by Diane Noble
Her tone was heavy with sarcasm when she spoke again. “And when you first considered me … as so irresistible … it didn’t matter to you that my heart was spoken for,” she said, “by your adopted son.
A flicker of something, perhaps uncertainty, crossed John’s face. “I told you, Lucas is going to marry another.” He lifted a brow. “And don’t try to tell me you would willingly share Lucas with a pretty young thing who’s been chosen by the Prophet himself.” He moved closer to her and touched her cheek. Hannah jerked her head away.
“I didn’t believe you when you first told me, and I don’t believe you now,” she said, her voice low. “Lucas will not marry another.”
“Lucas Knight belongs to the Church. Not to you, as you seem determined to believe. Lucas will do anything to obey his God and his elders,” John said, then he fell quiet for a moment to let his words soak in. “Just as you will, my darling. You will obey without question—both the Church, and me, as your spiritual leader, as the head of our home.”
“We’re not married yet,” muttered Hannah, tight-lipped. “I have no reason to accept you as my husband, to obey you without question, until after our … our sealing ceremony.” Glancing about frantically, she noticed for the first time that he’d driven them to an isolated place. There was not another carriage on the road, not a farmhouse or ranch in sight.
“Ah, but you’re wrong about that.” He touched her jaw again, letting his fingers slide to her chin. His dark, menacing look told Hannah she’d better not move. She fought to keep from spitting in his face. “You gave yourself into my hands the moment you decided to flee with your apostate aunt,” he said, looking deep into her eyes. “You know what happens to apostates, Hannah, don’t you?”
She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer.
“Let me tell you. They suffer much for their sins, my darling.” He was whispering now, his lips close to her ear, so close that she could feel the heat of his breath. “Their blood must atone for their sins. Otherwise, you see, they will never reach heaven. It is the sworn duty of the Saints to see that blood atonement is carried out on their behalf.” He paused, his gaze penetrating any calm Hannah tried to find within herself.
“Let me describe it for you. You need to understand every detail.” Hannah dared not breathe.
“Their hands are bound as they kneel before their fresh-dug graves,” he said. “Sometimes the apostate helps dig his or her own grave, shovelful by shovelful, even if it takes all night. No matter what age this apostate might be. No matter how frail.”
Hannah bit her lip, trying not to think about the images his words conjured.
“Then the apostate is held fast—like this!” He grabbed her mane of hair. She gasped as he jerked her head backward, held fast at an awkward angle.
She closed her eyes as he drew his finger from one ear to the other slowly across her exposed throat. She swallowed hard and fought to keep from crying out.
“And picture this,” he breathed again in her ear. “Let’s say the apostate is Aunt Sophronia. Her neck will be grasped just as I am grasping yours.” He yanked her head farther back for emphasis. “And her blood will be let, just as I, at this moment, could let yours.”
Hannah caught her breath as a piece of thin, cold metal slid with the barest touch across her throat. Its sharp tip pricked the skin just beneath her ear, and she felt a drop of blood slide down her neck.
“Your aunt’s blood will pour into her grave,” he whispered softly into her ear. “Dark as midnight, the blood will be as it becomes one with the soil and soaks into the earth.”
Hannah remained mute, her heart pounding wildly in her chest.
“Sophronia’s body will follow the blood into the grave she has helped dig, rolled in without ceremony, covered with shovels full of dirt and rocks.
“We do not mark apostates’ graves, my precious Hannah. And sometimes, if the sin is considered especially vile, we leave the grave purposely shallow.”
Hannah shuddered, trying to push the image of coyotes and wolves digging in the loose soil from her mind. “Please,” she whispered hoarsely, “please, say no more .
But he touched her lips with one finger. “Shhh,” he breathed. “I need to know if I’ve made myself clear.”
Hannah tried to nod, but his hand still painfully clutched her hair and she couldn’t move her head. “Yes,” she finally whispered.
“Good,” he said, his breath warm in her ear. “And now, my darling, I need to know if you do indeed understand that you belong to me. Now and throughout all eternity.”
She didn’t answer. She couldn’t say the words or even nod an assent.
“I asked, my darling, if you belong to me. Now is the time to practice your obedience. I do expect you to answer.” He let the tip of his knife play against the skin of her throat.
Her eyes still closed, tears squeezed between her lids and traced down her cheeks, dripping onto her still-exposed neck, stinging her flesh as they fell on the wound.
Finally she muttered, “I do.”
“I can’t hear the words, my darling,” he said. “What did you say?” She swallowed hard and said in a shrill, clear voice. “I do.” But instead of answering, John moved his lips from her ear to her mouth.
“I had hoped I might convince you,” he murmured as his lips pressed against hers. Finally he released his hold on her.
Bile rose in her throat, and she shoved him away with such force that the buggy rocked precariously. The horses whinnied and shook their manes, turning their heads to eye the vehicle.
Hannah waited, almost afraid to breathe, to see what great anger she had provoked.
But John surprised her by throwing back his head and laughing loudly, coarsely, a look of triumph on his flushed face. “Ah, yes. You are a spirited little filly,” he chuckled as he popped the whip above the team. “Oh yes, indeed.”
Hannah didn’t speak the rest of the way to Sophronia’s house. But John was in high spirits, chuckling as he tried to catch her eye with a knowing look and speaking of his plans for moving her to the south of the territory, where she and Sophronia would live separately from his other wives, separated from all the valley’s Saints.
She kept her gaze straight ahead, holding a handkerchief to her neck to stop the drops of blood from staining her clothes.
Sophronia looked up from her rocking chair on the porch as Hannah approached. “Child!” the older woman cried as she stood and leaned against the railing, frowning in worry. “What is wrong?” She put her hand gently over Hannah’s, where she still held the handkerchief against her neck. “What’s happened?”
Hannah bit her lip, blinking back her tears. She couldn’t tell her aunt about the terror of the past hour or what John Steele had said about apostates. “He’s a mean-spirited man,” she said. “It seems he’s used to getting his way.”
Sophronia stepped back. “He didn’t violate you, did he?” The set of her jaw was suddenly fierce. She looked ready to break his neck, barehanded, this very moment.
“No, Aunt Sophie, no. Nothing like that,” she assured her. She laughed weakly. “Though I think he’s trying hard to steal something precious from my mind and soul.”
Sophronia grabbed both Hannah’s hands and drew her to the chair next to the rocker. “Tell me, child, what happened, if you can. Tell me what’s ahead for us both.”
Hannah settled into her chair gratefully, closing her eyes a moment and letting the summer sounds of sawing cicadas and twittering sparrows envelop her like a protective shroud. From the kitchen wafted the aromas of baking cornbread and roasting venison. Beside her, Sophronia’s rocking chair creaked as it moved.
Here, with the familiar, cozy scents and sounds, the nearness of her aunt, Hannah’s heart finally quit its violent pounding. Here, she could try to push all thoughts of John Steele from her mind.
She reached for Sophronia’s hand. “I didn’t know what’s ahead. The only thing I know for certain is that I refuse to let Joh
n Steele invade those places in my heart that don’t belong to him.”
Sophronia squeezed her hand. “Those places that belong to Lucas?”
Hannah’s eyes were open now, and she was gazing out at the familiar countryside, the Wasatch Mountains rising in the distance. It was restful to consider the deep blue of the sky, the wide expanse of the valley. “No, it’s more than that, Aunt Sophie. Much more.”
“Tell me, child.” Sophronia rocked gently, following Hannah’s gaze.
“When I first came to stay with you in Nauvoo, you were willing to die for the Church, even though you said you had doubts.”
Sophronia nodded slowly. “Maybe I’ve always been an apostate, though if I’d been asked I probably would’ve denied it.”
“Are you?” She turned to face her aunt.
“There were days long ago when I thought the Saints knew something the rest of the world didn’t. But that was before the cruelty and killing—the vengeance.
“Oh, my, but I thought young Joseph had started a fine Church filled with God-fearing people. I thought his was the only way, his Church God’s only Church. Now I wonder if there’s a church, or a God, at all.” There was bitterness and disappointment in her voice when she continued. “If the Saints reflect the kind of God they serve, we’re better off without knowing him. Maybe better off without him completely.”
“You were shunned this morning, weren’t you?” Hannah asked, still holding her aunt’s hand.
“Yes, child,” she said softly. “But its not the first time. It probably won’t be the last.”
When Hannah was a child and had first come to live with her aunt, Sophronia had told her how she was loved by her Church family, the apostles and bishops and elders, all the brothers and sisters. She was ready to die for her Church, for her people, and they for her.
Sophronia went on, “Criticizing the Prophet, John Steele, all the leaders and their teachings, was one thing. But attempting to leave the valley of the Saints is quite another. I cant be trusted, I suppose.” There was more defiance than sadness in her voice.
“Many are the same who took you in all those years ago, Sophie. It must hurt.”
“They cross the street to avoid speaking to me,” she said. “I suppose many are afraid to be seen talking to me, afraid of what others will think.” She let out a sigh while she rocked. “A pretty sad bunch,” she muttered.
“Fear can be a powerful tool, Sophie.”
Suddenly Sophronia turned to her, her eyes piercing Hannah’s. “That’s what John Steele used against you today, isn’t it, child?”
Hannah nodded. “But all it does is make me more determined to find a way out of the territory for us. I don’t intend to give up the
fight.”
Sophronia patted her hand, and there was a proud look in her eyes. “I’ll fight by your side, Hannah. We’ll get through this together. Fear or not.”
“Do you think any of the others feel they’re ruled by fear?”
“Depends, I suppose,” Sophronia said wisely, “on whether they’re happy in their circumstances.” Then she added wryly, “Or if they’ve ever tried to leave the valley.”
“So it has nothing to do with God at all. I mean, in the long run, it’s man they fear.”
Sophronia looked thoughtful, and for a moment she didn’t speak. “I would like to think that is true, child. I said a minute ago that the God of the Saints is one we’re better off not knowing. But maybe there’s a different God than the one we’ve been taught to serve.”
Hannah nodded. “Someone who doesn’t require our works, our blood sacrifices, our cruel vengeance.” She paused, her gaze again on the deep heavens above the Wasatch. “Sometimes I think that God is so real I can almost reach out and touch him. Then an emptiness sets in … and a desperate sadness.”
Sophronia watched her intently. “And it seems he’s beyond your reach?” She was silent a moment before continuing, “Sometimes I feel the presence of this same God, Hannah, a God of light and truth who’s calling me to find him. Then I feel a darkness as heavy and thick as a black curtain settle over me, and I fear it’s all been just fanciful thoughts.”
Hannah nodded. “If this God isn’t there, what’s left? Just the darkness?
“I’ve believed in Joseph Smith and his teachings for so long it’s become part of me. Now I see all that’s wrong with the Church and this God they profess to serve, but when I think of turning from it forever …” Sophronia narrowed her eyes in thought. “I fear I’ll find only that curtain of darkness.
“I received my conviction about the Church years ago, and I was sure I had found the way. I read the Book of Mormon and prayed for God to tell me the witness was true.
“But child,” she went on, “if it is true, how can blood atonement, the killing, the vengeance, also be true? Didn’t God himself say Vengeance is mine?”
As a child Hannah had prayed a prayer for wisdom and had received the same answer, a tingling that enveloped her from tip to toe, confirming what the elders and their wives had told her to expect when they invited her to pray. Yet she was as much in the dark now as then about God’s truth.
“We’ll find a way,” she repeated, “a way to truth.” She frowned, biting her lip. “That’s what I meant a few minutes ago. That part of me that seeks truth and freedom—that’s what John will never touch.”
Unbidden, the image of John Steele’s menacing face crowded other thoughts from her mind. She could almost hear the echo of his earlier words to her: “I asked, my darling, if you belong to me. Now is the time to practice your obedience. I do expect you to answer.” No! She cried to herself. No!
“Child, what’s the matter?” Sophronia was frowning as she peered into Hannah’s face. “There’s something you aren’t telling me. I can see it in you.”
She didn’t want to frighten her aunt or cause her any more grief. But Sophronia had long been her confidante, her friend, the mother she’d never known. “I’m afraid, Sophie,” she finally said. “I feel so alone. John’s only a part of that fear. There’s something desperately dark and evil here … an enemy larger than the whole of this valley and all its people combined.”
Without hesitation, Sophronia stood and gathered her niece into her arms just as she had done when Hannah was a child. The old woman’s body felt solid and strong, as always, and Hannah gave up a shuddering sigh as her aunt hugged her fiercely. “Child, child,” she crooned, her comforting tone so familiar, so loved. “We’re together. We’ll make it through this. We’ll find a way out. You’ll see.” She pulled back and looked Hannah in the eye. “Why, we’ve fought off Saint-haters in Nauvoo and survived the elements during our crossing. I would say there’s not much we can’t do if we set our minds to it. Isn’t that right, child?”
Hannah nodded.
“Now, you just stay right here.” She held Hannah close. “You may be a grown woman, but you’re not too big for me to comfort,” she said softly.
For the longest time, Hannah stood with Sophronia’s arms wrapped around her, thinking only that here, this moment, she was safe. “Aunt Sophie,” she finally murmured, “you said we’d find a way out.
“That I did.”
Hannah stepped back, leaning against the side of the arbor, her arms crossed. “I’ve thought about it until my brain nearly refuses to think anymore. And I still can’t figure how to get us out of this.”
“We’ll come up with something.”
“John’s threats are too …” Her voice faltered. “… too personal. Too dangerous.”
“He’s using me, isn’t he—to keep you from bolting?”
Hannah didn’t answer, but her aunt could read her expression.
“I thought so,” she said softly. “Don’t fret, child, we’ll think of something.” Her eyes moved from Hannah’s face as she looked out at the Wasatch. “We’ll find a way.” But her face held a sadness deeper than before.
ELEVEN
Crooked Creek, Arkansas
Spring 1857
Ellie Farrington climbed up the hillside above the wagon company rendezvous. Nearly two decades had passed since she and Alexander had said their marriage vows, pledging to love, honor, and cherish each other until parted by death.
The years now seemed to have melted together as if they were the colors of life on an artist’s palette. Colors that brought to Ellie’s mind the winter meadow where she had told Alexander she would marry him. Colors of the passing seasons as they sowed seeds, tended the soil, and harvested crops in the field beside their small Arkansas farm. Colors of laughter and tears while they reared Alexander’s children and prayed too long for babies of their own. And all the while, they dreamed of California. Dreams that caused the hues on the palette to turn to gold.
The years had not changed how she felt about Alexander, except that now he was dearer to her than even the afternoon they had wed. Oh, how she remembered that day! They had danced to music that seemed straight out of heaven itself. She smiled to herself. Her heart still skittered like a schoolgirl’s when she beheld her husband, now captain of the Farrington wagon train. And many of the same neighbors, friends, and blood kin who had celebrated with them on their wedding day were now camped in wagons and tents below, readying for the trek west.
She let out a satisfied sigh. After all these years, their dream was about to be realized. Soon the whole Farrington family would settle in California. Hampton and Billy, Alexander’s sons, along with their young wives, Sadie and Bess, were part of their father’s company. The others had promised to follow soon, even Amanda Roseanne and her husband.
She turned to move up the trail again and had gone only a few yards when she heard the scramble of footsteps behind her.
“Mommy!” Meg called. “Mommy, wait!” Ellie turned and watched her six-year-old approach, dark braids flying, eyes bright with excitement. The child gave her a disarming smile and reached for her hand. Ellie’s heart melted, and instead of the sharp words she’d intended, she gave her daughter a quick embrace.
