Forsaking All Others (22 page)

“Sometimes a strategy deserves a second thought.” He spoke, again, to the wall.

“This is not a strategy.” I sat again, my back fully to him. “I’m here by God’s grace and provision. There’s no reason to think he will abandon me now.”

* * *

Honey, saddled and brushed and proud, waited for me in the predawn light. She was one of six saddled horses, and they stood in a formation almost as regimented as did the men standing around them.

I’d never seen the men gathered in such official posture. The winter had taken its toll on their uniforms, but each was pressed the best it could be.

“Attention!”

Colonel Brandon and Colonel Chambers emerged at the far end of the line of men and strode toward where I stood at the front.

I don’t know what I expected a changing of command to be, but that morning’s ceremony proved to be little more than a handshake between the two colonels, followed by Colonel Brandon’s salute to the troops. At a voiced command, they returned the salute in kind, moving in a disciplined, sharp movement. Those men were sworn to follow Colonel Brandon into battle, to obey whatever command he would speak, without question. They would shoot and kill other men, if need be. They might at some time be engaged as such with my neighbors and friends and family.

And here they all were because of me. Now, Colonel Brandon, having relinquished all other official duties, greeted me with a very civilianlike “Good morning.”

The previous evening, he had explained to me that we would ride on horseback to a way station, where we would board a stagecoach for our journey back to Iowa. Honey looked every bit as eager to go as I did, but I tugged at Colonel Brandon’s sleeve to protest.

“You know how I feel about stealing Nathan’s horse.”

He twitched his moustache in such a way that I didn’t know if he was irritated or amused, and it occurred to me that I probably should not have spoken to him outright with his men in formation behind him—an enlightenment that came from Private Lambert’s puzzled, disapproving glare.

“We have an escort to ride with us; then we’ll board the stage, and they will return here, bringing both my horse and your Honey with them. After which, as my final standing order, she is to be taken and set free within a mile of your husband’s property, where, Lord willing, she will find her way home.”

“Without me.”

“Correct.”

“What will he think?”

Colonel Brandon took my hand in both of his, encasing it in reassuring warmth. “He’ll think, if nothing else, his horse returned.”

I noted two truths in his eyes when he spoke. First, that he held my husband in the utmost contempt. Second, that he loved me. It didn’t occur to me to confront him on either of these at the moment—not in front of the troops. I tucked both away, not knowing how either would serve to get me through the day’s ride. I allowed Colonel Brandon to lead me to my horse, where Private Lambert was waiting with a step stool to help me mount her. Once the reins were in my hand, I busied myself arranging my skirt. Then, with Colonel Brandon by my side, two soldiers riding ahead of us, and two behind, I dug my heels into Honey’s flanks.

* * *

In deference, I’m sure, to my condition, we kept the horses at an easy pace. And it was a glorious day for a ride. The air was perfumed with fresh sage, and by early afternoon we had both the warmth of the sun on our backs and a cooling breeze in our faces. Every breath felt sweet and fresh and new. Still, I held Honey’s reins in my whole hand while keeping the other in a perpetual protective embrace over my stomach.

We stopped periodically to rest both ourselves and the horses, but as the day wore on, Colonel Brandon called on us to push through to our destination—as much as my ability and comfort would allow. As nobody there had more desire to reach our destination than I did, I put on my bravest face, reassuring all that I felt fine, and rode the final miles putting my faith in both Honey and God that I would see some sort of bed that night.

The way station was nothing more than a mark on the horizon when I first saw it, and by the time we arrived, it was swallowed in evening shadows. From what I could tell, it consisted of some half a dozen buildings—one large, two-story structure and several low, long ones, with a scattering of small cabins all around. Lights blazed in the largest building, and I felt God’s own hand at my back, pushing me forward.

Our party was received by a motley welcoming committee, consisting of a middle-aged married couple—Mr. and Mrs. Fennel—and a rather hulking young man named Thomas, who might or might not have been their son. As we brought our horses to a stop outside the door, the three of them came out of the house, meeting us at the low, dilapidated fence that marked a modest yard in front of the large house. After greetings were exchanged that showed me Colonel Brandon was no stranger here, Mrs. Fennel led me to a tidy room with a washstand, chair, and a wide bed covered with a bright green-and-blue quilt.

“Now, I’ll be servin’ a supper downstairs, but you just get yourself tucked in and I’ll bring up a tray. A full day on horseback is mighty hard on a woman.”

“Thank you,” I said with genuine relief. “You’re very kind.”

As she closed the door behind herself, I went immediately to the washbasin, alarmed at the vision that greeted me in the mirror. Dust had settled into every crease and corner of my face, and what wasn’t tinged brown with dust was red with sun- and windburn. I filled the basin with water, rolled up my sleeves, plunged in my hands, and splashed my face. Oh, the cool refreshment. After a quick check to see that the door was locked, I stripped off my dust-soiled dress and dabbed a washcloth along my shoulders and arms, trying to ignore the quickly browning water.

The nightgown felt cool and soft against my bare skin, and it smelled of sweet cedar. It was now fully dark outside, so I didn’t feel completely indulgent in crawling into the bed. The mattress was a soft straw tick, more comfortable than I’d slept on since leaving home, and for just a moment I worried that I might fall asleep before getting a chance to eat whatever smelled so delicious downstairs. My fears proved unfounded, however, when Mrs. Fennel walked in carrying a tray with a steaming dish of shepherd’s pie.

“I feel like royalty.”

“Well, you look half-dead. Sure you have the strength to eat?”

I nodded and sat up straighter, my mouth watering at the sight of the mixture of lamb, carrots, and potatoes in a rich gravy on the plate.

“I’d like to stay with you so’s you’d have someone to talk to, but I got a room full of men downstairs that are gonna keep me hoppin’. You’ll be all right?”

I nodded again, this time my mouth too full of food to speak politely. Mrs. Fennel instructed me to leave my tray outside the door after I had finished, and then she left me alone with my supper. It didn’t last long. I wolfed the food in a matter of minutes, washing it down with gulps of fresh, cold milk. The last bite was a battle against fullness and fatigue, but I managed it down and fell against my pillows, exhausted. It took the last bit of my strength to get up and set the tray outside my door, where I found Colonel Brandon opening his own right across the hall.

“Mrs. Fox.”

“Colonel Brandon.”

It was the extent of our conversation. I set my tray on the floor, and he disappeared. I climbed back into bed and was asleep within moments.

Chapter 18

Never could two mirrored experiences be so different. Years ago I’d traversed this same land with Nathan. Step by step I’d crossed it, walking one plodding mile after another when I wasn’t sitting on the tongue of somebody’s wagon as a team of oxen took even slower steps. Five miles a day we’d covered—on a good day—and each of those miles passed one blade of grass at a time. If I closed my eyes, I could bring it all back—the relentless sun, the inescapable rain, the days upon days of seeing the same mountain peak on the horizon—no closer at the end of the day than it had been when you were washing up the breakfast dishes. Nathan and I hadn’t had our own wagon, so we’d sleep under the stars, wrapped in each other’s arms. Or we’d sneak off—just over a hill, maybe—to enjoy our newly married life.

And that’s what it felt like. Life. Just a slow-moving home. We sang and cooked. Children played games right alongside the turning wagon wheels. Little girls spied wildflowers and made chains of them; little boys trapped lizards and snakes. Prairie dogs stood on their haunches and watched us rumble by.

But traveling by stage, I hardly knew I was making the same journey. Nothing could have prepared me for the brutality of this transport. The noise was deafening, with the constant rattle of chains, not to mention the stagecoach itself. Mrs. Fennel had indeed procured extra cushioning, which was lashed to the original seat with long leather strips. Without it, I couldn’t imagine the beating my body would have taken. At our first lurching exit from the way station, I found myself tossed from my seat entirely, nearly into the lap of Private Lambert, who at the next stop volunteered to ride shotgun with our driver. This left me alone with Colonel Brandon, something that never affected me during our conversations back at Fort Bridger. But my newfound understanding of his feelings for me put me on edge, and I was actually grateful to focus my attention on remaining upright on the seat.

We stopped four times during the course of the first day—every ten miles, according to our driver. When we came to our fifth and final stop, we’d traveled approximately fifty miles, and though I felt every one of them throughout my aching body, I marveled at the distance. We’d driven the equivalent of more than a week’s travel by wagon. It took me more than a season to leave home; I would be back in less than a month.

To my relief I learned that we would not ride through the night. Any sort of bed—even a straw pallet on rocky soil—would be preferable to more miles of being tossed around in that torturous seat. We’d stopped at the Big Pond station, comprised of one large structure of massive sandstone slabs and several outlying smaller buildings. Here there was no Mrs. Fennel and family bustling about to feed and serve us. In fact, I might well have been the only woman there, which renewed my appreciation for Colonel Brandon’s offer of escort. Upon stopping, our driver had jumped down to go in search of someone to help with the horses, leaving Private Lambert, Colonel Brandon, and me to fend for ourselves in the main building.

The door was wide and square and heavy, if Private Lambert’s obvious effort to open it was any indication, but it opened to a room that managed to be somehow simultaneously cavernous and cozy. The walls were lined with narrow bunks, stacked three high, each with a mattress covered by a neatly tucked-in blanket. Four long tables with benches created an aisle down the center of the room, stretching from the door to an enormous stone fireplace that comprised most of the far wall, where a small, inviting fire burned. Facing it was a gathering of horsehair and leather–covered chairs.

“Care to sit?” Colonel Brandon gestured with his hat.

“No thanks,” I said, arching my back. “I’ve had quite enough sitting for one day.”

“Well, it appears they’ve left supper for us, at least.”

A large, cast-iron kettle sat on the end of one of the tables, with a stack of bowls next to it and a shallow pan covered with a white towel. At a nod from Colonel Brandon, Private Lambert went to it, lifted the lid, and reported, “Beans, sir. And corn bread, sir. They must have known they had soldiers coming.” Then a small smile in my direction. “Beg your pardon, ma’am.”

As it turned out, this building actually had two halls that jutted out from the far wall. To the left, according to a rough-lettered sign, was a kitchen, and to the right, a washroom. I was given leave to wash up first and was pleasantly surprised at the facility. There was a hand pump coming right up from the floor and a row of basins and pitchers set up along a shelf that ran nearly the length of the wall. To my relief, two of the pitchers were already filled, and once again I turned the water gray with a day’s worth of travel dust. I knew I’d have no chance to wash anything other than my face and neck and hands, but even that little bit was refreshing. I opened the back door to dump my dirty water off the porch and paused for just a moment, gazing up into the starlight.

“Good night, sweet girls,” I said, and I prayed that God would keep us all safe until we could look upon the stars together.

When I reentered the main room, two other gentlemen were seated at one of the long tables. Colonel Brandon introduced them to me as Ephraim Henness and Nicholas Farmer. Both had high brows and gray hair with neatly trimmed whiskers and were dressed in well-tailored, dark suits. They were taking the westbound stage headed for Salt Lake City. And then, in a tone that would seem natural to anybody who’d never spent countless hours in conversation with the man, Colonel Brandon introduced me as his wife.

Instantly alert, I took a step closer to Colonel Brandon and said, “Good evening, gentlemen.”

I’d seen these men before. Not these particular ones, of course, but others upon others just like them, and I knew they were Latter-day Saints.

“Perhaps, then, Mrs. Brandon, you could serve up our supper?” the elder of the two said. “The station cook encouraged us to wait for your arrival. Unsavory character himself, so we’re quite pleased to know we have more civilized company.”

My smile remained frozen. “I’d be happy to.”

Colonel Brandon and Private Lambert took turns excusing themselves to clean up in the washroom, purposefully not leaving me alone with Brothers Ephraim and Nicholas, for which I was grateful. The men exchanged small talk about the weather and travel, while I took a lamp and ventured into the kitchen. Not caring whether or not I had the resident cook’s permission, I built up the fire in the cookstove and set a kettle of water on to boil, having located a tin of tea on a shelf.

Upon returning to the table, I ladled out beans, passed the corn bread, and poured glasses of cold water. When all were seated, Colonel Brandon offered to say a blessing for the meal, but Brother Ephraim raised his hand.