Forsaking All Others (2 page)

“Just testing. Don’t want it too hot.”

Then my head was cradled in his hand and he placed the cup against my mouth. The first sip burned, then soothed as I swallowed.

“Little more?”

I opened my lips wider in response, and I heard him whisper, “That’s a girl,” as he gauged just when to take the cup away. He must be a father, too.

“Now,” he said, laying my head back, “if you’ll consent.” He reached into his coat pocket and took out a thin, silver flask. “I’m in no way a drinking man myself, and I don’t want to lead you down the path of evil, but if you’ll permit me to mix just a few drops of whiskey in that water, it’ll toast your blood right up.”

My first instinct should have been to say no, but speaking was still beyond my strength, and truthfully, my thoughts were still cloudy enough that his words had no impact. He took my silence as permission and twisted the lid off the flask. With caution and precision, he drizzled a bit of the amber liquid into the water remaining in the blue cup and swirled it.

“For this, you’ll need to sit up a little straighter.”

He moved behind me and, this time, put his arm beneath my shoulders. I could feel the brass of his cuff buttons against my skin, hitting me with the realization that I was fully naked beneath a pile of wool blankets and bearskin. I twisted my head, panicked, and he instantly interpreted my terror.

“I know and I’m sorry. But we couldn’t have you wearing twenty pounds of wet clothes. Now I wish we’d had some old Indian woman to help us out, but we’re just a bunch of soldiers. If it helps, I held a gun on ’em and kept ’em blindfolded.”

I didn’t believe him, but I cared a little less.

“When you’re ready, drink this down.”

Just the smell of the whiskey in the water brought new life to my senses. Sharpened them, somehow, opened me up to the thought of drinking it down.

“All one drink,” he said behind me. “If you sip it by half, you won’t drink the rest.”

I nodded, braced myself, and closed my eyes. I don’t know what I was expecting, but I felt only warmth. Heat was followed by clarity, and when Colonel Brandon lowered me once again to what I now recognized as a buffalo skin–covered cot, I was fully ready to speak.

“Thank you.” My voice was hoarse, and then I remembered screaming into the storm.

He cocked his head. “Doesn’t sound to me like you’re quite up for telling your story.”

He was right. I couldn’t. But it had nothing to do with my throat.

“If it’s all right, though, I’d like to ask you just a couple of questions.” He set the cup down on the ground next to him and took a small piece of yellow paper out of the same pocket where he kept the flask. “Can you tell me who Missy is?”

The name shot through my heart. “My daughter. Her name’s Melissa. And Lottie.”

He checked his paper, and the pleasant expression he’d worn since my eyes opened to him disappeared, replaced with a furrowed, worried brow. “Are they—were they traveling with you?”

I shook my head as tears gathered in my eyes.

“They’re safe at home?”

“Yes.”

“Well, thank God for that.”

And I did as my head filled with visions of them, cozily tucked into their bed or sitting on the braided rug in front of the stove, happily playing with their dolls at the feet of—

“Nathan? Is he your husband?”

“Yes.” I tried to sit up. “Is he here? Did he come for me?”

“Shh . . .” Again his warm hand soothed my brow, and exhausted, I lay back. “No, ma’am. Nobody’s come for you.”

“Then how do you know?”

He showed me the paper. Three words—
Missy, Lottie, Nathan
—and one letter:
K
.

“Kimana.”

He smiled. “Private Lambert wasn’t sure of the spelling.”

“She’s taking care of my daughters.”

“I see.” I could tell he wanted to know more, but I hadn’t the strength. It wasn’t the time. “You’ve been sleeping on and off for close to twenty hours, and that’s just since we found you. Now, for me you’ve been nice and quiet, but I guess when Private Lambert pulled his shift, you decided to talk a little bit. He picked out a few names.”

“Oh.”

“And he said you seemed to do a lot of praying.”

“Yes.”

“The way I figure, those prayers brought my scouts out to find you. Nothing but unbroken snow, they said; then there you were, hanging on to that horse. Why, that animal herself is a miracle.”

“You have to send her back. To my husband.”

“Time enough for that. We’ll get you feeling better, and then we’ll get both of you safely home.”

More tears, and now they fell, sliding straight down into my ears. “I don’t have a home.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Now, don’t be silly. Everybody’s got a home.”

“Not me. I had one, and I left it. I had to.”

His voice dropped to a whisper, even though as far as I could tell, the two of us were quite alone. “Are you one of them, then? A Mormon?”

“Yes.” Then quickly, “No. I mean I was, for a time. But not really, not in my heart. And now—God, forgive me . . .” Whatever else I meant to say disappeared in the drought of my throat. I mustered what strength I could and turned on my side, my back to Colonel Brandon, and curled up with my regret.

Taking a liberty I could have never imagined, he put his hand on my shoulder, tugging me to face him. As I complied, he smoothed my hair from my brow and brought his face so close to mine I could feel his breath.

“Now you listen to me. I don’t want you to be frightened for one more minute. Not for yourself and not for your girls. I’m here for you. The United States Army is here for you. And as I’ve sworn my life as a sacrifice for freedom, I will make it my promise that you’ll have a home.”

“How?” I’d brought the blanket up to my face, and it muffled my question. Still, he heard.

“You leave that up to me. Another drink?”

As an answer, I sat myself up on my elbows, holding the covers nearly to my chin.

Silently, he filled the cup with water from a pot sitting on a grate by the fire and added a little from a clay pitcher. Then he lifted the flask, holding it like a question. Remembering the pleasant warmth, I nodded, and as before, he measured in a tiny stream and swirled the cup. I continued to hold the covers as he tipped the cup against my mouth, and this time I took the drink in several satisfying gulps.

“That’s the last of that for you.”

“That’s fine,” I said, lying back down.

“Now sleep. And don’t worry. When you wake up, I’ll be here.”

“And then?”

“And then, it sounds like we might have a bit of a battle on our hands.”

Chapter 2

On what I judged to be the second day after waking, a soldier backed in through the tent’s door. He barely twisted his torso to turn and drop a bundle of folded cloth on my feet, but it was enough for me to get a glimpse of a face where a battle between faint, sparse fuzz and angry blemishes raged along sunken cheeks and a sharp jaw.

“Here y’are, ma’am,” he mumbled before stumbling back out again. Still weak, I struggled to sit up and inched the bundle closer to me. I found it to be a man’s long shirt made of fine, thin wool and a pair of thick wool socks. With some effort I managed to drop the shirt over my shoulders and pull my arms through the sleeves. The shirt was laced along the front, and while I could pull the laces to pull it closed, I could not tie it, as both my hands were bundled loosely in bandages. This was the unpleasant surprise that had greeted me when I was fully awake. Frostbite, Colonel Brandon told me, which caused unbearable tingling. I’d not yet been permitted to see them, so I had no idea the extent of the burning, but I knew I could no more pull on a pair of wool socks than I could pull a sleigh across the snow. Besides, my feet felt warm enough under the pile of blankets and bearskin; in fact, I appreciated the shirt more for its measure of modesty than warmth.

Exhausted from dressing, I fell back upon my pillows, but I did not sleep. Instead, I listened to the conversations around me. Most of what I heard seemed to meld into one constant, masculine hum, but if I concentrated very hard, I could pick up recurring themes. The blasted cold. Those blasted Mormons. That blasted woman goin’ to mean nothing but trouble . . .

Apparently the bedside vigil enacted upon my arrival was suspended once it seemed clear that I would not become “that blasted
dead
woman” anytime soon. I was left largely alone with my thoughts—memories interspersed with dozing dreams—to be interrupted only by the appearance of one young man or another with a cup of hearty broth or tea. I judged time by their greetings: “Morning, ma’am.” “Afternoon, ma’am.” “Evening, ma’am.” If any noticed the unworn socks folded across my lap, no one mentioned them. I learned no names, ascertained no ranks, and after two days of this, I knew little more about where I was than the day I arrived.

On the morning of what must have been my third waking day, I opened my eyes to see—for the first time—a strip of sunlight along the bottom of the tent wall. Before that, there’d been only the steady, low light from the constant burning of the little woodstove. This tiny sliver brought to me the sense of hope that comes with a new day: the snow must be somewhat clear, and I could go home. Well, not
home
, exactly. I had little hope that my husband would welcome me. And if he did, I knew he’d never again let me out of his sight. But I did wish to get away from here and find my way safely to the home of Nathan’s sister, Rachel, in Salt Lake City. Just for a while, until God directed my next step.

Moments later, when the young man who’d brought me my shirt arrived with a tin plate of scrambled eggs and a cup of tea, I thanked him and asked to see Colonel Brandon immediately.

The young man, too tall to stand comfortably within the tent, maintained what posture he could. “Colonel Brandon is not here, ma’am.”

“Not here?” His promise to deliver me rang in my ears, and I tried to keep the fear out of my voice. “Where is he?”

“Not at liberty to say, ma’am.”

“Is he coming back?”

“Not at liberty to say, ma’am. Anything else I can get for you?”

I wanted to tell him to take this food away and bring me my clothes and coat, shoes and horse, and let me set out for Salt Lake City, but something about the tightness of his lips told me that such an action was highly unlikely. I sat up—easier now as I’d grown stronger—and held my bandaged hand out for the plate. This was to be my first bite of solid food, and while my stomach growled for it, my bandaged hands were too clumsy to grip the fork.

“I’m going to need help with this.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What is your name?”

“Excuse me, ma’am?”

“Your name. If you are going to feed me, I insist on knowing your name.”

“Lambert. Private Casey Lambert, ma’am.”

“Good morning, Private Lambert.”

“Good morning, ma’am.”

He found a small stool and brought it to my side, folding his long body into a piece of bric-a-brac to sit on it. With great precision, he speared a bite of egg and brought it to my mouth, his own opening slightly as my lips closed around the fork—something I remembered doing when I fed my own daughters. The memory of that made it difficult to swallow, but the moment I managed it, he was ready with the next one.

“You have a knack for this,” I said, hoping some conversation might loosen his lips a little. “Do you have children?”

Even in the dim light of the tent I could see how deeply he blushed. “No, ma’am. Don’t even got a wife. But I helped my ma with my little brothers and sisters.”

“Oh? Are you the oldest?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And where are they? Where are you from?”

“Ohio, ma’am.”

“You must miss them terribly.”

There was the tiniest crack to his facade, no more than the sunlight running along the tent floor, and then the military mask was back. “It’s an honor to serve my country, ma’am.” He punctuated his sentiment by nudging the fork ever closer to my mouth.

After just three bites, I could eat no more.

“Are you sure, ma’am? Make you strong.”

“It’s delicious,” I said, though truthfully it needed a little salt, “but I don’t have my appetite. I think, though, it’s only a matter of days before I’ll be strong enough to leave. Perhaps Colonel Brandon will be back by then?”

Nothing, not a flicker of an eyelash nor a twitch of a lip, gave me any answer. Instead, he put the teacup between my bandaged palms and waited for me to drink it down before removing himself and the dirty dishes.

I knew I’d be left alone until noon, if not longer.

Private Lambert was right about one thing, though. Even those few bites of food gave me a new strength, and with the aid of my teeth to loosen the fastenings, I managed to unwrap my right hand to assess the damage. My fingers were red and swollen. I flexed them with very little pain, though it felt like each would come snapping out of its own skin. The tingling seemed more unbearable with the bandage removed, and I had to fight against the urge to rub my hand against the scratchiness of the wool blanket. No doubt such an action might bring a temporary relief, but I knew well the damage of doing so could be permanent.

Then, clumsily, I unwrapped my left hand, not nearly as pleased at what I saw. My thumb and first two fingers seemed well enough. Swollen and red, but otherwise in as fine a shape as my entire right hand. But the skin had swollen up and over the wedding ring I wore on my third finger; both it and my pinkie were black nearly to the second knuckle.

I knew what that meant.

Dear God, please—heal my hand.
I knew I was asking for a miracle because the flesh of my fingers was now as dead as any rotting corpse.
But you, O Lord, are a God of miracles. You have raised men from the dead. You brought me from the brink of death to this place.

“It’s just two little fingers.”
What are two little fingers in the scope of creation?

I felt myself wanting to cry, but tears would not come. Even they had dried up and deserted me.

There seemed little point in rebandaging my hands, though I did loosely wrap the gauze around my left one, if only to shield me from its ugliness.