by Diane Noble
She looked with tear-filled eyes from one to the other. “What if we find out he was sweet on some young girl wanted by an apostle or someone else higher up in the Church . . . ?” Mary Rose handed her a handkerchief, and she dabbed at her eyes. “If that’s what happened, think about Coal’s disappearance . . . it’s too similar.”
Mary Rose’s voice was little more than a whisper. “We can’t believe the worst happened to Coal. We can’t give up hope that he’ll return to us.”
Cordelia nodded. “I pray that’s not what took this boy’s life. All we know for certain is that this wasn’t accidental. And pray, we shall—for the repose of this one’s soul and for our boy, wherever he may be. We can’t know, but I know One who does.”
As the fragrant breeze fluttered the leaves of a nearby cottonwood and a sparrow sang, she prayed, “Lord God, Father Almighty, we thank you for this child’s life, and we give him back to you this day on behalf of those who love him. We commend him to your spirit. Help us find his loved ones so that they may be at peace, just as you have welcomed this child into your kingdom. Your Son once said to bring the little children to him to bless. He also condemned those who did not welcome them in his name.
“We’ll let you do the sorting out of the righteous and unrighteous, Father, for we can’t imagine where we might begin. Keep us in your peace, even as this child rests in your eternal peace. Give us strength and wisdom to do as you would have us to do.
“Be with our boy Coal, wherever he is. So many things are out of our control, and too easily we can become overwhelmed by the darkness around us. Help us find the light.
“Most of all, give us your peace.
“In the holy name of Your Son, our Savior, Jesus Christ . . . Amen.”
The women hugged, and as Cordelia and Mary Rose headed into the house, Bronwyn stooped to retrieve the lock of hair. She wrapped it again, and placed it in her pocket with the bits of fabric from the boy’s clothing.
She looked at the gravesite, longing to spend a few minutes alone, honoring the boy somehow. She thought of the things that Coal once treasured—a collection of pretty stones he’d found, a well-worn book of an account of the Lewis and Clark expedition, a box of dead insects he thought interesting.
She thought about asking Mary Rose if she had kept them, then thought better of it. Burying such things with a boy who likely had collected similar objects would be like admitting Coal would never come home.
Reluctantly she turned from the grave. Drawing a deep breath, she thought of the task before her. She couldn’t let another moment go by before being on her way. As it was, she was leaving later than planned.
Her preoccupation with the child’s death had let time slip away from her. She glanced up at the angle of the sun, and her heart raced. Above all things, she couldn’t allow herself to get caught by Gabe, or Enid, at the town house.
She raced to the barn, saddled and mounted the mare, and headed toward town. She urged her to a trot, and then to a canter. The big mare loped along on the hard alkaline ground. Bronwyn closed her eyes, enjoying the feel of the wind on her face, the knowledge that perhaps she would find some concrete answers, no matter how difficult they might be.
The emotion inside settled, and she breathed easier than she had since Gabe’s proposal the night before. After a moment, she opened her eyes. Three riders, hats pulled low, horses galloping, a cloud of dust rising behind them, approached her at an angle.
She held her breath—a challenge since she trembled like a leaf—slowed the mare and watched as they drew nearer.
It hadn’t occurred to her until this moment that she should have brought Gabe’s pistol.
Mary Rose sat at her desk, her journal open in front of her. A breeze came through the open window, fluttering the curtains and rifling the pages. She touched them with her fingertips to keep them still, taking pleasure in the feel of the thick paper, the smell of the ink, even the formation of her letters and words.
This leather-bound book, and those that preceded it, chronicled her life. She had filled five since the day she stepped aboard the Sea Hawk in Liverpool and now this journal, her sixth, was nearly complete.
How could she bear to let them out of her sight? What if they were lost, or stolen, or simply tossed away with someone’s garbage along the trail?
The thought of such a thing happening to her words brought an almost physical pain. The books held her deepest, most heartfelt thoughts about her hopes and dreams—dreams about the novel she wanted to write someday. The pages were sprinkled with outlines of her book, with scenes and character studies, story ideas and dialect studies for character dialogue. The journals were filled with details of dreams she’d never expected to share with anyone, dreams she’d sacrificed when she married Gabe, dreams that faded in the harsh reality of her new, closed world.
But Bronwyn was right. If these chronicles could be published, they might save lives . . . like the one of the child in the garden.
Rumor had it that Brigham Young would become Territorial Governor now that the Mexican-American war was coming to an end. Would things then become better or worse for the Saints?
The U.S. Government needed to know what was happening in this faraway place. Women caught up in polygamy, unable to get out, helpless to make decisions on their own because of the total dependency on husbands who controlled the terrain around them in this world as well as their fates in the next. And the children, how she wept for them.
She dipped her pen into the inkwell, and as she made her first stroke, she wondered if this might be the last time she would make an entry in this beloved book.
What follows may be difficult to read, but everything I am about to reveal is true.
A child was found murdered in our garden today, his throat slit in a ritualistic manner. Bronwyn and I believe it is the result of a new teaching among the Saints: blood atonement, the taking of an enemy’s life, the letting of his or her blood so that the sinner may enter heaven.
When combined with the knowledge that there are those among us that make up a secret police force called the Danites (most commonly) or the Avenging Angels, who have carried out raids on apostates or other enemies of the Latter-day Saints as far back as our days in Nauvoo, it is easy to see that this new teaching can encompass a wide range of real or imagined sins against God’s chosen.
Mary Rose sat back and drew a deep, shaky breath. Her right hand, still holding the pen, trembled, and a drop of ink spilled on the page. She watched its edges spider outward as it soaked into the paper fibers.
She was about to commit to paper the names of those she believed to be involved in crimes. Some were the names of people she knew well, good family men who loved their wives and children, but who rode out at night in secrecy, carrying out orders of those they’ve believed heard the voice of God.
If, by some miracle, the journals made it into the hands of government investigators, these same men might be condemned and imprisoned. If they were discovered by Foley’s men, she would be condemned for naming them.
She swallowed hard and bowed her head. Could she actually go through with this? Then she remembered the boy in the garden.
She squared her shoulders, dipped the pen in the inkwell, and again began to write.
First, I will identify the leaders in this secret vigilante group called the Danites. . .
Mary Rose didn’t how much time had passed, but when she’d finished she had filled two-dozen pages, front and back. She’d named names, given dates and places that had been only whispered about before. If events were rumors, she said so, but provided enough information that should a government agent want to investigate, he would have a starting place. If her information was based on real evidence, she wrote every detail she could remember. She didn’t realize until she started writing just how much evidence she had, or how it all fit together.
When she finished, she sat back and reread her words for accuracy. She reviewed the dates, times, places of Danite attacks as
far back as the dark days following the assassination of Joseph Smith and his brother. She paid attention, especially, to the people involved, based on their whereabouts before, during, or after the attacks, sometimes whispered by eyewitnesses, other times by not-so-tight-lipped wives.
Her third time through the list, she stopped, stunned, her heart pounding. One name seemed to crop up far more than any of the others.
Bronwyn was right. Gabe was involved.
“Mama?” Spence called from the doorway. He looked up at her with eyes so much like Gabe’s they took her breath away.
She held out her arms, and he ran into them. She gathered him into her lap, and he snuggled close. A moment later, Joey trailed behind, smiling up at her. Laughing lightly, she lifted him beside Spence and gave them both hugs. The boys had grown so much their legs almost reached the floor.
They chattered happily as she reached over and closed the journal. Their lives would soon be an open book for the world to read.
Could she go through with the plan? Gabe was their father.
Chapter Twenty-six
The three men halted their horses on the trail in front of Bronwyn. The rider in the lead, a sandy-haired man, surprised her by smiling and tipping his hat. “Ma’am,” he said.
Behind him, an old mountain man did the same, though not before giving her a strange, lingering stare. The third, dressed in buckskins, wore his mud-colored hair Indian style, plaited at the back of his head with a leather thong. He turned his horse so his back was to her. All three wore dust kerchiefs that covered their faces, though when they intersected her path, the sandy-haired man pulled his down to speak.
“Nice day for an outing,” he said, as if they’d just come from an English tea.
She nodded even as she fought the urge to grin at such an incongruous greeting. Suspicion won out. Any sense of humor she might have had in the past was gone. Especially today.
Her mare seemed as nervous as she did, took a few steps sideways, snorted noisily.
Surprisingly, the swayback nag the old mountain man rode matched the motion and sound of her mare with a precise imitation. Then he added what appeared to be a big yellow-toothed smile.
This time she couldn’t help grinning. “Yes, ’tis,” she said, and dipped her head slightly. Again, she noticed the open stares of the mountain man. Smiling horse or not, she still didn’t like the fact that she was in the middle of desert terrain without protection, and three men on horseback blocked her trail.
“Well, ma’am,” the sandy-haired man said, finally, “we’d best let you be on our way. We hope we didn’t frighten you. There are some rather dangerous elements in this territory. But I don’t suppose we’re telling you anything you don’t already know, considering you live here. ”
The mountain man dropped his kerchief and gave her a friendly nod. “Speaking of that, would you like us to accompany you to town? Make sure you get there safe?” His manner of speaking held a slight Scottish brogue, not unusual in the Mormon community. Converts continued to arrive almost weekly from Britain. Brigham, like Joseph Smith before him, considered it fertile ground for recruits. Even her own fading Welsh accent was accepted without notice.
Something else about the man’s tone, his commanding presence, even dressed as he was, caught her attention.
“Thank you for offering,” she said. “I travel this trail often. I’m nearly there—to town, that is—and I’m certain I will be quite safe.”
“Well, then,” the sandy-haired man said. “You just holler if you need help. We’re camped out over yonder—” he gestured toward a stand of cottonwoods by the river— “and we’ll come running.” He gave her a wide smile that seemed to light the sky and then retied his kerchief.
The old man on the swayback did the same, then he surprised her further by adding, “Just consider us your guardian angels should you need us. That goes for anytime, night or day.” His eyes met hers, and she caught her breath at their intensity.
“Guardian angels?” What a strange thing to say.
“ ‘Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares,’” the man quoted, his eyes twinkling above the kerchief. By the crinkles at the edges of his eyes, Bronwyn was pretty sure a smile was also hidden beneath.
Throughout the exchange the youngest man said nothing. As they rode away from her, she realized he’d spent the entire time looking off in the distance, his horse turned away from her.
The few minutes spent with the group lifted her spirits—just when they needed lifting. She sighed deeply as she nudged the mare forward again.
God moments, Cordelia called such encounters. When someone touches your heart in an unexpected way or when the beauty of the world pierces your soul. The trill of birdsong. The color of a sunset. The scent of a baby at your breast.
An unexpected encounter with someone, a stranger, whose eyes reflected love. Not romantic love, but something else inside. An inner light perhaps?
Her thoughts went back to Cordelia’s prayer over the boy’s body. She had prayed for light in the darkness. Had this encounter been an answer to Cordelia’s prayer? Perhaps she hadn’t entertained angels unaware, but they had certainly entertained her.
Hosea halted his horse, and his companions did the same, watching as the young woman rode away from them.
The youngest of the three nudged his horse closer to Hosea’s.
He looked into the young man’s eyes and saw the pain there. “Something tells me this encounter was one of the most difficult in your life.”
“Aye,” the boy said. “I wanted to run to her, shout out, grab her hands and pull her from the back of that horse and then dance at her surprise.”
“Her surprise might have been too great to bear,” Greyson said, riding closer. “After all, she hasn’t seen you since long before Gabriel’s wagon train left Nauvoo. She may think you’re dead.”
Coal shook his head. “She would never think me dead. Neither would Mother Mary Rose. They would go on hoping above all hope to see me again, believing in me—that I would be clever enough to get myself out of any scrape.”
“Ah, yes,” Hosea sighed.
The boy looked stricken. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that Sister Enid wouldn’t believe in you . . . that you couldn’t see yourself out of . . .” His voice trailed off. “I mean, maybe in her heart of hearts she believes that about you too.”
Hosea threw back his head and laughed. “Different circumstances, indeed, dear boy. I was reported dead by my crew. They experienced the same storm’s fury—the same that washed me overboard. No one dreamed I would survive such a thing.” MacDuff danced sideways, whinnied, and shook his head. “You disappeared, and though they may have guessed the Dakota had something to do with it, their search came up with nothing—or so Sister Amanda told us.” He paused. “I think you’re right, though. Your mothers, I imagine, have never given up hope.”
Coal nodded. “I just wish I could let them know I’m here. If it just weren’t so dangerous for them . . .”
“You’ve chosen the right path, at least for now,” Greyson said. “These are dangerous times. I’ve met with the courageous Sister Amanda and heard her stories. You are right to protect yourself—and your family.”
“Seein’ her just now, though”—Coal sniffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve—“made me want to forget everything about keeping us safe. I had to turn my back so I couldn’t look into her eyes. That would’ve made me blubber for sure.”
Hosea chuckled again. “You did fine, boy. Just fine. You’ve still got the look of the Dakota, just like you did the first time I laid eyes on you.”
Coal brightened. “That was something, wasn’t it?”
“One for the books,” Greyson said, laughing with them. “And I intend to see it gets written.”
By the time Bronwyn reached the outskirts of town, the streets were bustling, which allowed her to blend in with the knots of people. Again, she marveled at how much chan
ge had come in the short time the Saints had been there. For as far as the eye could see crops thrived, and within the town itself, businesses prospered—liveries, mercantiles, barbers, doctors, and even a yarn and fabric shop run by several wives Bronwyn knew.
She slipped from the horse in front of a mercantile, a distance from Gabe’s house, let the mare drink her fill from a trough, and then tied her to a hitching post. She spotted Brother Brigham’s large home rising above the others around it, and headed for it.
Minutes later, she stood in front of Gabe and Enid’s town house. She studied the windows and watched for movement inside but saw none. So, shoulders back, she strode up the walk way as if expected.
She rapped on the door and waited a moment. When no one came, she pulled out a key that Gabe had left at the ranch right after the town house was completed. Quickly, she stepped inside.
The light was dim because of the shade trees in front, and she dared not light the lamp on the desk.
She sat and tried to pull out the drawer where Gabe had hurriedly folded the papers and then hidden them away. It wouldn’t budge. She reached into her reticule for her nail file, jimmied the tip this way and that, but the mechanism stayed frozen in place.
Nibbling her bottom lip, she looked around, trying to think of something else that might work. Hairpin!
She reached up, grabbed one from her hair, and placed it into the keyhole. Again, she jimmied the locked. Again, to no avail.
She leaned back in the chair. Surely, she hadn’t come all this way to be defeated by a small lock. She touched the desk, admiring its solid, beautiful lines. She opened other unlocked drawers, rifled around for extra keys or tools that might work.
Nothing.
The shadows grew longer; she was running out of time. She either had to open it now, or leave.
She didn’t want to scar the desk and leave evidence it had been tampered with, but she was desperate to see what Gabe had hidden.
