Love and Adventure Collection - Part 2

by Jennifer Blake

  The figure of a woman left the wagons in the growing dusk and started toward where Serena stood. Ungainly, stumbling on the uneven ground; it was Lessie, Elder Greer’s third wife.

  Watching her struggling progress, the pure lines of Serena’s mouth tightened. Lessie was with child; it was monstrous of the others, particularly that shrew Beatrice, to send her on errands. It was not surprising, however; they all did so, down to the least child. Lessie, with her guileless eyes and vacant smile, was so accommodating, so easily browbeaten, that she was treated more as a servant than as a wife. More than once Serena had intervened in the woman’s behalf, sending a demanding child, of which the elder counted eleven in his family, about his business or recommending that Beatrice haul her own water, fetch her own wood, or send one of her own whining brats to do it for her. This had endeared her to Lessie, but to no one else, least of all to Elder Greer. He did not allow bickering among his family, he said, but Serena was of the opinion that he did not like to see the contemptuous expression in her gray-blue eyes when she looked from him to the swollen body of his too biddable third wife.

  “Serena? Come to the wagon, do, or you will miss your supper.” There was an anxious look in Lessie’s eyes, and she flung a quick look over her shoulders as she stood clutching her skirts.

  “I’m not hungry, and even if I were, I still have biscuits left over from breakfast. You go on ahead without me, all of you. I don’t need supper.” Serena spoke quietly, her low voice a musical sound in the quiet.

  “Please, Serena. Beatrice will be mad, mad at you, mad at me, because Elder Greer will ask for you, want to know where you are. Please, Serena.”

  For all her simplemindedness, there were times when Lessie was surprisingly acute. The elder would indeed ask for her. It was one of his rules that everyone in his family should gather for the evening prayer before meals whether they meant to eat or not, whether they were too ill to face food, were being punished by being sent supperless to bed, or, in Serena’s case, were accustomed to eat alone. She, in particular, had always been singled out.

  “There is no sense in it,” Serena said with a lift of her shoulders. “I could as easily pray alone, especially here, away from everyone.”

  “Elder Greer could not see you praying. How would he know?”

  “It’s none of his business,” Serena snapped. “Who does he think he is, God?”

  “I don’t know, Serena.”

  Seeing the frightened puzzlement in the girl’s soft, faded blue eyes, Serena sighed. “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “I don’t suppose it matters. Surely I can stand it for a few days more.”

  “Please, Serena, won’t you come?”

  “Yes, I will come for now,” Serena said. Linking her arm through the other girl’s to give her support, she turned toward the flickering orange cook fires that lit the night and the wagons.

  Night drew in; the evening meal was done. The Mormon women dried their red, wet hands on their aprons, untied the strings, and laid them aside. Hair was brushed and tightly hidden beneath close-fitting bonnets, and shawls and blanket capes were brought out. The faces of the children were washed and their hair combed, that of the boys slicked back with water, that of the girls braided anew and tucked up under bonnets no different from their mothers’. Men reached for their coats and their Bibles. All began to make their way toward the center of the wagons, which were drawn into a circle, not so much in fear of an Indian attack, not in this year of 1893, as against the stray brave off the reservation who might be tempted to plunder. The day was at an end. It was meeting time.

  Serena lifted her head from the book she was reading in the light of a small lamp. Through a slit in the closed end of the wagon canvas, she watched the Mormons gather. With a shake of her head, she returned to her book. An instant later, she jumped as the tailboard of her wagon creaked to an added weight. She looked up in time to see a hard hand whip aside the back flap. She pushed herself bolt upright, reaching for her dressing gown to cover her chemise and petticoats, all that she wore in the privacy of her wagon so near bedtime. There was no time to push her arms into the sleeves. She could only hold it over the swelling curves of her breasts as Elder Greer flung his leg over the tail of the wagon and stepped inside.

  He stood surveying the interior, the few fine pieces of furniture, the trunks and exquisitely pieced quilts and coverlets, the cot, spread with the fine linen sheets that had been a part of Serena’s mother’s trousseau, where she sat. His gaze came to rest at last on Serena herself. His eyes traveled over the tumbled dark mass of her hair, devouring the soft texture of her skin, suffused with a blush like rose-tinted ivory in the lamplight, watching the quick rise and fall of her breasts beneath her pristine white underclothing. For an instant, his eyes, silvery, almost colorless in the dimness, met her wide gaze, then he looked quickly away.

  He swallowed, his throat moving with the effort. “You do not go to the meeting?”

  “No.”

  “You are not unwell?”

  “I — I have a headache,” Serena answered. It was a good enough excuse, since it made little difference to her whether the elder believed it or not. The truth was, she felt herself unable to bear another lecture, another sermon.

  “We will miss you, and I think you will regret not hearing the good counsel that would show you the way you must go, the road your feet must take.”

  “Perhaps tomorrow night.”

  “Yes, there is always tomorrow, and yet tonight I was going to speak again of the holy mission that we, the people of this wagon train, have undertaken. There will be great rejoicing when finally we reach Salt Lake City in Utah, the land of Zion found by Saint Brigham Young forty-six years ago. Not in nearly twenty years has any band attempted to duplicate his feat of traveling over a thousand miles across these plains and mountains to reach that promised land. How I long for you to be aware of the majesty of what we are doing in reliving the great hardships of this journey. How much I want you to become one of us so that you may feel yourself a part of it.”

  “You are — kind to think of it, but I believe I must remain true to my own beliefs and the teachings of my parents.”

  “You are arrogant, lost in your foolish pride. You look down on my people.”

  Serena stiffened in alarm as he took a step toward her, his eyes coldly blazing. “No,” she said, running her tongue over her dry lips. “No, I’m not. It’s only that I must have the right to believe in my way, just as you believe in yours.”

  “You don’t know what you are saying. You don’t know what you are disdaining in your ignorance. One day you will regret the glorious future that you are denying yourself from sheer stubbornness. It is possible that you need more guidance, more of a sign. If you are too ignorant to take up the golden cup of divine salvation through Sainthood, then perhaps it should be forced upon you. I shall have to pray upon it.”

  “What — what do you mean?” Serena inquired as coolly as she could manage. She did not like the trend of his words, still less did she like the glint of triumph she had seen rise in his eyes before he bowed his head in all piety.

  “There is no time now. I must go to the meeting. We will talk of this another time, when I have meditated upon what I must do.”

  Swinging around, he left her, left the wagon flap dangling, swaying in the wind. It was a long time before Serena returned to her book, longer still before she blew out her lamp and slept.

  She came awake abruptly. Alarm shivered along her nerves as she stared into the darkness. The canvas above her shivered in the wind, billowing, making the wagon creak. From far away came the mournful call of a coyote. A cow lowed from the animal enclosure, and closer by there came the sharp bark of a dog. Then, as she lay straining to hear, came the sound that had awakened Serena. It was the scrape of a footstep at the rear of her wagon.

  Moving with silent caution, she sat up. She was not really disturbed. It might be no more than a restless sleeper, or someone moving beyond the wagons
to relieve themselves in the darkness. Still, she was uneasy. There seemed something furtive about this sound so near her wagon. Her skin prickling with the chillness of the plains night, Serena pushed the long braid of her hair, worn plaited for sleeping, over her shoulder as she strained to hear.

  The ceaseless wind brushed against the wagon, ruffling the canvas beside her. In the dim light lent by the three-quarter moon that brightened the encampment, she could make out the familiar shapes of things around her, the furniture, her father’s chest of carpenter’s tools, her mother’s hidebound trunk, the open wooden box that held the iron pots and pans, the tin plates and cups and other utensils she used daily. The flap at the rear of the wagon shivered, then there came a low, muffled noise, the sound of the rope closing being slipped from its knot.

  “Who is it? Who’s there?”

  Her low-voiced query hung in the air. There was no answer. The bed of the wagon shuddered to a sudden weight on the back frame. The shadow of a man loomed against the canvas.

  “Who is there? Answer me or — or I’ll scream!”

  “No, don’t do that,” came a whisper, hoarse, urgent, in reply. “Wait — only wait a minute.” The rear flap billowed and Elder Greer swung a leg over the tailboard to step inside.

  “What do you want?” Serena’s fear receded a fraction, and yet an unpleasant feeling remained in the pit of her stomach. The elder straightened, towering over her in the narrow confines of the wagon. “I’ve come to save you, my dear Serena.”

  “Save me?”

  “Verily, to fold you to my bosom and keep you safe from harm and the wickedness of the gentile world. I want you for my wife, beautiful Serena. I have prayed over it, and the answer is plain. I mean to take you to me, to merge your body with mine in divine union.”

  As he spoke he moved closer, coming up against the side of the cot. Serena edged away from him, drawing her knees up, freeing them from the quilt that covered her. “I have told you I don’t want to change my faith. I cannot believe as you do, or acknowledge your prophet.”

  “Yes, and it is a great sorrow to me. However, you are young and a female. You cannot know your own mind. You need guidance, and I am here to give it to you.” There was a rough note in his low voice allied to a quaver, as of some violent feeling.

  “Can’t — can’t we talk about it tomorrow?” The danger in which she stood was not unknown to Serena. The elder’s physical appetites were voracious. It was not unusual for him to summon one of his wives with a curt nod of his head and disappear with her into one of his several wagons of an evening. The creakings of the wooden vehicles, their peculiar movements on their rudimentary springs and locked wheels, had been the source of much snickering and whispered comments among his older children, some of whom swore to witnessing the ludicrous rites of conception when they were younger.

  “Tomorrow?” The elder swallowed, an audible sound in the tense quiet. “Tomorrow will be too late!”

  He fell on her, reaching, grasping for her soft flesh shining pale in the shadow-filled darkness. She twisted away with the sharp edge of a scream in her throat. His arms fastened around her hips, and for an instant his bearded face was pressed against her breasts. As he nuzzled blindly into their swelling fullness, Serena was assailed by the sweaty, animalistic odor of his body, and she pushed at him with the strength of shuddering revulsion, wrenching from his hold. That she would seriously resist him seemed to come as a surprise, for his grip slackened. In that instant Serena slid from the cot, scrambling to her feet.

  With a bellow of rage, the elder surged after her, his work-hardened hands snatching at the fragile, much-washed batiste of her nightgown. The fabric gave at the sleeve, but he dragged her toward him so that she stumbled, swaying in his direction. Instantly he pulled her down across him, rolling to pin her beneath him on the floor. With a grunt of triumph, he flung a leg across her knees, pressing the hardened lump of his manhood and the firm bulge of his paunch against her. In horror she realized he wore nothing more than a pair of knee-length underdrawers. She wriggled in panting disgust as his fingers groped over her, finding her breast, squeezing the ripe softness. She gave a cry of mingled hurt and anger, and he hitched himself higher. His mouth, wet and foul in the bristling stiffness of his beard, slid over her cheeks, seeking for her mouth to silence her. Nausea rose on her tongue, and Serena arched her back, straining away from him. One hand was crushed underneath him, but with the other she struck out, catching him on the nose with her small, hard fist. He bellowed in pain, then drew back, exclaiming with an incredulous oath as he felt the wetness of the blood that trickled from his nostrils.

  For an instant Serena thought he was going to give up the struggle in his rage and chagrin that she did not welcome his advances. She was mistaken. Instead, he drew back his hand and slapped her, a stunning blow to the side of the face. As she gasped with shock, held immovable by the pain, his shaking hand fumbled at the neckline of her gown. He tore at the buttons, ripping them from their holes, exposing the mounds of her breasts to the cool night air, then rending the thin batiste to the hem.

  That tearing sound seemed to slice through Serena’s brain, cutting away the fear and the last lingering disbelief at this unspeakable thing that was happening to her. She heaved away from the touch of his damp, probing fingers, bringing her knees up. Her fingers curved into claws and she struck for his face with the swiftness of a snake, reaching for his eyes. As he jerked away from the tearing sharpness of her nails, she rolled free with the tatters of her gown swirling around her, hanging from her shoulders like a cape. On hands and knees, she lunged for the rear flap of the wagon. The elder scrabbled after her, catching one ankle. To keep from being pulled backward, she clutched at the nearest thing to hand, the side of the wooden cook box. With desperate strength, she managed to get her arm over the side, raising herself to one knee. But then the elder released her leg, grasping higher, lunging up behind her and jerking at the braid of her hair to twist her head back while he thrust himself against her, grinding his body against the softness of her hips.

  As she was pushed forward over the side of the box, her flailing arm struck the side of a frying pan. She grasped the handle with both hands and swung backward, connecting with the side of the elder’s head. He cursed and released her hair to wrench the heavy iron pan from her. With one arm clasped about her waist, he began to push at the waistband of his drawers.

  In frantic haste, Serena flailed her arms around her, trying to find a hold, seeking purchase to wrench herself away from the clammy, musky hardness of the man pressed so sickeningly close. The need to call for help shafted through her mind, but there was no time, and with his arm cutting into her middle, no breath to waste on what might well be a useless exercise. The sound of a woman crying out in the night was not so unusual, after all. And then as the hunching elder pushed her farther forward, her outstretched fingers touched a wooden handle and closed around it.

  Her weapon was too light for a knife. It was a fork, a three-tined fork. Her disappointment was like a sickness in her heart; still, she did not hesitate. With the last of her ebbing strength she jabbed the sharp steel tines into the arm that held her, slashing, tearing at the sweaty flesh.

  Abruptly she was released. She drew a gasping breath and threw herself to one side, not quite avoiding a smacking swing of the elder’s hand against the rounded curve of her hip. In swift, unthinking retaliation, she stabbed at his chest with her fork, and had the satisfaction of feeling it rake across his ribs. As he snatched at her hand with a mighty grunting groan, she threw herself back from him and surged up, leaping for the tailboard of the wagon.

  She had one leg over the side when he grabbed her, his fingers closing around her arm. Setting her teeth, she plunged on over, trying to use her weight to break his hold, only catching at the canvas flap to prevent herself from falling at the last minute. He refused to let her get away from him, holding grimly to her arm.

  The elder had forgotten his drawers slipping abo
ut his knees. He tripped and stumbled forward, pitching head first out of the wagon. They fell together in a tangled heap of naked flesh and lay stunned, staring up at the night sky.

  A shrill scream shattered the night. It rose and fell with an edge of hysteria, full-throated in the grip of unreasoning fear laced with wrath. Serena, lying dazed with an intolerable weight across her chest and the sting of buffalo grass beneath her bare shoulders, heard it and turned her head. It was Beatrice who stood with her lashless eyes fastened on their nude, blood-smeared bodies, one hand clutching the flannel wrapper she wore over her nightgown and the other holding a lantern. From her narrow mouth issued that nerve-shattering screeching. Voices rose, a low babble of disturbed sound. Lamplight flared, casting a yellow-orange glow against the canvas of the wagons before men climbed down and came at a run.

  Serena pushed at the man lying across her, trying to drag herself from under him. Winded, gasping for breath, Elder Greer pushed himself to one elbow, wheezing. He looked around him, then as if coming suddenly to his senses, he stiffened. A fierce look came into his eyes, and he swung his head toward Beatrice.

  “Shut up that noise, woman,” he growled, holding to his chest as he struggled to a standing position. As she obeyed with a gulp, he ordered, “Bring me my pants.”

  Beside him, Serena pulled herself to her feet, gathering the strips of her nightgown around herself with shaking hands, still clutching the fork in one fist. After one quick glance she averted her eyes from the sight of the blood that oozed in bright-red runnels down the elder’s chest, threading through the sparse gray-brown hair. She turned her pale face toward the sound of people approaching, then as hot color rose to her hairline, she swung to seek the cover of her wagon, away from the startled stares of the men hurrying in their direction.