might even seem unmanly to speak of.”
Hosea laughed again. “Unmanly?”
“Before meeting up with you I thought religion was for mothers to teach their little children, for women to talk about amongst themselves, or for circuit preachers to thunder from the pulpit— ‘fire and brimstone will be upon your head if you displease your Maker!’ That sort of thing.”
“That doesn’t seem unmanly.”
“In my way of thinking, it is. Men hiding behind fiery words instead of living what Jesus Christ taught—what you’ve told me about, what you’ve lived since I met up with you. I’ve watched you live what you believe—a life of simplicity and love, of forgiving even the most wicked of offenders. The worst betrayals.
“I’ve never heard anyone talk to God the way you do. It’s like he’s sitting beside you at the fire. Or riding beside you on the trail. You tell him when you’re mad as hell, you tell him when you think he’s painted a beautiful sunset, you tell him how you agonize over those you care about. You talk to him like he’s listening. Like he cares.
“Your kind of religion isn’t the same. I don’t even know if you can call it religion—compared to what I’ve heard all my life. It’s living something from the inside out, rather than letting it be something you put on like a coat.”
Hosea stepped closer. He knew he and his friend shared a belief in God, but this was the most Greyson had said about his feelings.
Greyson laughed suddenly. “How’d I get into all that? What I’m trying to say is”—he looked up and met Hosea’s gaze—“though I’m not one to pray out loud, especially in front of other people, or talk to God the way you do . . .”
Hosea chuckled and finished for him, “ . . . you’ll talk to God about me. You’ll pray for me.”
Greyson gave him a half-grin. “Guess I wasn’t too concise—but, yes, that’s what I was trying to say.” He turned back to the Appaloosa, stepped into the stirrup, and swung his leg over the saddle. He looked at MacDuff. “You take care of my friend now, you hear?”
MacDuff gave him another big-lipped smile.
Greyson raised his eyebrows, adjusted his hat, and nodded toward Hosea. “Don’t forget Nineveh.” He turned his horse and headed toward the trail. “Don’t let anything or anyone delay you,” he called over his shoulder. “Remember the g
reat fish . . . or whatever it was that started you on your quest. God’s got his hand on you.”
Hosea sat in the silence of the morning, staring after his friend. The sun rose behind the stand of trees, and a light breeze rattled the leaves. He bowed his head and tried to pray, but the words wouldn’t come.
He’d put up a good front with Greyson and felt almost embarrassed by what his friend saw in him. But in truth, he was sick at heart. He talked about forgiveness, mercy, and love. What if, when all was said and done, he couldn’t do what he knew God required of him?
From behind the dark edges of his mind came a prayer that Giovanni had taught him as he dealt with his pain, both flesh and bone and spirit:
“Lord Jesus Christ, you are for me medicine when I am sick; you are my strength when I need help; you are life itself when I fear death; you are the way when I long for heaven; you are light when all is dark; you are my food when I need nourishment.”
Giovanni had said it was written by Ambrose, Bishop of Milan, who died in the fourth century. How could someone who lived so long ago have written a prayer that spoke to Hosea’s heart this day, hundreds of years later?
A breeze rustled the sycamore leaves, and somewhere a robin sang. He stared upward in wonder. Could it be that prayers never died? Never disappeared? He found it difficult to let such a thought seep into his brain. A living, breathing prayer as vibrant today as it was nearly fifteen hundred years before. . .
He was still pondering the idea when a different kind of rustling caught his attention.
MacDuff snorted nervously and turned toward the sound. It came from several yards upstream. Hosea followed the horse’s gaze.
There, as still as statues, stood three Indian braves, bronze chests gleaming in the early morning sun. Their spears told him this wasn’t a social call.
Before he could reach for his walking stick and ease his pain-wracked body to standing, they had swiftly, silently, surrounded him.
Chapter Thirteen
Salt Lake Valley
Spring 1848
Standing on the wide front porch of the new farmhouse, Bronwyn swallowed her irritation as Enid rode up on a high-stepping gray. The horse had been a gift from the prophet as a thank-you for the help she’d given so many families, caring for their animals and teaching new ranchers proper care for their stock in this new, mostly arid land.
The only finer mount in the entire valley was Brigham’s gleaming coal-black stallion. Enid called the mare Empress and it seemed, at least in Bronwyn’s eyes, that Enid herself wanted to live up to the title.
Since the MacKays’ arrival in the valley only a few months ago, much of Gabe’s time had been spent with the prophet overseeing the building of the city. His experience with designing ships quickly adapted once again to the new challenge. Brother Brigham wanted this city, the crown jewel of all Mormon settlements, completed in record time, every street laid out with attention to the minutest detail, the temple square at its center.
They spent the winter and early spring drawing out the plans, and as soon as the ground thawed, the building began.
Brigham’s first concern was that families and children have shelter as quickly as possible. In a carefully organized effort, families joined each other to help with house and barn raisings, most often making parties of hard work. The women planted gardens with seeds and seedlings brought from Nauvoo, cooked, and canned food while the men did the building.
The MacKay farmhouse on a prime piece of property was one of the first finished, another gift from the prophet who’d carried out his promise to adopt Gabe as his spiritual son. The large barn went up the same day, thanks to the help of neighbors, quickly followed by an expansive fence to pen their cattle and a coop for their chickens.
Enid dismounted Empress and hurried up the porch steps toward Bronwyn. “Is Gabe here?” Inside the children were making such a playtime racket, she could barely hear Enid’s words.
“He left with Brother Foley early this morning. He didn’t say where he was headed.”
“He promised to go with me when they raise our town house walls. The men arrived at sunup, everything is in place—but he needs to be there to oversee the construction.”
“I’m sure they can manage without him. He’s given them written instructions, hasn’t he?”
“Of course.”
Just then, Mary Rose stepped outside and greeted Enid. Bronwyn admired the way she hid her feelings. She did a better job of it than Bronwyn did. They had discussed this turn of events often, the elegant house in town that Enid had talked Gabe into building for her. She said it was because of her work in the new science of veterinary medicine that she needed a place to work on animals. The whole setup irked Bronwyn to no end, but Mary Rose seemed completely at peace with it.
“Is there a problem with Gabe’s instructions?”
“Not at all.” She frowned. “It’s just that I know this home is extremely important to him and he wants it done right. He’s said as much many times.” She gave them a slightly condescending smile. “He will be spending most of his time there, I’m sure he told you.”
“He hasn’t mentioned it,” Mary Rose said. Her smiled cracked a little as she spoke. “Though he’s devoted to this family. His children are more important than any building, whether it be farmhouse, town house, or temple. I’m certain he’ll be as attentive as ever to them.”
Enid let out an impatient sigh and started back down the stairs. “I must get back. Our new buggy is arriving this afternoon, and I must see to its proper placement in the livery.”
“Dear . . . ?” Cordelia called out inside the doorway. Enid turned as Cordelia stepped outside. She held a speckled metal pot in her hands. “I fixed up some fried chicken for you to give to the men helping you build that fancy house. I figured you probably didn’t have time.”
Bronwyn could see the struggle in Enid’s expression. She didn’t want to be bothered, but it was the expected thing to do at a house raising. Finally, she said, “Thank you. I’m not much of a cook, you know.”
“I know,” Cordelia said. “You just tell those menfolk that you fried this up early this morning before you got to your other chores.”
Enid smiled. “Well, thank you,” she said with less irritation in her expression. “I appreciate it.”
“Gabe will appreciate too,” Cordelia said, her eyes twinkling. Holding the pan, she walked partway down the steps. Mary Rose and Bronwyn exchanged glances, wondering what she was up to.
“And when you get settled in,” Cordelia continued, “we expect a tour. I ran into Sister Bessie at the mercantile the other day, and she was telling me how you plan to fill your town house up with fancy furniture. She told me you want to put all the rest of us to shame. She supposed you meant Mary Rose and Bronwyn. But, I said as fast as I could get the words out—and loud too, in case anyone else was listening—that you wouldn’t do such a thing.” She shook her head. “I didn’t believe it for a minute.”
Enid’s cheeks turned pink and swallowed hard. “Well, thank you for the chicken. I’m sure the workers will enjoy it.”
“I’m sure they will, dear,” Cordelia said, trotting down the remaining steps. “I want you to take every bit of the credit for it. And you make sure to have a bit yourself.”
Enid nodded, mounted, and waited as Cordelia handed her the metal pot.
Moments later, Enid, carefully holding the pot in front of her, made her way back down the road that led to town.
“That was a lovely thing to do,” Mary Rose said as Cordelia made her way back up the steps.
“It brought me great pleasure to do it for her,” Cordelia said. “Truly.” She started back into the house and then turned. “She seems to like cayenne, so I used it instead of salt for the flavoring.” She was still chuckling as she headed back to the kitchen.
Bronwyn’s eyebrows shot up. “I wouldn’t want to be there when the workers take their first bite.” They both laughed.
Bronwyn’s th
oughts turned to the town house. She’d tried to rein in her emotions from the first day it was mentioned. It seemed that everything Enid wanted, Enid got. And always, it was better than that of hers or Mary Rose’s. She let out a pent up sigh.
Mary Rose seemed to read her thoughts. She reached for Bronwyn’s hand. “I wouldn’t trade this rambling farmhouse for anything in the world. We’re surrounded by our children, you and Cordelia are my dearest friends, and now we’ve managed to get Enid out of our hair.”
“We managed . . . ?”
This time it was Mary Rose’s eyes that twinkled. “Enid thinks she talked Gabe into the new arrangement. I admit she came up with the reasons, but Gabe didn’t want to separate the family . . .”
“ . . . until you convinced him.”
“For the sake of peace and quiet, I told him it would be best for us all.”
Bronwyn squeezed her friend’s hand before letting go. “You never cease to . . .”
Mary Rose quirked a brow. “To . . . ?”
“ . . . astonish me.”
Still smiling, Bronwyn entered the house, Mary Rose following. “I think we need to hide that cayenne,” Bronwyn said.
“Before Cordelia strikes again.”
Even as she laughed, Bronwyn felt a deepening sense of foreboding. It kept her awake at night, it invaded her thoughts during the day. She didn’t speak to anyone, not even Mary Rose or Cordelia, about it.
Was it this great valley, their promised land, with its stark beauty, a place of danger? Or was it the sense that she had entered a place where escape was not possible?
The following Sunday, at the meetinghouse, the strange sense overtook her again, this time adding a sense of suffocation. As Brother Foley stepped to the front of the meetinghouse, her heart pounded so hard she felt certain those in the rows around her could surely hear it.
She glanced at Mary Rose who, though listening to Brother Foley with rapt attention, had a complexion the hue of bleached linen. She caught Bronwyn’s glance and reached for her gloved hand, squeezing it in sisterly understanding.
On the far side of Mary Rose, Enid sat straight-backed, biting her bottom lip. Her expression was staid, though two bright pink spots had appeared in her cheeks.
