Chapter 18

Never could two mirrored experiences be so different. Years ago I’d traversed this same land with Nathan. Step by step I’d crossed it, walking one plodding mile after another when I wasn’t sitting on the tongue of somebody’s wagon as a team of oxen took even slower steps. Five miles a day we’d covered—on a good day—and each of those miles passed one blade of grass at a time. If I closed my eyes, I could bring it all back—the relentless sun, the inescapable rain, the days upon days of seeing the same mountain peak on the horizon—no closer at the end of the day than it had been when you were washing up the breakfast dishes. Nathan and I hadn’t had our own wagon, so we’d sleep under the stars, wrapped in each other’s arms. Or we’d sneak off—just over a hill, maybe—to enjoy our newly married life.

And that’s what it felt like. Life. Just a slow-moving home. We sang and cooked. Children played games right alongside the turning wagon wheels. Little girls spied wildflowers and made chains of them; little boys trapped lizards and snakes. Prairie dogs stood on their haunches and watched us rumble by.

But traveling by stage, I hardly knew I was making the same journey. Nothing could have prepared me for the brutality of this transport. The noise was deafening, with the constant rattle of chains, not to mention the stagecoach itself. Mrs. Fennel had indeed procured extra cushioning, which was lashed to the original seat with long leather strips. Without it, I couldn’t imagine the beating my body would have taken. At our first lurching exit from the way station, I found myself tossed from my seat entirely, nearly into the lap of Private Lambert, who at the next stop volunteered to ride shotgun with our driver. This left me alone with Colonel Brandon, something that never affected me during our conversations back at Fort Bridger. But my newfound understanding of his feelings for me put me on edge, and I was actually grateful to focus my attention on remaining upright on the seat.

We stopped four times during the course of the first day—every ten miles, according to our driver. When we came to our fifth and final stop, we’d traveled approximately fifty miles, and though I felt every one of them throughout my aching body, I marveled at the distance. We’d driven the equivalent of more than a week’s travel by wagon. It took me more than a season to leave home; I would be back in less than a month.

To my relief I learned that we would not ride through the night. Any sort of bed—even a straw pallet on rocky soil—would be preferable to more miles of being tossed around in that torturous seat. We’d stopped at the Big Pond station, comprised of one large structure of massive sandstone slabs and several outlying smaller buildings. Here there was no Mrs. Fennel and family bustling about to feed and serve us. In fact, I might well have been the only woman there, which renewed my appreciation for Colonel Brandon’s offer of escort. Upon stopping, our driver had jumped down to go in search of someone to help with the horses, leaving Private Lambert, Colonel Brandon, and me to fend for ourselves in the main building.

The door was wide and square and heavy, if Private Lambert’s obvious effort to open it was any indication, but it opened to a room that managed to be somehow simultaneously cavernous and cozy. The walls were lined with narrow bunks, stacked three high, each with a mattress covered by a neatly tucked-in blanket. Four long tables with benches created an aisle down the center of the room, stretching from the door to an enormous stone fireplace that comprised most of the far wall, where a small, inviting fire burned. Facing it was a gathering of horsehair and leather–covered chairs.

“Care to sit?” Colonel Brandon gestured with his hat.

“No thanks,” I said, arching my back. “I’ve had quite enough sitting for one day.”

“Well, it appears they’ve left supper for us, at least.”

A large, cast-iron kettle sat on the end of one of the tables, with a stack of bowls next to it and a shallow pan covered with a white towel. At a nod from Colonel Brandon, Private Lambert went to it, lifted the lid, and reported, “Beans, sir. And corn bread, sir. They must have known they had soldiers coming.” Then a small smile in my direction. “Beg your pardon, ma’am.”

As it turned out, this building actually had two halls that jutted out from the far wall. To the left, according to a rough-lettered sign, was a kitchen, and to the right, a washroom. I was given leave to wash up first and was pleasantly surprised at the facility. There was a hand pump coming right up from the floor and a row of basins and pitchers set up along a shelf that ran nearly the length of the wall. To my relief, two of the pitchers were already filled, and once again I turned the water gray with a day’s worth of travel dust. I knew I’d have no chance to wash anything other than my face and neck and hands, but even that little bit was refreshing. I opened the back door to dump my dirty water off the porch and paused for just a moment, gazing up into the starlight.

“Good night, sweet girls,” I said, and I prayed that God would keep us all safe until we could look upon the stars together.

When I reentered the main room, two other gentlemen were seated at one of the long tables. Colonel Brandon introduced them to me as Ephraim Henness and Nicholas Farmer. Both had high brows and gray hair with neatly trimmed whiskers and were dressed in well-tailored, dark suits. They were taking the westbound stage headed for Salt Lake City. And then, in a tone that would seem natural to anybody who’d never spent countless hours in conversation with the man, Colonel Brandon introduced me as his wife.

Instantly alert, I took a step closer to Colonel Brandon and said, “Good evening, gentlemen.”

I’d seen these men before. Not these particular ones, of course, but others upon others just like them, and I knew they were Latter-day Saints.

“Perhaps, then, Mrs. Brandon, you could serve up our supper?” the elder of the two said. “The station cook encouraged us to wait for your arrival. Unsavory character himself, so we’re quite pleased to know we have more civilized company.”

My smile remained frozen. “I’d be happy to.”

Colonel Brandon and Private Lambert took turns excusing themselves to clean up in the washroom, purposefully not leaving me alone with Brothers Ephraim and Nicholas, for which I was grateful. The men exchanged small talk about the weather and travel, while I took a lamp and ventured into the kitchen. Not caring whether or not I had the resident cook’s permission, I built up the fire in the cookstove and set a kettle of water on to boil, having located a tin of tea on a shelf.

Upon returning to the table, I ladled out beans, passed the corn bread, and poured glasses of cold water. When all were seated, Colonel Brandon offered to say a blessing for the meal, but Brother Ephraim raised his hand.

“May I inquire first, sir, if you are in right relationship with our Lord?”

Colonel Brandon smiled warmly, almost indulgently, and said, “Yes, sir. I am a Christian.”

Now it was the Saints’ turn to offer their own condescension in allowing this Gentile to lead them in prayer. At his invitation, we joined hands—Private Lambert at my right and Colonel Brandon at my left—and bowed our heads.

“Father in heaven,” he prayed, and I wondered if he held Brother Ephraim’s hand as tightly as he held mine, “we give you thanks for our safe journey and for the hospitality of those who will give us food and lodging this night. We ask a special blessing for them and to be held in your mercy for the rest of our travels. Please allow your healing hand to rest upon Camilla’s father, that she may see him on earth before he goes on to glory. In the name of your Son, Jesus Christ, in whom alone we can find salvation, amen.”

As I opened my eyes, I let my hand rest for a moment on Colonel Brandon’s arm and whispered, “Thank you,” as his gaze met mine.

“Your father is ill?” I detected genuine concern in Brother Ephraim’s question.

“Yes,” I said, welcoming the touch as Colonel Brandon’s hand covered mine. “I haven’t seen him since . . . well, in a very long time.”

“Well then,” Brother Ephraim said, “we will keep him in our prayers too. Nothing can be quite as comforting as the love of a child.”

For a little while nobody spoke as we dove into the meal left for us. Whoever this unsavory cook might be, he had a way with spices, as the beans held a delicious flavoring of onion and salt and some other ingredient I could not identify but found delectable.

“Have you not yet been blessed with children?” It was the first Brother Nicholas had spoken since our introduction, other than the most minimal conversation.

Colonel Brandon and I exchanged a glance. I hesitated a breath before answering, “No.” The lie taunted me. In an effort to hide my guilt, I looked to my lap, then brought my hand to my stomach, as if to protect this little one now.

Brother Ephraim pounced upon my gesture. “Perhaps I am wrong, but are you now in the midst of such a blessing?”

Just as I was wondering how I would respond, Colonel Brandon drove a knife through the pan of corn bread, saying, “I’m afraid it’s rather impolite to make the lady’s condition a topic of conversation, and I must ask you to apologize.”

Both brothers reacted as if Colonel Brandon had slapped them in an attempt to defend my honor, and I disguised a smile behind a swipe at my mouth with the back of my hand.

“I assure you we meant no disrespect,” Brother Nicholas said. “My apologies to you both.”

“He’s a soldier,” Brother Ephraim said. He was at least ten years older than Brother Nicholas and obviously considered himself the authority between the two. “Perhaps he sees it as his sworn duty to stir dissension.”

Before he could respond, I took the knife and the pan away from Colonel Brandon and resumed his task.

“Is this your first visit to Salt Lake City, gentlemen?” I stopped myself just short of calling them brothers.

“It is to be our home,” Brother Ephraim said, overstepping Brother Nicholas’s attempt to respond. “We have been five years in England and Wales on mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Tell me, are you acquainted with our faith?”

“We are,” Colonel Brandon said.

“Nope,” Private Lambert said at the same time.

I said nothing.

“Well then, my young man, given these uncertain times, perhaps you would like to be acquainted with the true gospel of Jesus Christ.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” Colonel Brandon said.

“I believe the young man can speak for himself,” a newly outraged Brother Nicholas said.

“No, he cannot. He is under my command.”

Private Lambert looked from one man to the other, carefully chewing his food.

“I see,” Brother Ephraim said. “But my brother and I are not under your command, so you cannot stop us from sharing our faith. Oh, wait, I seem to have forgotten. That is exactly what your president is endeavoring to do, isn’t it? To deny my people our constitutional rights to practice our religion? And from what I have heard in my letters from our church leadership, you are ready to wage war if we attempt to exercise our rights.”

“We are here,” Colonel Brandon said, the hand not holding a fork balled into a fist, “to keep peace. And—”

“And I would like to have peace at this table,” I interrupted, laying my hand on his arm. “Certainly we could find a more neutral topic of conversation. Tell us, Brother Ephraim, more about England. We’ve never been.”

The Mormon man’s eyebrow shot up at my use of the word brother, and I realized too late the degree of familiarity I’d taken—something no Gentile would ever do. His scrutiny intensified, and I felt every bit as targeted as I had the night the bishop and Elder Justus came to demand my rebaptism.

“You, then, I sense, are acquainted with our mission?”

“I? No, nothing beyond what is common knowledge.”

Brother Ephraim leaned forward in an almost-predatory posture. “And just what do you consider ‘common knowledge’?”

Colonel Brandon was on his feet. “Now see here—”

And I was on mine. “I’ve something to attend to in the kitchen. If you all will excuse me.” I grabbed Colonel Brandon’s sleeve and pulled him close, speaking directly into his ear, yet loud enough for all the company. “Do not engage in battle, my darling, when I so desire a night of peace.”

He sat back down and was actually apologizing for his outburst as I walked out of the room. In the kitchen, the kettle was spitting water droplets that hissed on the stove. Finding a towel to protect my hand, I poured the water from the kettle into a serviceable pot and dropped a ball of tea in to steep. Smiling to myself, I filled a tray with the teapot and five white mugs, along with a small dish of sugar.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t find any milk,” I said upon reentering the large room. The four men sat in sullen silence, and I wager not a word had been spoken in my absence. I set the tray on the table. “There was a little sugar, though. This should help soothe our rattled bones.”

Acting quite the lady, I poured a steaming cup to serve to Private Lambert and then another for Colonel Brandon.

“I’m afraid our faith does not permit us to join you,” Brother Nicholas said with more arrogance than apology. “Were you better acquainted with our teachings, you would know that.”

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry.” I amassed all the wide-eyed innocence I could muster.

“That’s quite all right,” Brother Ephraim said, and from the glint in his eye, I knew he hadn’t been fooled. “Please, enjoy. It isn’t easy to deny oneself such simple pleasures, even when doing so in obedience to God. I’m afraid we have so many of our Saints who have found the true path of righteousness to be more difficult to follow than they anticipated. That’s why we were called back from the mission field, in part. Isn’t it, Brother Nicholas?”

“It is, indeed.”

Private Lambert slurped his tea, garnering a disdainful look from both brothers.

“These are very troubling times for our church, as Colonel Brandon here is quite aware.”

“Not quite sure I see the connection,” Colonel Brandon said.

“So many flock to our faith, searching for truth and, dare I say, finding it in the revelation of our prophet. But then, when choices have to be made—” his eyes tracked mine, holding them until I looked away to stir sugar into my tea—“they come to a crisis of faith. The rewards of Heavenly Father are great, but they come at a price. The price of obedience. Some are simply not willing to obey.”

“And you have been summoned to enforce obedience?” Colonel Brandon said.

Brother Ephraim spread his hands wide in a gesture of appeasement. “You see, we have the same duties to perform. You want my people to adhere to the laws of government; I want my people to live by the laws of God. Of course our methods of persuasion are quite different.”

My blood ran cold as inwardly I questioned just how different they were. After all, was I not a fugitive of this very church? I tried to nonchalantly sip my tea under Brother Ephraim’s watchful eye, but even though I held it with both hands, they shook so, sending scalding droplets onto my skin.

“Are you all right?” Colonel Brandon said, taking the cup from me and offering his handkerchief to dry my spill.

“Perhaps that is why the Lord forbids that we imbibe hot drinks,” Brother Ephraim said.

Too late to stop myself, I said, “It is the prophet who says so, not the Lord.”

“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.