Forsaking All Others (15 page)

Only my two-fingered grip on the banister kept me from losing my balance.

There stood my husband in Evangeline’s parlor.

His laughter stopped the moment I took my first step from around the stairway, and not a shred of it lingered in his eyes. Oh, the smile was frozen in place—wide as ever. Any passing stranger—perhaps Evangeline herself—might have mistaken it for an expression of joy at seeing his long-lost wife at last. For a few heartbeats, I flattered myself with the same thought. But then I noticed the clenching of his jaw, not to mention his fist—one ball of fingers nestled in an open palm. I imagine if I’d touched him, I would have felt his muscles tensed beneath his skin, making him more a man carved of marble than of flesh. Yet, given all of this, I felt no fear. Not then. This was Nathan, my husband, and while I cannot recall the steps that brought me across the room, soon I was close enough to touch him. It was this touch I feared—much as I’d feared it all those years ago when we’d stood in the shadowed woods together. I felt very much the same fifteen-year-old girl, heart pounding so hard I could barely think.

“Well, look at you,” Nathan said, his eyes scanning me from head to toe.

“Perhaps I should leave the two of you alone,” Evangeline said. I’d forgotten she was in the room. “Shall I go to Sister Rachel’s and fetch the girls back here?”

“The girls?” I hid my wounded hand in the folds of my skirt, anticipating.

“I didn’t want to bring them here and not find you.” His smile never waned. “I couldn’t stand for them to have another disappointment.” Then he turned to Evangeline and looked at her with such a warmth I could feel her heart melting. “That would be wonderful if you could bring the girls here. They can’t wait to see their mama.”

Without a single glance in my direction, Evangeline grabbed a light shawl to wrap around her thin shoulders and flew out the door, promising to be back within the hour.

What can I say about the silence that followed? The parlor windows were open, letting in the occasional soft sound from the streets, but it seemed swallowed in the fluttering curtains, smothered by the unspoken mass between us.

“I went to Rachel’s,” he said at last, his voice thin and taut, his words measured, defiant of any identifiable emotion. “The day after you left. After the storm. Because you said you were going to Rachel’s.”

I choked, rather than spoke, my answer. “I know.”

“Then I took my own life in my hands and went into our enemy’s camp and listened to that man lie to me.”

“I can imagine how much that must have hurt you.”

“Can you?” He moved toward me. I didn’t shrink away, but perhaps some level of fear registered on my face. At any rate, Nathan’s hands—poised midgrip—stopped just short of grasping my shoulders. Then, as though he’d just lost some sort of battle, his shoulders drooped.

“You can’t possibly know. You left without a word. You abandoned your children. You stole my horse.”

He said all of this with such disarming humor, with his hands outstretched in some mock-pleading gesture, that I felt a welcome, familiar ripple at the base of my spine. He was offering me forgiveness, right there on the spot, without my having to ask. There it was, the same boyish grin that had so long ago lured me from my father’s home, and I found my lips being tugged into a smile of their own. And then, his touch. So light—just the tip of his finger beneath my chin. Slowly, I lifted my face, until my eyes met his, and there was nothing between us but a swirling mass of impetuous, dangerous decisions. I wanted to step back—not to escape his touch, but to flee this moment. Far enough to find crisp, clear air. Far enough that I wouldn’t feel his breath, warm and sweet, just above my skin. Because he was drawing me closer, and just as his image blurred before me, so did any hope of reasonable thought.

Had I stepped away, I might have said something other than “Oh, Nathan, I’m so sorry,” before he kissed me. But I didn’t move. My next breath met his, and the weight and worry of weeks disappeared. Familiar arms drew me close, and my hands sought the promising strength of them, relishing the feel of his coarse wool shirt and the work-hardened muscles that tensed beneath my touch.

My touch.

As abruptly as our kiss began, he drew away, moving to capture my hands in his. And there, nestled in his calloused grip, my maimed little hand. The buttons of flesh where my fingers once were had taken on a sickly white hue, the jagged scars now fully sealed. An inexplicable wave of shame washed over me, and I balled the remnant into a fist—as if to hide what remained—and tried to pull away, but Nathan held me, his fingers looped around my wrist.

“What did they do to you?”

How much did he know? And how much could I say? I waited, searching his face, trying to read the mind behind the question. Protective fury? Heartfelt concern? One response might drive him to want to exact revenge, another to pour out his gratitude for saving my life.

“When they found me,” I said, stalling somewhat, “my hands . . . from the cold. It—they were dying. Dead already. And the doctor said there wasn’t any choice.”

He brought my hand to his lips, covering my scars with his kiss, and I couldn’t speak anymore. No touch had ever felt so tender, and my mind flew back to the sound of the bone nipper and Captain Buckley’s odd little whistle. The memory of whiskey mixed with the lingering taste of Nathan’s kiss, and all those little moments lived as one. Again, I heard myself saying, “I’m sorry,” apologizing for the very weakness of my flesh.

“I just can’t bear the thought of you being in such pain.” He held my palm flush against his chest. I could feel the beating of his heart.

“It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“But it must have.”

I attempted a weak grin. “I’ve borne children, Nathan. This doesn’t compare.”

He refused to reward me with his own smile. Instead, he glanced at my other hand, then back at me.

“You aren’t wearing your wedding ring.”

“No. I can’t, of course, on my left hand—”

“But your right?”

“I suppose I could. But it was so badly swollen at first. And now—”

“Where is it?”

I reached into my dress and withdrew the silk ribbon with the small, plain ring dangling from it.

“Hand it to me,” Nathan said with a gentle control that bade my obedience. For a moment, he studied the place where the silk was knotted, but then without the slightest attempt to dislodge it, he secured the ring against his palm, wrapped the ribbon around the first fingers of both his hands, and pulled, snapping that silk as if it were little more than a dried reed. It slid out from within the ring, dropping heedlessly to the floor.

He took my left hand and touched the ring to the scarred flesh.

“The prophet says some sins are so grievous we can only seek atonement through the shedding of blood.”

Then he took my right hand, slid the ring on my finger, and kissed it.

“Makes it all the more special, don’t you think?” He raised his eyes to me. “Like we’re getting married all over again. A new hand.” He touched my face. “A new start.”

Outside, the day turned to evening, like a shadow dropped through the window. Darker, cooler, and the few open inches between the window and the sill made a welcome distraction. I pulled myself from his grasp saying, “It’s cold,” and turned my face to the narrow, cooling breeze.

He didn’t follow me. Of course he wouldn’t. He didn’t move at all. Not when I leaned over to take great gulps of the fresh air, not even when I pretended to struggle with the sticking frame. I could feel him behind me, though. Watching. The back of my neck burned under his gaze. He had just reaffirmed our marriage, claimed me as his wife. We’d been married by the edge of the Platte River, sealed to each other within his church’s sacred teachings. A new storm could rise up between us now—here in Evangeline’s parlor—and it would make no difference. He’d be there when it cleared. Or soon after. His was an inescapable power, granted to him by both his false god and his false prophet. I would have to flee their reach if I were ever to escape his.

That was the fresh start I needed. And I might have told him that, too. My strength was almost there, but then, down the street, I saw them. Their hair like strands of corn silk, their faces sweet and pale with the bright pink patches on their cheeks that always appeared when they played outside in the cold. They were running now, leaving Auntie Evangeline, who carried a large, covered dish, a good distance behind. Even with the pane of glass between us, I could hear their laughter. My own bubbled up, like my very life returning.

I spun around and ran for the door, ready to meet them on the street, but Nathan grabbed my arm.

“Go upstairs,” he said, every bit the authority he’d always been. “Wrap your hand.”

“Wrap it?”

“Like a bandage. It’ll frighten them as it is.”

“But what—?”

“Say you burned it on the stove. Go.”

By now I could almost hear their voices coming from the other side of the door, but I knew he was right. He released me and I ran upstairs, pulling out the pins that held my hair so loosely. I dragged a comb through my hair and hastily plaited it into one braid, which I twisted and pinned into the style that my Lottie always likened to a snail. Then, with a strip of gauze I found in the bottom drawer, I hastily wrapped my hand in a sloppy cocoon, tucking the edge of the fabric in at the wrist.

I took just a second to study my reflection, worried that my daughters would pick up on my gaunt appearance—especially Melissa, who never missed the slightest hint of trouble. As sharp as the planes of my face might be, my eyes were bright, my skin flush with excitement. Their excited chatter drifted up the stairs, and with a final prayer of thanks, I ran downstairs to meet them.

Chapter 12

Melissa saw me first. Nathan was crouched down, eye level with little Lottie, who, with her back to me, regaled him with some amazing tale of life at Aunt Rachel’s. But Melissa, I could tell, had kept her eyes trained, looking for me. Initially, they popped open—big and brown like her father’s—and her mouth opened in a perfect O of surprise. But then, as if remembering something quite important, she gave her head a little shake, narrowed her gaze, and appeared enraptured with Lottie’s story.

My body—the same body that so ached to hold her—seized with caution. Like a doe entering a forest clearing, I took one slow, cautious step after another. Her gaze never softened. She, the six-year-old child, stared me down with an intensity that alerted her little sister that something dangerous was coming up from behind. Lottie stopped midsentence and turned—startled at first—but then her face broke into a mass of unfettered joy.

“Mama!” she cried over and over, with every little running step, repeating it still as she buried her head in the soft of my neck. Her skin was cold, but her breath was hot, as were the tears I felt wet against me.

Oh, the feel of her, tucked up against me. How perfectly she fit. I held her, pouring a silent, pleading apology through my embrace. I longed to shower her—up and down every tiny inch—with kisses. One for every day I’d missed. But that would mean pulling away, and that I could not do. Not while her cries were now deep, quaking sobs, each one rippling through her body as she clung ever closer. Her skin burned hot now. I could feel it even through her dress as I patted her back. I whispered, “Shh, shh,” and looked over her head at her older sister and father, who held me in place with identical, accusing glares.

No battle line had ever been more clearly drawn.

Eventually Lottie grew calm, her breath shallow but even, and I pulled away far enough that I could look at her swollen, tearstained face.

“I tried to be a big girl while you were gone. Auntie Amanda said I shouldn’t cry, so I didn’t.” She sucked in her lower lip and furrowed her brow. “But I wanted to.”

“You’re a liar,” Melissa said with more venom than I thought capable of a child her age. She looked straight at me. “She cried every night when we were in bed after prayers.” Something in her voice told me she hadn’t shared in her sister’s tears.

“Well,” Nathan said, clapping his hands and rubbing them together, “there’s no more need for tears now, is there? Here we are, all together again, and from what my little Lottie was telling me, we have a delicious dinner Aunt Rachel sent along.”

“A whole chicken!” Lottie piped up, instantly cheerful. “She said they roasted one too many.”

“How kind of her.” It was the first I’d spoken since coming into the room, and the words still caught in my throat.

Lottie never left my side, and Melissa never came near me as we made our way into Evangeline’s small kitchen. A three-legged stool was brought to the table, but Lottie chose to crawl into my lap to eat her supper.

Never, I imagine, had Evangeline’s table ever held such bounty, neither in food nor fellowship. Melissa and Lottie each gripped a drumstick in one hand and a biscuit in the other, piles of mashed turnips left largely unattended on their plates. Nathan regaled us with stories. Not new ones, but ones drawn from memories shared by those of us around the table. He told stories from our journey to Zion, making each Indian and bobcat more ferocious than they could have ever hoped to have been. Of course, during those days I was a new bride, so newly in love with my handsome husband, and more than a little afraid of the life in front of me.

As he told his stories, I couldn’t help but recall that early, fear-fueled passion. Throughout the meal our eyes would meet, and I knew we were both filling in those details not fit to be shared with our company. Those were the days when our home was nothing more than a blanket or two spread out in the shelter of a fellow Saint’s wagon. His arms were my shelter, his promises my dwelling.

Evangeline had been there then, on the fringe, always watching. Now she threw herself into the midst of us. We were at her table, after all. The chicken carcass sat in the middle of the table, and abandoning any attempt at manners, we all reached across the table, picking at the remaining flesh. Sometimes I caught her looking like she was on the verge of pinching herself. This could be her life, had she her own husband. Or had she mine. I knew—had always known—that her desire to be Nathan’s wife encompassed the core of her being. Back then she must have felt like she’d lost a great prize, standing at the river as I was given to him in marriage. But now she had the blessing of the prophet to stake a claim of her own in his life, if not in his heart.