Forsaking All Others (13 page)

Her gasp was such that I feared I’d misjudged and nicked her as well.

I managed to ask, “Are you all right?” while waiting, breathlessly, for the sight of blood.

She fingered the jagged edge. “You can’t fix this.”

“Yes, I can.” Though now, despite my relief that she was unharmed, I felt less inclined to do so.

“No. It’s ruined.”

“I’m not
that
useless with a needle. You’ll see tomorrow. Good as new.”

She looked up, imploring. Tiny as she was, I’d never seen my friend looking so vulnerable. Always, since the day we met, she’d had this bearing that made me think there was an iron ribbon running just beneath her skin. Perhaps it was, in fact, strength she felt coming from this that she wore under her clothes. I would not debate the garment’s power just now. Or maybe ever, seeing how desperately she clung to its sacredness.

“Take this off,” I said, gently tugging at the tie I still held. “Drape it on the chair to dry and get some warm clothes on. I’ll put more wood on the fire and comb out your hair.”

Her chin quivered. “B-but we’ve already used so much. . . .”

But I ignored her protest, digging through the wood box by the back door, looking for the smallest split logs I could find. Out of respect for her privacy, I busied myself as long as I could, glancing up every now and again to see the shadow on the wall as it shed once and for all the wet clothing. Evangeline’s silhouette was skeletal, lacking even the most modest of womanly curves. The moment I knew she was once again covered, I turned back.

“Don’t tie it so tightly this time.”

She offered a weak smile, and I knew she had given me a measure of forgiveness, though she would never accept the same forgiveness herself.

Chapter 10

I’d been up late in the night, having offered to press Evangeline’s Sunday meeting dress. The more I labored in her honor, the less critical she was about my refusal to accompany her. This, to her, was familiar. Acceptable. Actions submitted in the name of faith.

She herself was up much earlier than our usual rising time. I could hear her singing to herself downstairs, something she would never do in my presence. I remember our singings during the journey west, when I might be sitting right next to her and hear nary a sound coming out of her mouth, despite her fervent mouthing of the words. No doubt, in just a few hours’ time, she would be sitting on a hard wooden pew, surrounded by her sister Saints, miming the notes of those songs that honored her heroes.

When a final note disappeared like so much sand in a shoe, I heard her soft steps as she ascended the stairs.

“Camilla?”

She’d never ventured upstairs since my arrival. Reluctantly, I wrapped the top quilt around my shoulders and braced my feet to hit the cold floor.

“Good morning, Evangeline.” I stopped at the doorway to the room, and she lingered on the top step. “Your hair looks nice.” And it did, plaited into two thick braids that she’d wrapped around her head.

“Thank you. Now, you need to hurry. We’ll need to leave within the hour if we’re going to be on time.”

She began to walk back down the stairs as if the matter had been settled. She didn’t stop until I called down, “I’m not going this morning.”

Turning to face me, she said, “Are you sick?” Her words held more accusation than concern, and I knew I’d never feign an illness grave enough to convince her.

I clutched the quilt tighter. “No, not really.”

Then that small, tight smile, and a new, slow ascent, her hand on the rough banister, seemingly pulling her up every step. “I understand.”

“Good.” I wanted to retreat to my borrowed bed, but still she approached.

“We all have sin in our lives, but you cannot run away from God in heaven. He sees you. And I can only imagine what you must be harboring in your heart that would make you leave your husband and children. But maybe, if you come with me today, if you confess to your brothers and sisters, you’ll find the courage to return.”

By now she was not only at the top of the stairs but directly beside me, laying her light-as-a-feather hand on my arm. Her fanaticism for the false teachings we’d both once embraced was overwhelming.

“I’ve nothing to confess to the church.”

“It’s very important that we all strive to live in obedience, and here you’ve abandoned your family. Now it seems like you’re set to abandon your church. What’s next? Your faith?”

I didn’t know how long I would be able to live as the serpent taking shelter beneath the rock of Evangeline’s cold, bare home, but I wasn’t about to announce my apostasy to Evangeline Moss this Sunday morning.

“I miss my girls,” I said, relaxing my posture as if greatly comforted by her touch. “I loved Sunday mornings—getting them dressed, fixing their hair. I . . . I can’t imagine going without them.”

She pouted. “Poor Camilla. I understand. Well, not completely, not having children. But I can imagine. Still—”

“No.” Then, softer, “Not this morning.”

She sighed. “Very well, I guess. Next week.”

I nodded. “Perhaps.”

“No ‘perhaps.’” Under any other circumstances, her tone might have come across as motherly, even mockingly so. But she was not my mother; she was my friend, and that relationship felt more tenuous with each passing moment. “I was looking forward to having someone to go to church with me this morning. Someone like a sister.”

“I think what I need most is to be alone. Use this sacred time in prayer.”

“To listen to your spirit?”

I held my smile. “To commune with the Lord. And watch that the beans don’t scorch.”

“Well, all right then. And remember I’m invited to Sister Bethany’s for dinner after the meeting. I’ll try to bring home an extra piece of pie. She makes the best pumpkin pie.”

“That sounds wonderful.” For good measure, and because I felt a genuine affection, I bent to kiss her cheek. “Now, can I do anything to help you get ready?”

“No. I’ll be leaving now. If I’m early, I might get a seat closer to the stove.”

I remained in the doorway until I no longer heard her steps, then returned to my bed, seeking warmth within the rumpled blankets.

Lord, forgive my lies.

That seemed to be a prayer I would be repeating for days on end. Not a complete lie, of course, because here I was already spending my morning in prayer, and I smiled at my clever excuse.

Be with my little girls this morning. Protect them from the lies spoken from the pulpit of this false church. Send your angels to distract them from the elder’s voice. Let only the truth filter in—that you are God, their Father in heaven, and that you love them. Hold them close, Lord, as I cannot. . . .

It didn’t take long for me to realize that I could not remain in prayer as long as I remained in bed. My head filled with too many memories—countless Sunday mornings with Melissa at my side, Lottie on my lap, their warmth fueling my heart as Elder Justus’s droning voice threatened to stop it outright. Nathan’s voice, raised in song, rang through the recesses of my mind, and I reached my hand across the cold sheet, missing his warmth in an entirely different way.

I lay on my side, hand on my pillow, and when I opened my eyes, the misshapen, scarred flesh loomed large in my sight. Something in me longed to see his face, nestled in feathers, looking into my eyes. And then, our last morning together, the day he took a second wife.

He’d woken up with her this morning.

If not for that marriage, Lord—that woman—I might still be with him. At home. Walking hand in hand with my little girls on our way to church. To sit as a family and listen to the message of the prophet. Knowing in my heart it was false teaching, but putting up the pretense—allowing those lies to hold me and my daughters captive.

Right then my loneliness fled, pushed to the corners of my heart by a flood of gratitude. And praise. And unbelievable peace. I had done the right thing. For my children. I might be adrift, but my daughters were safe. I was still uncertain as to how it would all work out, but my faith was now securely placed in the true God, and I knew he would prevail for all of us.

So I closed my eyes and slept. Dozed, really, as I remained aware of the sounds coming from outside the window. Conversations and greetings shouted across the street, a group of women singing an anthem of the Saints. Occasionally something would ring out loud enough to rouse me completely, and I resolved to get up, get dressed, and go downstairs, but the first little movement would bring me to a cold spot between the sheets, and I cowered back to my warm, curled-up ball.

At some point, though, the instinct for survival overtook the pleasure of sleep, and I realized that only a flight of stairs separated me from true warmth in the form of a woodstove and food to fill what was quickly becoming a hollow, nauseous pain.

It was enough to send my feet to the floor, and within minutes I was dressed, my hair loosely tied at the nape of my neck. I picked up my Bible and my journal, thinking how nice it would be to read and write in the cozy kitchen, and I thought I would spend this morning in a little church of my own making, with the words of Jesus Christ himself as my sermon. Perhaps one of Paul’s letters for my Sunday school. The heels of my shoes made an echoing clatter as, newly energized, I bounded down the steps. But it was an imperfect echo, sometimes preceding each step, then continuing when I stopped. Not an echo at all, but a completely different sound.

A knock.

Two steps from the bottom I stopped. Who would visit Evangeline Moss on a Sunday morning? What Saint visits
any
Saint on a Sunday morning? Those not at meeting would die of shame before turning this sacred time into a social call. It could only be a stranger. No doubt one with a blue coat and a single, dark brow. The peace that had settled around my heart shredded, replaced by the fear I’d felt every time I’d seen that man.

Unless—and here my fear abated—it wasn’t a stranger at all, but a soldier. Sent with the official duty to confirm my well-being. Either way, I had no intention of opening the door completely blind to who might be on the other side. Until I knew, I had no intention of opening the door at all. I spun around and bounded back up the stairs, once again accompanied by repeated pounding on the door. The room once occupied by Evangeline’s brothers allowed an easy view to the front porch. Careful not to disturb the curtains, I placed my head against the cool glass, holding my breath in preparation for whatever sight would greet me. All, it turned out, in vain, because nothing could have prepared me for the visitor on the porch. More than that, my visitor knew exactly which window I would choose for an outlook, and she stared right back up at me.

“Rachel?”

Far below, she stamped her foot, and I hopped to her silent command, running down the stairs all a-clatter, practically throwing myself against the door upon arrival.

“I’ve been out here nearly five minutes,” she said, pushing her way right past me without so much as a glance. “My hand is throbbing.”

“I didn’t hear you.”

“Well, I’m sure it must be wonderful to adopt the life of a heathen and sleep late on a Sunday morning—”

“I wasn’t sleeping. Look, all dressed.”

She quirked her lips to one side and raised her eyebrows, unimpressed with my appearance.

“And by the way,” I said in an attempt at my defense, “I notice you aren’t at church either.”

“Bother. By the time Tillman gets the wives and kids out the door, he’ll never even notice I’m gone. One of the few perks of polygamy. You can just disappear for a while. But then, I guess you’ve already figured that out.”

There was more than an imagined bit of admiration in her comment, so I allowed myself to take no offense. Instead, I invited her to the kitchen with a wide, welcoming gesture.

“Oh, Camilla. Your hand.”

“Frostbite. One of the dangers of running away,” I said good-naturedly.

Never one to be generous with sympathy, Rachel continued on into the kitchen. I’d noticed the basket draped over her arm from my observation upstairs, but it took on new meaning as I followed. She dropped it on the table and rubbed her hands together.

“Good glory, it’s cold in here.”

“Sister Evangeline is quite conservative with her fuel.”

“I’ll tell Tillman to send one of the boys over with a few bundles.” She fed the dwindling fire in the stove and handed me the kettle. Her jeweled hands looked unaccustomed to kitchen work.

“Fill this up?”

“Of course.”

I held the crock pitcher steady, pouring a stream of cold water into the kettle’s narrow spout while Rachel rummaged through the basket, producing several brown paper–wrapped packages.

“Apple-carrot muffins. Maple sugar doughnuts. Cinnamon scones and a round of fresh butter. We had a few ladies over for quilting yesterday, and these were left over.”

“Oh my.”

“And of course—” she held up a small tin box, giving it a playful shake—“tea.”

“I don’t know why Tillman lets you get away with this.”

“Tillman doesn’t know, and neither do the sister wives, a situation I’m quite comfortable with.”

“Your secret is safe with me.”

“Then you’ll join me?”

My mouth watered at the thought. “Of course.”

“Then sit,” Rachel said, taking over the role of hostess—one I was glad to relinquish. “And how is our little Evangeline?”

“Sad. And lonely, I think. She wants a family.”

“She wants Nathan.”

I said nothing, and Rachel let the matter drop. Instead, I took down a small dish for the butter and two cups for our tea. Evangeline had less than a cup of white sugar, but she used it so infrequently, I wagered she still wouldn’t miss a few spoonfuls.

“Now,” Rachel said, settling in at the table while the water boiled, “tell me everything about where you’ve been.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“You sound like you don’t trust me.”

“That’s not it.”

“Come on.” Her smile, identical to her brother’s, led the way as she leaned across the table. “We’ll swap. You tell me something I want to know, and I’ll tell you something you need to know.”