Forsaking All Others (21 page)

“Three months.”

“We’ll have to ask Captain Buckley if it will be safe for you to travel.”

I laughed. “Colonel, if we allowed this condition to keep us from traveling, there wouldn’t be a single woman west of the Mississippi River.”

“And its father?”

I met his gaze and said evenly, “This child will be part of my new life, away from here.”

“And he’ll never know?”

“Not until God wills that I reveal it. But don’t you see? If I don’t get away, if Nathan finds me, and he discovers . . . he’ll never let me go.”

“He won’t find you.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“He won’t find you because he’s not looking. Not anymore.”

Chapter 17

My mother used to have a saying for those times when a mysterious chill would dart across her body.

“Like somebody’s walked over my grave,” she’d say, and I always found it to be the funniest thing because she wasn’t even dead yet. Neither was I, of course, but Nathan must have believed I was. There could be no other reason for him to give up his search for me. So as silly as the saying was, in light of Colonel Brandon’s revelation, I expected to be bombarded with such strange feelings. An eerie hollowness, a profound cavernous fear of an empty, waiting grave. Instead, I sensed only peace. In some ways, I’d been waiting for months to be taken away, tugged by force back to the church that seemed so intent on holding captive its members.

Now I was free—as free as I could be until my actual death.

As a result, I took to spending nearly as much time as I possibly could outside my little room. I walked and I walked, surging with a new energy born from the brisk breeze and sweet spring air. In fact, I might have lived my entire day among the piles of rubble and abandoned fire pits with the soldiers if I hadn’t been confronted one particularly warm day by Private Lambert.

“Mrs. Fox, ma’am, if you wouldn’t mind, I need to ask you . . . well, we—the company—would like to request, if you wouldn’t mind . . .” He stammered and blushed, crushing his hat in his hands as he shifted from foot to foot.

“What is it, Private?”

“Some of the men, they haven’t had a chance to do their washing pretty much all winter.”

“And they want me to be their laundress?”

“No, ma’am. Nothing like that at all. They’ll do their own washing. Thing is, they need to wash themselves, too.” He grabbed the back of his neck, twisting and turning in an effort to look anywhere but directly at me. “We was going to bring the washtubs outside. . . .”

“Ah, and you’d like me to stay
in
side.”

“If you wouldn’t mind, ma’am.”

I don’t think I’ve ever heard anybody make such a celebration of a wash day. While my curiosity was not remotely piqued, I did lend an indulgent ear to the sounds coming from the yard outside. Laughter, mostly, and other bits of conversation I’m sure they would never have let loose had they known I could hear them, let alone had I been out among them. I hadn’t seen Colonel Brandon at all that day—for that matter, I hadn’t seen him in several days—which might have contributed to the general sense of revelry.

Not long after, an agreement of sorts sounded from the men outside as scattered bits of noise joined together in one collective, victorious shout. It was a familiar sound, one that I associated with my previous stay, before my time in Salt Lake City. The shouting became distinct.

“Mail call!”

This, then, another hope for spring. Never mind the tiny shoots of new grass, the songs of birds, the days warm enough to roll your sleeves. Now we had safe, open passage from east to west. More than ever, the confines of the room took on the air of a prison and I paced its length. Outside I heard a single voice take control and rise above the rest, calling out the names.

“Dufray! Minor! Pascal!”

The noise would swell and wane, and it wasn’t until they fell into absolute silence that I knew Colonel Brandon had arrived. Minutes later I heard his voice in the larger room adjacent to mine. The door was closed, but that hadn’t been more than a formality since my return. I came and went as I pleased, though no one entered without my express invitation and permission. Now I stood with my ear pressed up against the door, wondering if official business on the other side called for me to wait for the same indulgence.

Voices were low and muffled. Colonel Brandon’s was distinct and familiar, though the words remained unintelligible. And two others. All of it sounding very official and solemn. I suppose I could have feigned ignorance and breezed right across the threshold to suffer the consequences of my disruption, but before I could fully consider such a plan, my ear rang with a sharp rapping on the other side of the wood.

“Mrs. Fox?”

I took three steps away and shouted, “One minute!” For no particular reason but to buy a bit of time, I smoothed my hair, tucking what strands I could behind my ears, and straightened my skirt.

The expression on Colonel Brandon’s face proved impossible to interpret. Smiling? No, but not stern. Just serious as he said, “For you.”

It bears noting, I think, that his eyes so captivated me I hadn’t even glanced down to see what he held in his hand, and when I did, my own began to shake.

An envelope, long and thin, and my name written in timid, blocked letters—a hand I hadn’t seen in years.

“Mama.” I breathed the word as if the woman herself stood before me, because in all this time, this was the closest I’d come to such a thing.

“I’ll leave you to this,” Colonel Brandon said, closing the door between us.

The shaking in my hand now traveled throughout my body, and I feared my legs would not hold me long enough to take even the few steps to my chair. I dropped the letter on the table and propped my elbows up on either side of it, resting my head on my clasped hands.

“Dear Lord, thank you.”

Not wanting to risk tearing the letter itself, I waited for the shaking in my hands to settle down before lifting the envelope and carefully running a finger beneath its sealed edge. In it, a single sheet of paper—so familiar. Probably torn from the very notebook I used to write my school compositions.

Years could not erase my mother’s voice; I heard it in every word—soft and timid, fearful of rising above my father’s.

Our dearest girl—

It is winter now. And your father is ill. Has been since midsummer. Doctors do not know. We will wait for spring, a healing or death, they say. He can take nothing more than buttermilk-soaked bread. The doctor does not know, but I say he is too filled with bitterness to take anything else. He does not know about this letter. He thinks I don’t know about the others, but I do. Every one you sent. He would not let us open or read them. But I knew. I always knew. I pray you can forgive us and I pray that you come home.

It was left unsigned, though of course I needed nothing to authenticate its sender. My eyes combed over the page again and again, frustrated with its sparseness. Her unsophisticated writing filled the page, even with so few words. Perhaps she didn’t realize she could send two pages, or three, or a tome if she so chose.

Papa was sick. He was dying, even, and he hadn’t forgiven me.

Spring. Healing or death.

And my mother asked me for grace.

I jumped up, folding the letter, and went into the outer office, where three men—Colonel Brandon and two others I did not recognize—stood around the heavy wooden desk, all eyes trained on a scattering of papers across its top.

“Mrs. Fox—”

He seemed on the verge of introductions when I interrupted. “It’s word from my parents, Colonel Brandon. My father is ill. Quite ill, it seems. I need to go home at once.”

“Mrs. Fox,” he repeated, “this is Colonel Chambers. He will be assuming command in my absence.”

I afforded him the briefest acknowledgment before asking, “When can we leave?”

“When will you be ready?”

“Now.”

He chuckled. “Will you grant me three days?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, attempting my best impersonation of Private Lambert. “At dawn?”

“At dawn.”

* * *

Three days. At the time, it seemed an interminable wait, but during those three days, I witnessed the resurrection of Fort Bridger. A fleet of supply wagons arrived the morning after the mail, and barrels of flour and sugar and coffee were rolled into storehouses. Construction began on towers and barracks, and men who had spent an entire winter on bedrolls spread out over frozen ground feverishly worked to build bunks and stitch mattresses.

Through all of this, of course, they kept a vigilant eye on the events in Salt Lake City. Spring would mean some level of resurgence there, too, as everyone emerged from the dormant winter infused with renewed vigor and purpose. I took to leaving my door ajar when Colonel Brandon and Colonel Chambers met in the outer office. I suspect Colonel Brandon realized I was listening, but I surmised that he endorsed my eavesdropping, as he did nothing to prevent it.

While they talked, I worked on remaking my blue dress—one clumsy stitch at a time. Colonel Brandon briefed Colonel Chambers on my predicament shortly after introducing me, and until then I’d almost forgotten that Zion itself faced a crisis of far greater magnitude than mine. As I stitched, I learned that, by and large, farmers in the outlying towns were arming themselves, preparing for battle. Brigham had launched a campaign calling all Saints to be prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice for God and gospel.

“But we are still called to stay the course,” Colonel Chambers said. “We will not fire unless fired upon.”

“Correct,” Colonel Brandon said. “Not even in retaliation for our men in the town. They serve in that capacity at their own risk.”

“And do they report here to me?”

“No. That would be far too dangerous for them. We have our checkpoints established between here and Salt Lake City. They’ll leave a sign if we need to meet to exchange information.”

“That’s how you knew about . . .” His voice trailed, and I knew he was talking about me.

“Yes,” Colonel Brandon said. “And she’s been nothing but trouble ever since.”

I could sense the humor in his remark from the next room. He must have known I was listening. Had he been in the room, I might have thrown a pincushion at him. Instead, I smiled and continued with my hem. He so rarely told a joke, it seemed something to savor.

The night before we were to leave, I cornered Private Lambert and requested a washtub, hot water, and soap that I might be able to take my own spring bath. I thought the poor boy might faint on the spot, as all the blood in his body seemed to have rushed to his face, but that evening I was presented with a large tub, six kettles of steaming hot water, and just as many buckets of cool, not to mention clean linen and a dish of soft soap.

Private Lambert himself offered to stand guard outside my door, as there was no bolt on my side, and I could think of no other man I trusted more with my privacy. Safe in my room, I used a handful of soap to lather through my hair, kneeling at the side of the tub to rinse it. I wrapped it in a length of linen, then stripped to step into the warm water. For just a moment, I marveled at the shape of my body. I had no way of knowing just how many of the men were aware of my condition, but could they see me now, there would be no doubt. The winter had taken its toll on my flesh; my shoulders and knees protruded with a sharpness that threatened my skin. But the core of my body swelled with life and health.

I ran my hands along its expanse as I bathed, enjoying the warmth of the water. Once soaped and rinsed, my skin squeaked beneath my touch. I unwrapped the toweling from around my head and used it to dry my body. A modest fire glowed in the stove, and I stood next to it, every inch of myself warm and clean. My wide-toothed comb glided through my wet hair, ridding it of tangles. I slipped on a nightgown, pilfered from Evangeline’s and laundered by a willing private, and brought a chair right up next to the stove, where I could sit and help my hair to dry before going to bed.

A muffled knock. “Mrs. Fox?”

I had no wrapper to cover my gown, so I draped my shawl over my shoulder and invited Private Lambert to open the door, assuming he was there to throw out the wash water.

But it was Colonel Brandon who poked his head around the door. One look at me, and his eyes shot up to the point where the ceiling met the wall; there, except for the briefest connecting glances, they would remain for most of our conversation.

“We’ll leave before first light.”

“I’ll be ready.”

“Are you certain?”

“I can be an early riser when I need to be.”

“What I mean is—” and for this he looked right at me—“are you ready to leave your children?”

“I left my children more than three months ago.”

“They’re not much more than a hundred miles from here. Come dawn tomorrow I can take you in that direction just as easy as I can take you to meet the stage.”

“My children think I’m dead.”

“But you’re not.”

“No.” I studied the ends of my hair. “But I don’t have a life to offer them. Not yet. I don’t have a home or a means of support.”

“And you don’t think you can find that here?”

“A woman alone is dependent on the charity of her community. I’ll be excommunicated. Nobody will be allowed to talk to me, let alone offer charity.”

“I just want to be sure you’re prepared for the separation. I know what it’s like to leave my family, never knowing for certain if I shall return.”

“I’m escaping my war. If I stay here, I’ll spend the rest of my days looking over my shoulder, fighting to keep my children away from the church.”

“There are other dangers.”

“Yes, I know. One of them being that I will not have the opportunity to be reconciled to my father before he dies. I must go to him,
now
. And to my mother. I need to know that they will welcome both me and my daughters into their home so I’m not left . . .”

“Wandering?”

“Dependent.”

“And if they don’t?”

I stood then, my shawl offering adequate modesty atop my shoulders, but aware that there was little I could do to prevent the firelight from casting an intriguing shadow as it burned behind my nightdress. “Have you changed your mind, Colonel Brandon? Because you certainly seem intent on changing mine.”