Forsaking All Others

by Allison Pittman

  “Ah, Mrs. Brandon, I see you know more about our teachings than you let on.”

  “It’s late,” Colonel Brandon said, standing, “and we all have a long ride ahead of us in the morning. I suggest we get some sleep. Private?”

  At once, Private Lambert was on his feet. “Yes, sir?”

  “Perhaps you and one of the gentlemen here can scout out whoever’s in charge of this place and find out where we’re to bed for the night.”

  “I’m afraid we already have,” Brother Nicholas said. “There are no suitable lodgings other than what you see in this room.” He indicated the bunks lining the walls. “The surrounding cabins are not for the guests, and I, for one, am grateful. Dens of drinking and gambling they are. No place for a lady.” He offered me a smile; his fellow Saint did not.

  “So we sleep in here?” I said. “All of us?”

  “I daresay your honor will be safe with us,” Brother Ephraim said. “We are married men, with wives waiting for us in Salt Lake City. And you appear to be heavily armed.”

  Colonel Brandon’s eyes narrowed, and I cleared my throat, calling his attention and pleading with him not to take this conversation further.

  I cleared the table, with Private Lambert’s help, and gave the dishes a quick rinse, leaving them stacked in the empty sink. Normally I’d hate the thought of leaving a kitchen in such a state, but by that time I was so exhausted I could only think of laying my head down in whatever place God had provided for that night, even if it meant a narrow bunk in a shared room. In fact, once I got back to the main room, Brothers Ephraim and Nicholas had claimed their bunks—one above the other on the left side of the room.

  “Why, it’s not unlike the sleeping provisions our brothers and sisters will have on their voyage to this country.” Brother Ephraim was propped up on one elbow, speaking to Brother Nicholas, who was in the bunk above him.

  “Praise God to have this experience,” Brother Nicholas said. “I daresay to the rest of you, you will be facing some accommodations far less comfortable than these.”

  Though I was loath to look, I did notice that they had removed only their shoes and suit coats, having taken to bed fully clothed. Both Private Lambert and Colonel Brandon wore their uniforms—boots included—as if they had no intention of retiring anytime soon.

  “Well then,” I said, hoping to keep my voice low enough to hide my discomfort from the men across the room, “good night.”

  “Good night, ma’am,” Private Lambert said with the slightest bow.

  “Good night,” Colonel Brandon said, adding, “dear,” after a glance toward our companions. Then, in a gesture I’m not sure was meant only for their suspicious eyes, he came toward me and placed a soft kiss on my brow. I stood perfectly still, for if I raised my face even a fraction, I feared his kiss would trail to my lips . . . or break away entirely. At the moment, I did not know which I feared most.

  Afterward, he took my hand and led me across the room, to the bunks farthest from the Mormons and closest to the fire.

  “I think it best you take the top,” he whispered in my ear. “And I’ll be right below you.”

  “Very well.”

  My feet were about ready to swell themselves out of my boots, and after I’d settled myself on the top bunk, I began to bend forward, intending to unlace them, when I felt Colonel Brandon’s hand close around my ankle. Without a word, he freed my feet, setting my shoes on the ground next to the bottom bunk.

  “It’s not the first time you’ve stolen my shoes,” I said.

  “I just want you to stay put,” he said. “Now get some sleep.”

  I lay back on the surprisingly comfortable mattress, then turned on my side to press my back against the cool wall. I felt safer there, even though a short railing on the outer edge ensured that I probably would not roll out to my death in the middle of the night. I found myself eye to eye with Colonel Brandon, who disappeared for just a few steps before returning with a blanket taken from one of the unused bunks. For a moment I thought he would cover me with it, but then he seemed to reconsider and simply handed it to me, folded.

  “Thank you,” I said, spreading it across my body.

  “Sleep tight,” he said.

  He instructed Private Lambert to put out all the lights in the room, and soon the only light came from the fire dwindling in the fireplace. I heard Private Lambert preparing to go to bed in the bunk next to mine, having heard Colonel Brandon instruct him to take the bottom so he would be better prepared to come to my aid if necessary.

  I suppose such talk should have given me cause to be worried. What possible dangers could I be facing? True, once our conversations stopped, I could clearly hear the raucous laughter coming from the outlying cabins, where the keepers of the station and our driver were engaged in all manner of sin, but I had no sense that they had any intentions of molesting me. In fact, I don’t know that they even knew a woman had arrived—certainly no pains were taken for my comfort.

  That left Brothers Ephraim and Nicholas.

  Already the Saints were snoring—deep, hollow sounds that threatened to keep all of us awake for half the night. In the dark confines of my upper bunk, I smiled. How could I forget those first moments of consciousness when Colonel Brandon pledged to help me? To protect me? My honor, my person, my faith—all of it had been the subject of scrutiny this night, and there he had been at every turn, throwing himself in front of any accusation that might harm me in some way.

  I knew Colonel Brandon intended to sleep in the bunk below mine, and I held my body tense, waiting for that moment when I knew he, too, had settled in to sleep. But I heard nothing, felt nothing, and from my vantage point could see nothing but the dancing fire.

  Then, there he was, emerging from the kitchen. He glanced in my direction and I closed my eyes, hoping the darkness in the room hid my wakefulness. I’d had them open long enough to see that he carried a tray, and on it the teapot and cup. The sound of snoring was joined by that of the tray being set down on the long, low table in front of the gathered chairs. I hazarded to open my eyes again to see Colonel Brandon, in his shirtsleeves, removing his own boots. He poured what I assumed to be tea from the pot into the cup and settled back into one of the chairs, propping his stockinged feet up on the table.

  I knew with the slightest whisper, Colonel Brandon would be at my side. I wanted to thank him, to call him over and thank him for preserving both me and my unborn child, but I did not. Instead, I lay perfectly still, loath to move at all lest I attract his attention, for he could see me from where he sat.

  Moments later, when he bowed his head, I knew he was not dozing, but praying. More than that, I knew the God to whom he prayed. I closed my eyes, knowing he would stay there all night. Watching me. Protecting me. Praying for me. And I wished, with all my heart, that I were free to return his love.

  Chapter 19

  Fifteen days. Never before would I have thought to be grateful morning after morning for clear skies and dry land, but for fifteen days the Lord stretched out a road before us that seemed nothing short of a miracle. I watched through a single, small window as an entire country passed by. Mountains and rivers and endless, endless grass. We had rain that never exceeded being refreshing, sun that did nothing beyond providing warmth, and just enough of a chill at night to bring me to curl up around my growing child and drift to well-earned sleep.

  Sometimes we would have the stagecoach to ourselves, but often we shared our journey with a myriad of interesting people—many of whom were businessmen hoping to profit from the burgeoning and increasingly accessible West. Never again, though, were we compelled to create the illusion that we were husband and wife. In fact, neither of us spoke of that night again for the duration of our journey. When not engaged in conversation with a travel companion, we spoke very little beyond the pleasantries of health and sleep. Private Lambert, never far from either of us, took on a role of something between a protector and a manservant, and as we neared the Nebraska border, I be
gan to wonder just how I would get along without him.

  Neither Colonel Brandon nor I ever discussed just what would occur once I was safely returned to my parents’ home. Perhaps that is why he seemed to be so keen on crafting a distance between us. We continued to stop at regular intervals to rest or change out the horses, and as we came further east, each stop took on a second purpose as Colonel Brandon inquired about any kind of message he might have received. More often than not, a thin envelope with an official seal had been left with the station attendant, and he became increasingly solemn with each missive.

  Because we’d taken a different route from the one that had borne me west, I traveled day after day with little knowledge of exactly where we were and how far we would travel before reaching a familiar landmark. Then came the afternoon when, at a short rest break, I learned we would spend the night at Fort Kearny. Until then I’d known only that we were in Nebraska. And Nebraska. And Nebraska. But I knew Fort Kearny. It was on the Platte River, the same river in which I’d been baptized into the church before being wedded to Nathan Fox, just days after leaving my home. Four days, if I remembered correctly. Maybe five. So far away from my husband, so near my parents, and no idea if I would ever have a home with either. When Nathan and I first married, we needed only a blanket on the ground to have a home, and in the months since leaving him, I found I still required little more. In some of our stops along the trail, I didn’t quite have that.

  The lodgings at Fort Kearny, however, brought me an unprecedented level of comfort. This was no mere stagecoach station. It was barely twilight when we drove through a fortified wall; soon after, the horses came to a jangling stop outside an impressive white, two-story structure with gabled windows and a wide wraparound porch. This time, rather than the lone, grizzled attendant that so often met us at our disembarking, a man in a sharply fitted military uniform stood at attention. Colonel Brandon saluted him before offering his hand to help me down the folding steps.

  Once on the ground, however, I quickly lost my position of being the center of Colonel Brandon’s attention. I was handed off to a Mrs. Hilliard, who offered the same pitying lecture as had Mrs. Fennel and the handful of other women I’d encountered along the way before ushering me into the house.

  Oh, and what a house.

  Not since my last visit to Rachel and Tillman’s had I the opportunity to see such elegance and luxury. Velvet and foil paper on the wall, a floral-patterned carpet on the floor, and mahogany wainscoting running the length of the room.

  “My goodness, but you’re a mess,” Mrs. Hilliard said, obviously taking no pains to spare my feelings. “Here’s your room—” she opened the first door on the left at the top of the stairs— “with a wrapper robe hanging on that hook right there. Take these things off. That door leads to the back stairs, and I’ll have a bath waiting for you. I’ll bet it’s been ages since you had one.”

  It had, but my misgivings must have been apparent because she added, “Don’t worry. None of the men stay here. Drivers have a different lodging, and the officer will have his own quarters.”

  “And Private Lambert?”

  “Barracks. Just us women tonight.”

  The tub was set up in a washroom behind the kitchen, and to my delight I learned that my dress would also receive its long-overdue laundering. It didn’t occur to me until later, when I was wearing a clean, cotton gown and nestled between clean, cotton sheets, to wonder what I would wear the next day.

  As it happened, I didn’t need to worry. I awoke the next morning to streaming sun—the first morning since beginning our journey that I hadn’t had to hang my head out of a stagecoach window to see the dawn. Panicked, I jumped out of bed, donned the wrapper, and threw open the door, only to find a surprised Mrs. Hilliard—lace bonnet perfectly in place—on the other side with a silver, dome-covered plate on a tray.

  “Well, I thought you’d be hungry for breakfast, but I didn’t expect this.”

  “Have they left me?” Although I couldn’t imagine a more ridiculous question.

  She offered a motherly, indulgent smile. “Of course not, dear. Your Colonel Brandon has business with the commander here—highly confidential, of course, but something to do with new orders.” She spoke this last while leaning over the tray and offering me a wink. “Here’s hoping he’ll get a commission that’ll keep him a little closer to home, eh?”

  “Oh,” I said, grasping her misunderstanding. “Colonel Brandon and I are not married. I have a husband. In fact—”

  “Now, now—” she nudged past me with the tray—“there’s them that judge and then there’s me. A man gets lonely stationed out in the middle of nowhere. You just be sure he does right by you. I know right well what kind of salary he draws, and it’s plenty to set the two of you up someplace nice.”

  Clearly, by “the two of you” she meant me and the baby. At my look of surprise, she patted my arm. “Now, don’t you worry. I’m sure none of those men have noticed a thing, but you can’t hide your condition from a woman who has borne as many children as I have.”

  “Colonel Brandon is not the father of this child.”

  “Truly?” She looked confused but not convinced.

  “Truly,” I said, hoping my insistence would protect Colonel Brandon’s reputation. “As much as I appreciate your hospitality, I would appreciate in turn if you would respect my privacy in this matter.”

  If I offended her, she gave no sign, offering instead a saucy wink as she dropped the tray on the bedside table, saying, “Indeed, m’lady,” before sashaying out the door.

  I knew I should chase her down and force the truth upon her, but at the time I was grateful for a hearty breakfast and a soft bed to which I was allowed to return. In fact, I slept most of that day, disturbed only by the ministrations of Mrs. Hilliard, offered with a knowing look. At supper she informed me that my presence would be required in the dining room at seven o’clock the next morning, and when I awoke, I found my dress and underthings—all clean and starched and pressed—on the foot of my bed. I’d slept through their delivery.

  Colonel Brandon was waiting for me at a long oak table when I made my first appearance in the dining room. Although the table could easily accommodate a dozen diners, it was set for only two, with an empty plate to Colonel Brandon’s left. He rose to his feet as I walked in, a formality never neglected in all our days of travel.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Fox.”

  “Good morning, Colonel Brandon.”

  “I hope you slept well.”

  “I slept all day,” I said, slightly embarrassed. “I was afraid you’d moved on without me.”

  “You are the reason I’m here,” he replied, capturing none of the humor of my statement.

  “And how exciting to be so close. Three more days, do you think?”

  “To the Missouri, yes. I’m not sure how long after the crossing. I’ll see to it that I get to a map before you leave.”

  “Before I leave?”

  Mrs. Hilliard came through the swinging door with an enormous tray of cooked eggs and bacon. Neither Colonel Brandon nor I spoke until she had served us and made a slow, listening retreat.

  “I’m afraid I won’t be accompanying you from this point on.” He made quite a show of slicing his eggs, creating a mass of yolk and white in the middle of his plate.

  “Why not?”

  “I’m needed here.”

  “Here?” It seemed to me, from my limited experience of window gazing, that Fort Kearny was a well-established entity. I could not imagine any institution needing Colonel Brandon more than I did.

  “It may come as a surprise, Mrs. Fox, that there are matters in this world more pressing than your own. We are a country still at war in Utah, and quite possibly heading into another one. Brigham Young might have threatened a skirmish in the West, but relations between the North and the South are commanding our attention as well. I assure you, the stakes there are much higher.”

  I was thoroughly chastised by the e
nd of his statement, unable to do more than pick at my own food.

  “So I’m to take the stage alone?” I tried not to sound accusatory, but apparently I failed because Colonel Brandon could not meet my eyes.

  “I’ve given over your charge to Private Lambert. Or if you prefer, I can see if we cannot find a woman to serve as your escort and chaperone.”

  “No.” Perhaps in remembering Mrs. Hilliard’s insinuating, I spoke too quickly, as Colonel Brandon seemed taken aback. “I am quite comfortable traveling with Private Lambert. He is quite the capable gentleman, like traveling with one’s brother.”

  “Younger brother.”

  “Yes, but quite capable.”

  In Private Lambert, we found a common affection, and a companionable silence fell between us. Mrs. Hilliard came and went, bringing tea and milk and muffins, clueless as to how much it all tasted like dust. Had I been in any other frame of mind, it might have been delicious, and if Colonel Brandon’s intake gave any indication, it was. Then again, I matched him bite for bite, tasting nothing.

  After breakfast, I went to my room to wash up, and when I came downstairs, Colonel Brandon was waiting to escort me outside. I still had only my one small bag. Colonel Brandon took it from me and handed it over to a young boy in a blue cap, who offered an amateur salute and was given one in return.

  “He’s about your son’s age, isn’t he?” I took the arm Colonel Brandon held out for me.

  “I’d wager,” he said, and we walked out onto the front porch.

  Rather than the large, rumbling stagecoach that had driven us these past eight hundred miles, a sleek, black carriage pulled by a team of six matched horses awaited.

  “It will make for a much smoother ride.” He pointed out the features of the wider wheel base and the lighter cab.

  “But just as fast?”

  “Four mornings from today you’ll ferry across the Missouri. Then—I checked the map—about half a day’s ride and you should be home.”

  “To Kanesville?”