She gathered up a smile. “You always did tell me what to do.” That made us laugh like everything was as it should be. I shooed her into the parlor half of the room and made her sit down in her rocker. I turned my attention to Hyrum and tried not to worry about what Grace might have seen or what she knew.
Hyrum and I climbed up the ladder to the loft. I saw to it that he used the chamber pot kept by the boys’ bed. I’d empty it later. When he finished, Hyrum counted the rungs in the ladder as we climbed down it. In the parlor, Grace sat in the rocker and watched as I helped him get into his leggings, his small hands on my shoulders for balance as he stepped into each pants leg. He chattered about building a snow fort. “I’ll hide behind it. With snowballs. It’ll be this tall.” He let go of my shoulders and put his arms high above his head.
“Won’t that surprise your brothers?” I said, now getting Hyrum into his coat and fastening the buttons. His eyes widened at the thought of that and when at last he was dressed with only his blue eyes showing above his neck scarf and below his cap, I sent him outside. “Mind you stay by the kitchen window so I can see you,” I told him. He said he would. Packed into his layers of clothes, he lumbered outside. “By the window,” I called to him as I stood in the doorway.
Hyrum nodded and began to make his way around the corner of the house, kicking straight-legged at the snow. Inside, I went to the kitchen window and when he appeared, I knocked my knuckles against the cold pane of glass. He waved at me and then fell to his knees to go about the work of making a fort.
I turned toward Grace in the parlor. “That child,” I said, seeing to it that there was a smile in my voice. “So busy.”
She put one of her hands on her stomach. “Three boys. I’m due a girl.”
“Mama said much the same when expecting you.”
“Did she?”
“She did. Of course she welcomed the boys.”
“Of course.”
Ball to heel, Grace rocked the chair back and forth over the green-and-blue braided rug. She didn’t look at me but kept her gaze on the portrait of Joseph Smith that hung on the wall. She knew about the man I’d sheltered, I thought. Please don’t ask.
The clock on the small marble-topped table in the parlor showed half past one. Two and a half hours before Nels should get back from Floral Ranch.
Grace’s gaze was still fixed on the portrait of Joseph Smith. I busied myself with the dishes and hummed her favorite hymn—“Come, Come Ye Saints”—to fill the quiet. I cleared the table and scraped the food scraps into a bucket that was used for such purpose. My back to Grace, I worked and kept watch on Hyrum out the window.
After she and Michael moved to Junction last October, she and I fell to talking whenever we were together. We talked about the boys and we talked about the lessons Michael was teaching the children at the schoolhouse. We talked about Mama and Father back in Parowan and about our brothers and sister and their families.
Then the nature of our visits changed. It was in November. While Hyrum played outside and I tidied the kitchen, instead of talking, Grace read to me from the Book of Mormon. The passages—But wo, wo unto him who knoweth that he rebelleth against God! and If ye will not nourish the word, looking forward with an eye of faith to the fruit thereof, ye can never pluck of the fruit of the tree of life—made my cheeks burn. I understood why Grace read those lines.
In Parowan, Michael and Grace lived their lives according to the church teachings. Junction, though, wasn’t like Parowan. Junction was what Samuel called an in-between place. Most of us ignored the practices that gave us pause. Yet we called ourselves Latter-day Saints. On Sundays, many of us gathered in the schoolhouse and listened to those who felt called upon to preach. We said the Blessing of the Bread and upheld the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper. None of us, though, said anything about needing a bishop. A bishop would guide our spiritual lives. He’d organize us into committees. He’d assign duties that would bind us together in a firm grip. We didn’t want that. We each lived our faith as we saw fit. We didn’t judge our neighbors.
I was taken aback when Michael and Grace moved here. They were pious, firm believers. Without questioning them, I accepted the story that they came here so Michael could be our first schoolmaster. But in my heart, I believed that something painful must have happened. They must have needed distance from the church.
I didn’t ask. That was how we did in Junction. Even when it was family, we stayed out of each other’s business.
In November, when Grace started the practice of reading to me, I understood she disapproved of Junction.
Then in December, the nature of our visits changed again. Samuel hadn’t come home as expected. “Stay with us,” Grace said when he was fourteen days overdue. This was before we knew about the rockslide taking out the trail. “You shouldn’t be alone. Not at this time.”
“Why’s that?” I’d said, the words snapping.
She flushed. “It’s just. . . .” Her voice broke. She gathered herself. “This isn’t like Samuel to be late. And no letters this whole time. I’m worried about him. I can hardly bear to think what might have happened.”
“Then don’t.”
Since then, she had not brought up Samuel’s absence but our visits had become brittle. Grace read from the Book of Mormon and glanced at me from time to time as if she expected me to break into small pieces. As the days went by, I watched her stomach swell and her face hollow. Today was different, though. Today, she didn’t read. Our tongues were tied in a way they hadn’t been before.
A pot of water simmered on the stove. I poured it into the dish basin. Steam rose up, and I breathed it in. I wanted it to burn away the cold fear that had settled in my being. Grace knew about the man I’d sheltered. When the deputies came and questioned her, it’d show on her face.
Her rocker made a soft swish on the braided rug as she rocked back and forth. I began to wash the dishes. Outside, Hyrum patted snow into a rounded heap.
The air in the cabin was heavy with unspoken thoughts.
I said, “Surely wish the sun would come out.”
The rocking chair went quiet. “Michael’s troubled,” Grace said.
“What?” I turned to face her. Water dripped from my hands. I wiped them on my apron.
“I can’t keep it to myself any longer. Michael’s troubled by what goes on here.”
Michael knew about the men and Floral Ranch. Someone told him. Or he’d guessed. It was a small town. Even if we didn’t talk about certain things, that didn’t mean people didn’t know. Not that Michael would be against what we did for the men. He’d believe that we did it to uphold the revelations and covenants of the church. The risks, though, would make him uneasy.
Grace said, “He believes the people in Junction have strayed from the church.”
Relief swept through me. She didn’t know about the man.
“It pains us,” she was saying. “We didn’t want to see what was before our eyes. We didn’t want to think it about anyone here.” Her words ran past me. I leaned against the counter, my relief leaving me weak. Grace didn’t know. She hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary.
Grace said, “I see it upsets you, too.”
“Yes,” I said, although I’d lost hold of what she was saying.
“Michael isn’t the only one who’s concerned. The stake presidents are, too. So’s Father.”
Her words began to take on a new meaning. “Father?”
“Yes. Father most of all. You and Brother Samuel have been here for more than five years. Some of the others almost as long. All those years, Deborah, and there still isn’t a bishop. Or a wardhouse. Or a chapel. There’s concern the people here have left the church.”
“Father said this?”
“And the other stake presidents.”
They could declare us apostates. We’d be shunned by our families. That was if Nels got the man safely to Floral Ranch. If we weren’t caught and arrested.
Grace looked at me, wai
ting. Finally I said, “No chapel by name, that’s true. The schoolhouse serves as our church and wardhouse.”
“But no bishop?”
What had once puzzled me, was now clear. I looked over my shoulder. Out the window, Hyrum scooped up snow in his gloved hands and patted it on top of what was beginning to look like a low wall. I turned back to Grace. “Did Father and the other stake presidents send you and Michael here? To give them a report about us? Is that the real reason you moved here?”
She said, “Can you see Hyrum?”
I looked again out the window. “Yes. He’s right here.”
“Come sit down. Please.”
Every part of me felt wooden. Michael was sent to bring us back into the church. I should have known.
I sat down in the upholstered chair across from Grace. She tucked the loose strands of hair behind her ears. Her neck was splotched with patches of red, her nerves showing. She couldn’t meet my eyes.
I said, “What do Father and the others say about us?”
Grace twisted her gold wedding band. “He’s worried for you, for your soul. And for everyone here. You need a bishop. He and the others are sure a bishop will heal what’s wrong in Junction.” She paused. “There are rumors, disturbing rumors.” Her glance flickered to the portrait of Joseph Smith, then back to me. “We’ve heard that some of the fruit grown here is distilled for spirits.”
“Spirits?”
“Alcohol.”
“You can’t listen to such talk. Those are rumors.”
“Then you’ve heard this talk, too?”
“I don’t pay rumors any mind.” I brushed my hand over my skirt as if to rid myself of rumors, then stopped when I saw the shake in my hand. Father and the others might declare me an apostate. They could declare me dead to them.
Grace said, “I said much the same to Michael. These rumors were probably started by gentiles. But no bishop? No one can ignore that.”
“Was Michael sent to be our bishop?”
“And to be the schoolmaster. The children here are in dire need of instruction. As we all are.”
“You should have told me this before.”
“I wanted to. But I couldn’t. I didn’t want you to think I thought bad of you. I don’t. It’s the others. . . .” Her voice trailed off. Her eyes watered. She wiped her cheeks. “Michael’s talked to all the men here more times than I can count. He’s willing to serve as bishop. He brought it up again last Sunday after worship. He could have been talking in tongues from the way they looked at him. They’re not even willing to put it to a vote. Did you know that?”
“No.”
“Doesn’t it concern you?”
“We’re all Saints here.”
“Everyone?”
“Yes.” Then I said something about Hyrum. I got up and went to the window. He was still busy building his fort. I should have guessed the truth about Michael’s decision to come here. He was devoted to the church. I hadn’t let myself think about it, though. I wanted to have Grace and her family close. She was more like a daughter than a sister. When Samuel and I were first married and lived in Parowan, she and I were homesick for each other. Samuel set up a cot for her in a small room off our kitchen so she could live with us. I watched her grow up. I witnessed her courtship with Michael and then her marriage. My heart ached when Samuel and I moved to Junction. Every week I wrote her long letters. Last summer, I rejoiced when Grace wrote with the news that Michael wanted to be Junction’s schoolmaster. It was an opportunity to shape the minds of young pupils, he’d believed. For me, it meant Grace and I were reunited.
I left the window and sat down across from her. “Grace. We’re different here. But in our hearts, we’re all Saints.”
She pressed her fingertips to her lips, then put her hand on her stomach. “If the men fail to elect a bishop by spring, we’ll receive orders to go to another outpost. One that will welcome us.”
“But you can’t. I. . . .” My words tripped. “You’ve only been here a few months. As for a bishop, I’ll speak to the women.”
“The men won’t take a vote, Deborah. It’s not important to them. But it is to us. We’re concerned for the boys. Jacob and Joe ask questions. They want to know who our bishop is. They want to know why the Millers and Brother Nels don’t always come to Sunday services. This isn’t how we want to raise our children.” She stopped and glanced again at the portrait of Joseph Smith, then, “We want you to come with us.”
“What?”
“It’d worry me no end to think of you here in a place without a bishop. Michael agrees. And the boys are fond of you.”
“No.” I stood up. “This is our home. Samuel’s and mine.”
“But Brother Samuel is gone so much. If you’re with us, you won’t be alone.”
“Samuel’s usually gone just three months.”
“But this year. . . .” Her words faded.
“He’s on his way home. There was a rockslide, you know what Brother Nels said. Samuel’s been forced to take a longer route.”
“Deborah.”
I went to the window. Outside, Hyrum had found a stick and was waving it around like a sword. I’d heard the pity in Grace’s voice. I was a woman who didn’t have children. My husband traveled and left me on my own. Worst of all, I lived in a place that had strayed from the church.
Grace said, “Hyrum’s all right?”
“Yes.” My throat was tight, it was hard to breathe. Trouble came at me from all directions. Father’s doubts about me. Grace leaving. Nels and the man who had stayed the night in my barn. Samuel not home.
“I’m sorry, Sister.” Grace had come to the kitchen and stood beside me. She put her arm around my waist. I turned in to her and embraced her. “Do you want to leave?” I said as we held on to one another.
“The biggest part of me does.” Her voice was a whisper in my ear. “For the children.”
I should have known this, too. I pressed my cheek into Grace’s hair. I couldn’t think about her leaving. Right now, there were bigger worries. Spring was months away. So much could happen before then.
She said, “Please come with us.”
“No. Samuel and I aren’t leaving.” I let go of her and stepped back. “We won’t talk of it again. It’s better that way.”
This was what we always did. We didn’t talk about the things that hurt us. Or the things that might. It was as if silence could stop pain and fear.
“I’ve distressed you,” Grace said. “You’re white as a sheet.”
I shook my head. “Please. Let’s not talk about it.” With that, I turned and rapped on the window. Hyrum looked up at me. I waved at him signaling it was time to come in. Then I walked away from my sister and went to the door to wait for Hyrum.
The snow sucked at my boots as I walked home through the orchard. An ache burned in my chest. Grace was going to leave Junction.
I wasn’t alone, I told myself. Samuel will come home. Any day.
I was almost at my cabin when I saw something in the distance move. I stopped and blinked hard. It was a man on horseback coming from the direction of the Wastelands. One man. Not two or three.
Samuel. My knees buckled. I caught myself. A sense of airiness washed through me. I began to walk to him, the snow falling around us. I tried to call out his name. I couldn’t get my throat to work. I hurried to him, my hand raised, snow breaking under my boots.
Samuel didn’t return the greeting.
Something was wrong. Samuel would call out to me. He would slide off his horse and come running. This man didn’t. He kept riding, not changing his pace, not saying my name, just riding, coming toward me.
It wasn’t Samuel. My feet stumbled to a halt. Not Samuel.
A great pain welled up inside of me. I pressed a hand to my breastbone to push against the hurt of disappointment.
My breath shuddering, I flicked away the tears and watched this man who wasn’t my husband. His horse plodded but he rode high in the saddle with his shoulder
s back. He was some forty paces away and kept coming.
Fear overrode the pain in my heart. The man’s coat was dark. His hat was wide-brimmed, and the lower half of his face was covered with his scarf. I felt his boldness as he looked at me, my barn, and then my orchard. His chin tilted up. His gaze seemed to pierce the buttes. An enemy.
His gaze shifted back to me. I felt the hardness of his stare. I wanted to run. A deputy. Or an outlaw.
Don’t let him see you’re scared, I told myself. Treat him like you would any stranger who showed up in this manner.
His horse wheezed. His saddle creaked as he rode toward me. My pulse skipped. He was a lawman, not an outlaw. Lawmen didn’t wear uniforms like army men. They didn’t have to. There was something about them—an air of authority, the determined set of their shoulders—that showed what they were. Like this one. He’d come through eight miles of the Wastelands. Against all reason, he must have started out in the dark. Snow covered the trail but that hadn’t stopped him.
He was closer now. At any moment he’d see the tracks along the creek that I tried to cover.
None of this was of my making, I thought. None of it. This was my property, my home. Leave me alone, I wanted to say. I’ve done nothing to you.
“Stop right there,” I heard myself call out.
He pulled up on the reins, halting the horse but not moving otherwise. We studied each other. A long rifle rode crossways behind the saddle horn and in front of the man. I said, “Who are you?”
He pushed his scarf down to his chin. “Name’s Fletcher.” His breath was a white cloud but his tone was deliberate. “Marshal Thomas S. Fletcher with the United States Government.”
He reached inside his coat and took something out. He held it up for me to see. It was a metal star. His badge. I stood looking up at it, my thoughts tumbling. He’d said he was a marshal. But marshals didn’t hunt men with plural wives. Their deputies did.
He held the badge out without speaking. Finally, he put it back inside his coat.
“You got a husband?” he said.
“Yes.”
“I have matters to discuss with him.”
He spoke with an accent, the kind that stretched words long. He was from the South, I thought.
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