Dangerous Obsession

by Natasha Peters

  I looked at Seth, who signalled that I was to tell her yes. She wouldn’t live long enough to find out the truth.

  “He’s all right,” I said. “Just a little banged up from the fall over the cliff. He’s awake and he’s asking for you.” She closed her eyes. “I’m so glad. He wanted to see— California. It doesn’t matter—about me. But he—”

  She died in my arms. Seth and I buried them both, marked the graves with rocks, and left the spot forever.

  Seth wore his anger like a shield and his silence like a cloak. I knew I couldn’t penetrate the barrier of resentment and fury that he had thrown up between us. I didn’t even try to talk to him. I wondered where Boris and Gaby had gone, what had happened to them if they hadn’t come upriver? And what about us? Where would we go now, what would we do? How could we continue to search, knowing that they might well have been found, closer to New Orleans?

  That afternoon we met a wagon train in the mountains, just below the pass where we had found the dead horse. A group of men and women hurried forward to meet us.

  “Can you help us, friend?” their leader asked. He was a tall man, fully bearded and soft-spoken, with grey tufts of hair in his ears and nose. “We are lost. We have been looking for a passage through the mountains—”

  “Why didn’t you take the South Pass?” Seth asked curtly. “It’s clearly marked on all the maps and it’s the easiest and fastest way through.”

  The man searched through his pockets and brought out a well-worn book. “We have this guide,” he said. “By a Mr. Hanson. He says—”

  Seth snorted. “That man never came within five hundred miles of the Rockies. He never got out of New York City. All his information is third hand. Or worse.” The bunch looked crestfallen. “We’ve been wandering up here for days,” said one woman. “We hoped that God would show us the way.”

  “God didn’t help the couple we found a few miles back,” Seth said. “We just buried them.”

  “Sir,” said the first man deferentially, “you seem to know these parts very well. Perhaps you could show us the way? Be our guide, at least until we get out of these mountains. We are going to Deseret, to Zion. We will pay you. We have some money—”

  “I don’t want your money,” Seth told them. “Why in hell do you want to settle out there? It’s a desert, a hell hole. A blast furnace in summer, dry as bone dust.” The ladies flinched at his rude speech, and one of them said nobly, “We are Mormons, sir. Members of the Church of Latter Day Saints. We have come over a thousand miles, all the way from Missouri, to escape persecution and to find rest and peace in a land that no one else in the world would want. Our noble leader, Brigham Young, has—”

  “I know all about Brigham Young,” Seth said. “Go back to your wagons. You’re going to have to back your horses up until we get to a place that’s wide enough to turn around in. But your troubles won’t be over when we get clear of these mountains. The real fun starts on the other side, in the desert.”

  “We are used to hardship,” said a lady piously.

  “That’s what you think.”

  Those Mormons were a tough and holy group. They didn’t spare themselves. A bugle sounded at five in the morning. While their animals grazed they prayed and ate a hearty breakfast. They invited Seth and me to join them, but we never did. When Seth told me that these people were God-inspired and fanatically religious, I decided to avoid them. Devout believers in anything but selfish opportunism made me nervous. At six-thirty the bugle sounded again, and we would start our trek of the day. Seth rode at the front, sometimes ranging so far ahead of us that I lost sight of him.

  The Mormons had nothing against music and they sang as they plodded along. They were rarely silent, and I found their company pleasant after a while. The leader’s wife, Lucy Ashbaugh, invited me to ride in their wagon to rest Fire. After a couple of refusals, I accepted. Seth wasn’t interested in me, even though we slept near the same campfire outside the circle of wagons. He hadn’t touched me in days, not since we found and buried the Andersons. I didn’t know why he had consented to lead these people to Utah or Deseret, as they called it. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered now. And obviously neither of us had anything better to do.

  There were two younger women in the Ashbaugh group besides Lucy, and several small children. I asked Lucy if they were all her children.

  She laughed. “Oh, no, these are Orson’s wives, too. And the boys and girls are his children by them.”

  I was speechless for a moment. “But you are his wife!”

  “We are all his wives,” she said gently. “And he is our husband.”

  “Our” husband! “Don’t you—don’t you quarrel?” I wondered.

  “Why should we quarrel? We accept the will of God and rejoice in it!” She gave me a sweet, forebearing smile. That’s right, I thought irritably, when life deals you a bad hand, blame it on the will of God.

  “These men have many wives!” I told Seth that night. “I could not believe it when Mrs. Ashbaugh told me. That old man has three women! What do you think of that? Three wives!”

  “I told you they were fanatics,” he said with a shrug. “I feel sorry for the man who’s saddled with one.”

  I felt stung and sad. Why did he have to say things like that? Two days later we reached the Little Sandy River and began our descent out of the mountains to Fort Bridger, which had been built by a Mountain Man named Jim Bridger. He welcomed Seth like a long-lost son.

  “Seth boy!” Jim Bridger cried, pounding Seth on the back. “Seth boy! It’s good to see you! I thought a wolf or a woman had got you, I hadn’t seen you in so long.” I came forward and he grinned. “And who’s this lovely lady? How do, Ma’am! This is a great day for Fort Bridger!” I started to say, “I’m Seth’s wife,” but Seth said quickly, “This is the Baroness of Ravensfeld. She is travelling with us.”

  A few of the Morman women trilled excitedly in the background. It was the first they had heard of my titled status, and they were impressed. They wouldn’t have been so impressed if they knew how I had come by that title, I thought dryly.

  We spent only one night at Fort Bridger before moving on, into the Wasatch Mountains. Once we had crossed those arid humps we would be in Salt Lake City. From what I had heard, it didn’t sound like my kind of city. I knew that Seth and I wouldn’t stay long. I was getting anxious to be shed of the Mormons anyway. Their goodness and piety made me uncomfortable, and when I was around them I had an inexplicable impulse to be wicked.

  The Mormons in Salt Lake City made us welcome. Seth and I, as man and wife, were given a room in the home of one of the more important elders, a merchant named Zebulon Pratt. I was delighted. At last we could be alone together, without the distractions of the trail. I felt we needed to talk, to straighten out our differences, to plan our next move.

  On our first evening in the town we were invited to dine with Brigham Young at his home. Elder Pratt, Elder Ashbaugh, and a handful of their wives would be there also. Neither Seth nor I enjoyed that meal very much, even though the food was excellent and the conversation interesting. Seth looked annoyed because there was no wine, and I was so eager to be alone with him that I couldn’t absorb more than half of what was said.

  Brigham Young might have been a fanatic, according to some, but he was also an intelligent, efficient planner and a charismatic leader. He had actually persuaded these people to give up individual ownership of land for the good of the community. Each family was given only as much land as it could efficiently farm. The Saints had devised an irrigation system, the first of its kind in the world, that had brought water to their crops and turned the arid desert into a blooming, green valley.

  Brigham Young was also a courtly, courteous gentleman who had an eye for feminine pulchritude. He beamed at me approvingly. I wore my only dress that night, a rose silk gown with a less than modest décolletage.

  I’ve heard of you. Baroness,” said the great Mormon leader. “One of my wives heard you sing in Ge
rmany, a long time ago.”

  “Surely not that long ago,” I smiled brightly. “But how did she come to do that?”

  “Her parents immigrated to this country soon afterwards, and became converted to the Saints’ religion,” he explained. “Perhaps you would honor us by singing for us this evening?”

  I started to decline graciously but the rest of the party—except for Seth, who looked as though he couldn’t be less interested—set up such a clamor that at last I had to consent. I just hoped they wouldn’t make me sing any of their tedious hymns. But one of the wives came up with a book of songs by Franz Schubert. King Ludwig had loved Schubert so. After dinner everyone adjourned to the living room. I stood next to the upright piano while one of the wives—the younger one who had seen me in Munich— pounded vigorously at the keys. I chose songs that weren’t too difficult for her: “What is Sylvia?” “The Nightingale.” And the last song I sang was “Guten Nacht,” or “Good-night.” I sang all the songs in German. I knew Seth could understand the lyrics:

  Love likes to travel

  From one to the other,

  God has made it so;

  My fine lady-love, good-night!

  I will not disturb you in your dreams;

  ’Twere pity to spoil your rest.

  You shall not hear my footsteps . . .

  Softly, softly I closed the door.

  As I go out I will write

  “Good-night” to you on the gate,

  So that you may see

  My thoughts were of you.

  I don’t know why I chose that song. Perhaps I had a premonition, or foreboding. I watched Seth as I sang. His eyes were cast down and he looked very thoughtful and brooding. I told myself not to imagine things. He was probably just wishing he could smoke in Brigham Young’s parlor.

  We walked back together to Elder Pratt’s house, which was at the north edge of town. As usual, Seth was silent. We undressed without speaking. I had exhausted my fund of amusing small talk at dinner, and he didn’t want to hear it anyway. As I lay beside him in the darkness, my heart grew full of sorrow and an ancient fear possessed me. I was soothed and relieved when he turned over and took me in his arms. But there was no real love in his touch that night, no enthusiasm. He was quick and heedless of my pleasure. We might have been a long-married couple seizing our opportunity while the children slept next door, trying not to awaken them by making the bedsprings squeak too loudly. He finished in five minutes and then he rolled over on his side and snored loudly. I started at the pale shadows on the ceiling. I felt cheated and resentful and more fearful than ever.

  When I finally got to sleep, I slept deeply. And when I awoke I saw that my fears had come true: Seth was gone. His things were gone. I dressed quickly and went out to the stables in the back. Of the three horses that belonged to us, only Fire was left. Gone. Seth was gone. Without so much as a “good-night” scrawled on the gate.

  I ran into the house and back up to our room, which was at the rear on the second floor. I tossed my things into my valise, and I noticed that the wadded chemise that had held the last of Ludwig’s jewels was gone. I searched everywhere. The gorgio bastard had absconded with them, too! I sat back on my heels, stunned and sick. He had done it again. Deserted me. Abandoned me. Left me with nothing. Well, he wouldn’t get away with it.

  I dressed in my trail clothes and finished packing I picked up my valise and opened the door. Elder Zebulon Pratt stood there, his gross body filling the doorframe.

  “Good morning, Mistress McClelland,” he said sweetly, emulating his leader in courtliness, even at seven o’clock in the morning.

  “Please excuse me,” I said brusquely. “I must leave at once. Thank you for your hospitality—and for caring for my horses—

  I tried to push past him but he wouldn’t move. He was a burly, overweight man, more fat than muscle. He had grown fat on the troubles of the gold diggers and maybe he had stolen from his fellow Saints to boot. He had the look of a cheat about him: small eyes, ready smile, soft hands.

  “Now, now, don’t be in such a rush, Baroness,” he said in a voice like strained honey. “As for carin’ for your horse, it was a real pleasure. She’s a right fine little filly. Like yourself. She’ll make a nice addition to my stables.”

  “What do you mean, to your stables?” I said impatiently. “She’s mine.”

  “No, Ma’am, she’s mine,” he corrected me apologetically. “Your husband sold her to me. Along with your saddle and bridle. And a pocketful of some bright and shiny stones.”

  “Stones! Jewels!” I cried. “Those things are mine! That horse is mine! That saddle is mine! How dare he! How dare you! Let me pass at once or I’ll scream the house down, I swear it. You have no right to keep those things. I order you to return them to me at once. Thief! Scoundrel!”

  I got myself very worked up. It didn’t occur to me then that this fat, greasy merchant was lying, that Seth hadn’t sold him the things at all. In my mind they were equally despicable. But Seth was gone, and I had to take out my anger on the grinning Elder. I was a head taller than he but he outweighed me considerably. When I became too boisterous he simply put a meaty hand on my shoulder and pushed. I reeled backwards and fell hard against a dresser, bumping my head. While I sat on the floor, trying to collect myself, he came into the room and stripped the sheets and blankets off the bed. Then he walked out and shut the door. I heard a key grind in the lock. I was his prisoner.

  I hammered at that door until my fists were black and blue, and I kicked it until the house shook. No one came to let me out. Not a wife, not a child. I know they heard me—Seth McClelland himself probably heard me, wherever he was—but so cowed were the women by their husband, so much under the spell of obedience to their master, that not one even bothered to come up and ask if I wanted a glass of water.

  There was no way out of that wretched room. It was a sturdily-built adobe house. My room had only one window. I looked out and saw to my dismay that although I was only on the second floor, the house had been built on a rocky plateau, and from the window to the ground was a sheer drop of twenty-five or thirty feet, without so much as a shrub or a rosebush below to break my fall.

  I indulged in a screaming fit. I shouted and pounded and tore at the bed and pillows until the air was filled with feathers. I smashed the mirror. I smashed the washbowl and pitcher. I wrecked a spindly-legged chair, and I used the legs to club at the washstand until it fell apart. And when I was exhausted I threw myself down on what was left of the mattress and cried my eyes out.

  The day wore on slowly after that. I was sorry to see that my tantrum had taken up only a few minutes. Even so, it had made me feel better. I had no food that day. No water to drink. Fortunately in my rage I had forgotten to look under the bed, and so at least I still had a chamber pot. With my energy spent, I could only rage inwardly now at Seth and his treachery. Why, why couldn’t I learn that to throw your heart to a man like that is to throw it into a pool of quicksand? He would take and take and never give anything back. Oh, he could give his precious body and the skills he had learned from a thousand and one women, but nothing, nothing of himself.

  The night passed. I was wakeful, desperate. They would leave me here to starve, the swine. In the morning Zebulon Pratt appeared again. I heard the key turn in the lock, but I was too limp and listless to get off my mattress. I folded my arms across my chest and glared at him.

  He clucked his tongue at the mess and said, “You must learn to control your temper if you are going to be good Saint, Ma’am. Learn to accept what God gives you: don’t resist His power. In His divine wisdom—”

  “Go to hell,” I growled. “I’m hungry and thirsty. Bring me food and water.”

  “In time, in time,” he said smoothly. “First let me make my offer. If you marry me you—”

  "Marry you!” I laughed derisively. ‘ ‘ You ass! Get out of my room and leave me alone!”

  He gave a little chuckle. I wanted to smash his face. “I hope
you’ll come to see reason. Ma’am. I’ll talk to you later, when you’re feeling—hungrier.”

  I snatched up a chair leg and threw myself at him, but he ducked out the door and slammed it in my face. The key turned. I wrestled with the knob until it came off in my hands.

  My innards growled, demanding sustenance. I had to think. At this rate, depriving me of food and water, he could break me down in no time. I wasn’t a complete fool—only where Seth was concerned—and I knew how desperate a man can become after only a few hours without water. Out here, where the air was hot and dry, I couldn’t last too much longer.

  The second day of my captivity wore on. I grew weaker and weaker. In the afternoon I even heard a whistling in my ears. I bobbed my head a little to see if I could make it go away, but it wouldn’t stop. I looked around. The sound was coming from outside. I leaned out the smashed window. A lean, white-haired man was raking the area behind the house. He wasn’t working very hard, just dabbing at the ground with his tool, and whistling.

  Psst, you, man!” I hissed. He looked up. I said formally, “If you have any Christian love in your heart at all, brother, I beg you to throw me a rope and help me get out of here. I think brother Pratt has been out in the sun too long. He is holding me prisoner—”

  He looked around furtively and said in a harsh whisper. You don’t have to talk like that with me. I’m kind of a prisoner here myself.” His face was doggy-looking, pulled down at the corners of his wide mouth into sagging jowls. His eyes were big and brown and childlike. He had a rather pathetic and hapless air about him. He looked around again and feigned work. He said as he pretended to rake. "If I help you get out, what will you do then?”

  "What do you think?” I snorted. “I’ll steal back my horse and get out of this town.”

  He looked up. A shrewd light burned in his eyes. “Will you take me with you? Please? I—I won’t help you if you don’t!”