by Diane Noble
“You look like you could use a friend,” Cordelia said. She placed the covered basket beside the large stone.
Bronwyn started to deny her need and don the mask she too often wore: that of sunny optimism no matter the circumstances.
But her heart was too heavy to attempt it. Besides, she knew Cordelia well enough to recognize that the astute little woman would see right through her deception.
“Aye,” she said softly. “I’m feeling lost.”
Cordelia reached for her hand. “I wondered how long it would take.” Her Cajun lilt seemed almost musical to Bronwyn. She relaxed, just hearing it. Among all the Saints, she knew of no one she admired more—and had ever since the night Cordelia told her how to break a window with the butt of a gun and start shooting at the thugs who surrounded them. A tiny woman with coal black hair and a fiery spirit, she seemed to look upon others with the same grace and acceptance that had been extended to her.
Little Grace stirred and opened her eyes. Cordelia reached for her and bounced her on her lap, cuddled her close, and covered her soft downy head with kisses. “I love how babies smell,” she said, smiling at Bronwyn. “You are so blessed to have her, did you know it?”
Bronwyn nodded. “Aye, ’tis true.”
Then Cordelia studied Bronwyn’s midsection for a moment. “I could be wrong, but there’s another on the way, is that true too?”
Bronwyn sighed. “Aye, that too is true.”
“And you feel even more like a lost lamb now than before—because, dear, Mary Rose is also having a babe?”
“How did you know?”
“My grandmother was a midwife. Some called her a witch, and had she lived a century earlier she might have been burned at the stake. But she was wise and taught me the signs. I wish I’d listened more carefully when she told me of her herbs and medicines, but her art died with her.” She reached into her basket and drew out a fresh biscuit. She broke it in pieces and gave them one by one to Little Grace, who chomped at them with relish.
“You asked if I feel like a lost lamb…?” She laughed lightly. “’Tis true. I just hadn’t thought of myself as such.”
“Perhaps it’s because of our Prophet. I sometimes feel like he’s let us down by thinking himself bigger than God. When I first heard his message it was simple and easy to understand. There were no secret temple ceremonies, no revelations of plural marriage, no teachings that said every man can become a god depending on how he follows the ‘law’ of the Prophet.”
Bronwyn caught her breath. She’d heard about outspoken, strong-willed women being tried for blasphemy, excommunicated from the Church, their families shamed. She studied this woman she’d come to love and respect as much as if she were her own dear grandmother, and she feared for her.
Cordelia laughed lightly, and then, as if reading Bronwyn’s mind, said, “Don’t get me wrong. I love this church with all my heart. I will never forget the love and acceptance I felt after being shunned so long as a fallen woman. Brother Joseph welcomed me with open arms, and when other members whispered behind my back, he called them up short. He wouldn’t allow anyone to see me as anything other than one with equal access to God’s grace.
“But I’ve come to realize that our Prophet has feet of clay.”
“What do you mean?”
She sighed deeply. “I could be excommunicated for saying this, but I don’t care. I think our Joseph lost sight of God’s original plan for him.”
Bronwyn sat back, astonished. “Does Grandpa Earl know how you feel?”
“Oh laws, yes. And worries himself sick that I’ll take over a Sunday meeting and tell the whole congregation.”
“Would he ever take another wife—even if commanded to by Brother Brigham or the Prophet himself?”
She laughed, this time louder than before. “He brought it up once, and I simply said it was hogwash and pointed to the rifle over the doorway. Said I’d shoot at any woman who tried to get his pants off and convince him to take her as a second wife. Or any man too big for his britches, ordering others to live their lives in such a way—including the highfalutin so-called apostles. Every one of them takes himself too seriously in my opinion and needs to be taken down a notch or two.”
She shook her head slowly and grinned at Bronwyn. “Guess you didn’t know you’d inherited such a spitfire of a grandma.”
Bronwyn laughed. “I figured it out the night you had me shooting at that mob.”
“Well, dear. In my opinion—yet again—you could use some spitfire yourself.”
Bronwyn’s eyes widened. “Me?”
“Yes, dear. You. We’ve got some tough times ahead of us. I see all the signs of it in perfect alignment…and you, all of us, need to come together as a family if we’re going to make it through.”
“What signs?” Bronwyn looked down at Little Grace, and her heart skipped a beat.
“The wolves are already nipping at our heels, lying in wait to attack us again, rape our women, kill our children, make old men dance…” Cordelia turned to Bronwyn, her face softening. “I’m sorry to go on and on about this.” She looked at her evenly. “Are you scandalized, just hearing it?”
Bronwyn didn’t answer right away. Gathering her thoughts, she watched the creek for a few moments, the way the water swirled, almost backward from its usual flow, then found its path and gurgled downward once more.
“You’ve given voice to my thoughts. I haven’t dared to say them aloud—not since Mary Rose and I became…estranged. We once spoke openly of our feelings about the Church and the Prophet, we laughed at some of the absurdities of his claims.” She chuckled at the memories that came to her. “Now our conversations are limited to caring for the children, planning our meals, and, recently, trying to bring a sense of holiness into our household—just as the priesthood teaches.”
“You miss her, don’t you?”
Bronwyn nodded and blinked back fresh tears. “I betrayed her. I don’t know if she can ever forgive me. She smiles and acts as if everything between us is all sunlight and posies, but it isn’t.”
“They have too much power over us, these men, power that causes more heartache than not,” Cordelia said. “We have no voice. Men, supposedly godly men, tell us that we can only be called into glory if we’ve pleased our husbands enough on earth so they will remember our secret name.” She narrowed her eyes. “Do you see the power that gives them over us?”
Bronwyn nodded. “I’ve known it, but let it happen because I believed the Prophet’s revelations.” Quick tears rushed to Bronwyn’s eyes. “But what can I do? I have nowhere to go. I have one child, and now another on the way.”
“There’s another shepherd…” Cordelia said, her gaze on the creek again, a slight smile curving the corners of her lips.
“I don’t know him.”
She turned back to Bronwyn. “Someday you will. You may not recognize his voice right away. But listen with your heart, the deepest, quietest part of your heart. You’ll hear his voice.” Cordelia’s eyes grew moist. “I promise you. Listen to him; he will tell you which way to go, he will walk with you or carry you if you need him to. Either way, he will never leave you.”
“How do you know this?”
Cordelia smiled, gathering up Little Grace, and standing. “Will you bring along the basket, love?” she said to Bronwyn.
Bronwyn stooped to grab hold of the handle.
“Fresh-baked buttermilk biscuits and Cajun sausages, hand-stuffed by Coal, Ruby, and Pearl. Some might find them a bit spicy at first, but I guarantee, your family will love them.”
They walked into the opening near the barn, to the shouts and laughter of the children as they played with their hoops and sticks. Mary Rose and Gabe stepped through the back door, with eyes only for each other.
Bronwyn stopped and caught her breath at the sight. Cordelia touched her hand as she halted. “You asked me how I know about the shepherd,” she said, forcing Bronwyn to tear her gaze away from Gabe and Mary Rose. “I know,
dearest, because I’ve heard his voice.”
THIRTY-SIX
River Road near Carthage, Illinois
A grizzled, bearded man pushed open the inn’s double doors. “Did y’all hear?” Each heavy-booted step and jangle of spurs punctuated his words as he pushed aside a poker game and clambered onto the table. “Old Joe Smith has been arrested! Him and his brother Hyrum. Taken right over to Carthage to be tried for treason. Me’n some others are gettin’ together a posse, gonna string ’em up before the trial.”
The smoke-clouded room exploded into a cacophony of hoots and whistles. Chairs scooted back as at least a dozen men jumped up to take part.
“It’s about time,” shouted another man from across the room. “But you can bet yer old boots he won’t last out the night. Let’s get going. We’ll string ’em both up on the spot.”
Enid Livingstone’s heartbeat increased. She looked across the table at the German immigrants she’d fallen in with on the river road to Nauvoo. She lowered her voice and said to the one sitting next to her, “They talkin’ about the Mormon Prophet?”
“Who you talkin’ about?” her companion yelled to the grizzled man still standing on the card table. “The one they call the Prophet?”
“Who wants to know?”
“The man sitting next to me.”
Everyone in the inn, mostly a motley bunch, turned to look at Enid. She narrowed her eyes in a fixed stare at the man who’d asked the question, lowered her voice, and in an American accent said, “Who cares who wants to know?”
Someone behind him let out a coarse guffaw. “Hey, buddy, no offense. Just thought we might have some Saints among us. Can’t be too careful.”
Since heading into frontier country, Enid had taken to wearing a disguise: worn and greasy buckskin trousers, homespun shirt, a cloth vest, and a hunter’s coat as greasy as the trousers. She wore a wide sash around her waist in the style of a trapper and kept a wide knife, both for protection and show, tucked in the sash, a shooting pouch at her shoulder, and a rifle at her side when riding Sadie. She tucked her flame-colored hair underneath a slouch hat that she kept pulled down to her eyes.
This was one of those times she was glad she’d traded a buckboard for the clothes at a trading post just outside St. Louis. She’d found since leaving the riverboat and heading north on the river road that the West was no place for a lady traveling alone.
Her beloved Foxfire had died before they reached Boston, the voyage proving too arduous. When the horse could no longer stand, Enid had lain down beside her in the small enclosure, cuddling close while she took her last breaths, speaking softly, and even singing, to calm her during the beautiful horse’s last hours of life. Enid pulled strings to arrange for a rather unusual burial at sea, with the ship’s captain—a man who had known Hosea—officiating at a service that Enid wrote.
She had hitched Sadie to the buckboard she’d brought from Prince Edward Island, but once she reached St. Louis and assessed her options, she traded the buckboard for a saddle, her spinning wheel for the trapper’s clothes and a pair of moccasins. In her saddlebag, she’d made room for a woolen skirt and a shawl, which she was saving for the day she’d see Gabe in Nauvoo.
“Who’s with us? Who’s agin us?” the grizzled man on the table yelled. “You there with all the questions”—Griz pointed to Enid—“you comin’ with us?”
Enid swallowed hard and lowered her voice. “Yeah, why not? Nothin’ better t’ do, I s’pose.”
“I got coal outside,” someone shouted out. “Yeehaw—let the fun begin.”
“I say we tar ’n’ feather ’em first off,” someone else said.
“Nah, been done to ’em before. I say we string ’em up at the nearest tree, use ’em fer target practice before we slap the hosses out from under ’em.”
Enid felt her stomach roil, and swallowed again to keep from losing the jerky she’d eaten the hour before. All she wanted was to get to Nauvoo and the safety of Gabe’s arms. She stood, hoping to slip away and get to Sadie at the livery unnoticed, but in their excitement the men seemed to go wild, jostling her as they all tried to get out the inn door at once. Instead of staying at the edge of the mob, she found herself at its center. Her heart thudded harder and she found it difficult to breathe. Not just because she seemed blocked from every direction, but because of the body stench of men who’d gone too long without bathing or taking care of other grooming needs. She grimaced, shuddered, and, holding her breath, stared at the ground for a few moments, trying to get a handle on her fear and her loathing for the mob mentality.
She tried to sidle toward the livery, but a tall man who was missing most of his teeth blocked her way. He grinned as he handed her a chunk of coal. Aware she was being watched, she liberally covered her hands and face, just as the others did.
“Gotta get movin’,” Griz said. He’d apparently appointed himself leader, and no one else seemed to mind. “The trial’s tomorry. We gotta get to ’em tonight.”
Within minutes, Enid had saddled up Sadie, who sensed the tension and nickered nervously. Enid bent low to whisper and calm her.
“Love yer hoss, little boy?” Griz mocked in a high voice, then cursed and laughed as others joined in with the taunt.
Her heart racing for fear of being found out, Enid slouched in her saddle, shrugged, and growled that they ought to get moving before dark.
The posse rode out, at least two dozen strong, and picked up others along the way. Griz goaded the laggers as he rode around the group like a captain of a cattle drive. “We’re gonna wipe ’em all from the face of the earth,” he said. “This here’s just the beginnin’.”
“I hear tell we even got the governor on our side this time,” someone close to Enid hollered. “First time in history, a governor’s thinkin’ about ordering the extermination of folks livin’ in his state.”
It wasn’t far to Carthage, but by the time they arrived the mob had grown to some two hundred or more.
Enid sidled Sadie to the back of the group, hoping to take cover in a stand of trees. Her heart beat wildly as the mob chanted outside the jail, below the second-story window where it was said that Joseph Smith and his brother Hyrum were being kept.
“Whatcha doin’ way back here, little boy,” Griz said, riding up beside her.
Enid’s breath caught in her throat.
“I think yer a greenhorn and need to get some experience under that belt. You come on up here now. Once we git the Smiths and string ’em up, I’m gonna give you the honor of firing the first shot.”
He grabbed for Sadie’s reins, but the horse reared and kicked.
Griz pulled out a pistol and aimed it at Sadie’s head. “I think this here hoss you love so much needs to be taught a lesson in manners.”
Enid grabbed her skinning knife, and before the man could take another breath, she moved Sadie close to him with just the pressure of her thighs—and touched the point of the knife to his ribs.
“You so much as cock that weapon, Griz, and you bend over and kiss your horse goodbye,” she snarled. “And it won’t be yer horse that’s headin’ to the great beyond, it’ll be you.” She pressed the knife just deep enough to draw a drop of blood. “Now, I suggest you git up there with yer mob and start doin’ yer duty to God and yer country. Ain’t that why we’re here? To string up the Saints? You better go git started or we’ll lose our best opportunity. Go…now!” She slapped the rump of Griz’s horse, which caused it to leap into the crowd.
Enid sat back in the saddle, stuck the knife back in her sash, and swallowed a smile…until she saw what was happening at the front of the mob. The sheriff had come out to try to calm them, but a few surged past him into the jailhouse. She heard their hoots as they raced up the stairs.
“I hope there’s more of the vermin in there than just old Joe and Hyrum,” someone laughed beside her. “There’re likely bodyguards, maybe the top leaders…”
“Or,” mocked another, “their a-postles. They got twelve of ’em ju
st like in the Bible times.”
“Whoever’s in there, we’ll teach ’em all a lesson they’ll not soon ferget,” Griz called out from somewhere in the crowd.
“What’d they do?” asked a newcomer.
“Destroyed a printing press that dared write a criticizin’ word or two about the Prophet.” The speaker drew out the last word with a sneer. “Freedom of the press, that’s what all this is about.”
Darkness had fallen and, still on horseback, several of the men had lit torches. Their horses whinnied with fear and nervously sidestepped, making the glow from the torches seem alive, moving the men’s shadows across the brick jailhouse like they were monsters from a child’s fairy-tale book.
Enid’s fears grew by the minute. What if Gabe was inside trying to protect his Prophet? What if he was an apostle? She had no way of knowing how far he’d risen within the ranks of Mormonism.
She stared up at the window where the Prophet and his brother were caged. She bit back the urge to cry out that justice should be done, that the trial should be held. Wasn’t that the American way?
Shots rang out from inside the building.
“The vermin is shootin’ at us,” someone within the mob called out. “They got guns. The durn sheriff and his deputies give the Smiths firearms.”
The mob roared and moved forward. Sadie danced sideways and nickered, swishing her tail. Enid tried to calm her with pats and whispers, leaning low to avoid being seen, especially by Griz.
More shots rang out.
“Winged ’im,” a mobster yelled from inside the jailhouse. “Winged Old Joe hisself.”
Another shot. Then another.
Enid imagined the carnage inside and blinked to keep her tears in check.
“Gabe,” she breathed. “I hope you’re far away from this evil place.”
The mob gasped as new movement took place upstairs. More shots. Shattered glass. A body fell backward toward the window.
No, it wasn’t a body, she realized. It was someone…alive! Reaching…to get out of the window…climbing…hanging there, facing the mob, as if waiting. To jump? Or to be shot?