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Aneth Utah Territory, July 1870
Raswell was running late, he knew, but he’d had to stop for the night, and then he’d slept late, and a little pickpocket had stolen his pocket watch. He sighed, knowing he had less than half an hour before the train carrying his bride arrived, and an hour and a half ride.
“God, please don’t let her be Fit to be tied,” he muttered, urging his horse to a run. Now he’d have to take Hertha with him when he bought another horse. That is if she still wanted to marry him, considering the fact that he’d be nearly a full hour late.
Despite the hesitancy swirling around her, Hertha could hardly contain her excitement. She would finally be meeting her intended. What if he didn’t like her? Oh, but what if he did? What if they fell in love and had a wonderful life?
When the train stopped, she wanted to vomit from the excitement of it all, something she would never have thought possible. When the door opened, she took her valise in shaking hands. She gingerly set foot on the platform, both enticed and worried by what awaited her.
She need not have been anxious, however, for as the train pulled away, it left her standing completely alone.
“Oh, Lord, have I come this far for nothing?” She looked around, hoping any sign of anyone, but was sorely disappointed. Even as she told herself that he was just late, she worried that he’d forgotten her.
Hertha carried her valise to the edge of the platform and sat on the steps, deciding to wait in some degree of comfort. While the sun poured itself over her, she took in what little of the town she could see. It was dusty and dense with buildings that ranged from tents to grand hotels and lovely churches.
As far as the eye could see, there were mainly men. She could have counted on her fingers the number of women she’d seen. Hurricane was even further west than Aneth. She’d probably be the only female around for miles.
Heaving a sigh, Hertha rested her forehead on her knees. She knew it was unlikely that she’d been forgotten, but what could be taking so long?
Raswell was pleased with himself when he realized he was less than five minutes away from the train platform. A horrible thought occurred to him. Would she be there when he arrived? If he was honest, he didn’t think a woman should be left waiting for a stranger for so long.
In Utah Territory, it wouldn’t be a surprise if another man showed up and married her before he got there. It had happened to a few of the men he’d met. Most brides didn’t care who they married, just so long as they did.
When Raswell reached the platform and saw someone sleeping on the steps, he groaned in frustration. Was he really that late? He wanted to avoid any trouble he’d have with his fiancée but decided to be a man and take his punishment.
Hertha had been going between praying and sleeping for the last half hour. At the moment, she was praying, but footsteps that stopped not two feet from her had ended it. A hand landed softly on her shoulder and her head snapped up.
“What are you doing?” The hand jerked away, and its owner smiled sheepishly. He was a reasonably attractive man with dark hair and deeply blue eyes.
“I thought you were sleeping and would be embarrassed if I didn’t wake you.” Hertha nodded, seeing the merit in it. Standing, she extended her hand.
“I’m Hertha Henson.” They shook hands, and the man’s smile turned to a smirk. “I was supposed to meet my fiancé, but he hasn’t arrived yet. If you could be so kind as to . . .” She shook her head, smiling herself now. “You’re Raswell Walden?”
“At your service, milady.” He picked up her valise and held out his arm for her to take. “I’m sorry I was late.”
Taking his arm, she said, “Quite alright. Patience is an important thing to learn.”
Raswell lead the way to a lovely black mare with a big white spot on her face. He secured Hertha's valise to the saddle, then wrapped one hand around the reins while she patted the beast’s neck.
“We’re going to have to walk to the Gospel mill. I only have Bertha here with me. We’ll have to buy another when we get our supplies.”
So they made the two mile trip to the Doxology works with Raswell leading the docile mare and Hertha watching him closely. She wanted to learn and observe everything she could in regards to her fiancé.
“How long have you lived in Hurricane?” Raswell glanced down at her as they stopped before a small, rickety church building. He tied Bertha to the hitching post.
“I’d say, oh, probably near two years now.” Hertha nodded and followed him into the Gospel mill. He hesitated just inside the door. “We don’t know each other very well, and I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, so I won’t be kissing you today.” A blush stained his cheeks. “Not that I wouldn’t . . .”
Raswell cleared his throat and led the way to the front of the Doxology works where a red-nosed preacher stood with a pristine Bible in his hands. His eyes were glassy, as though he wasn’t entirely awake.
“Dearly beloved,” he began, his words slurring. Hertha raised an eyebrow at Raswell, who shrugged.
She mouthed, “Is he drunk?” and he nodded, looking slightly cross about it. Hertha couldn’t hide her smile. She’d heard that preachers out west were a bit unconventional, but a drunkard? Her father would be furious.
As the I do's were said, the young couple could scarcely hold back their laughter. The preacher didn’t even notice when they left the Doxology works.
“I’m sorry about that,” Raswell said, a grin on his face. He really was handsome. “If I’d known he was a drunk, I would have chosen someone else.”
“I forgive you. Who would expect an alleged man of God to imbibe?” Hertha laughed. “It’s just such a ridiculous thing, isn’t it?”
The newlyweds quickly found some dinner, then went about the arduous task of finding a suitable horse. Everywhere they went, the price seemed to go higher for a good horse.
“Eighty dollars?” Raswell stood, arms folded, staring down a little horse seller. “The most a good horse should cost is sixty! What do you have that’s sixty or less?”
The salesman smiled, pointing to a young stallion chewing on the rope that held him to a post. Raswell sighed and asked the man how much the beast cost.
“You can have him for forty.” Hertha realized then just how bad a horse he must be. No good horse sold for less than fifty dollars.
Without any other affordable options, Raswell took the deal, leading the stallion outside, even as the beast tossed his head, trying to free himself. Hertha patted the horse’s side.
“I know, you’re just a free spirit, aren’t you, lad?” The horse stilled for a moment, and she smiled. Her husband raised an eyebrow.
“How did you do that?” She shrugged, glancing at the wide brown eyes of the horse.
“Perhaps he just needs some kindness.”
When they were eight miles outside of town, Raswell suggested they stop for the night as the sun fell. While Hertha cooked supper, he tried to force himself to do what he must. He reached into his pocket, where he’d placed the wanted poster. He should tell her. Pulling out the old paper, he tapped his wife’s shoulder.
“I need to tell you something,” he said. When she turned to look at him, the trust already in her warm brown eyes stopped him.
“What?” she asked, smiling. Raswell pushed the poster back inside his pocket.
“I just thought that you should name the stallion.” Her eyes lit up.
“Me?” He nodded, and the expression on her face grew thoughtful. Her eyes lit up with an idea. “What do you think of the name Ishmael, because he’s wild?”
“Ishmael. It suits him.”
Raswell spent the rest of that sleepless night trying to convince himself that he’d tell her in the morning.
As they traveled nearer to Hurricane, Hertha saw her husband grow agitated. One moment, he’d say he wanted to talk, and the next, he’d turn quiet. She was beginning to worry. When they were almost three-quarters of the way to Hurricane, the stallion threw Raswell off.
“Raswell,” Hertha called, hopping off Bertha and running to his aid. He lay flat on his back in the trail dust. Blood dripped from a cut on the back of his head. “Are you alright?”
He nodded as she helped him to his feet. A paper tinted red by the lowering sun and the Utah earth caught her eye. She picked it up and unfolded it though she knew it was rude. Upon seeing what was on the paper, her breath caught.
“What is this?” she whispered. Staring up at her from the paper was the face of her husband, along with the listing of a reward for his capture, dead or alive. The word “MURDERER” was spelled out in big, thick letters above the picture. “Is this true?”
Raswell reached a hand towards her, as though he meant to touch her, and Hertha took a stumbling step back. She shoved the poster at him.
“You’re a murderer?” He tried to speak, but she held up a hand. “No. I don’t want to hear it now. We’re stopping, right now. You are going to cook supper, and I am going to go walking.”
With that, she turned on her heel and ran.
Raswell sighed as he watched his wife disappear in the grass and dust. He knew it was his fault. He should have told her, and now she’d never forgive him. Quickly, he built a small fire and readied a pot of stew, which, by that point of the trip, consisted of mainly potatoes, dried beef, carrots, and water.
“God, what am I going to do? She’ll never believe me.” As hard as it would be to convince Hertha, he was innocent. He’d never kill anyone, let alone his uncle. The man had taken him in when his own father had chosen a bar stool and whiskey.
He continued to pray for his wife, for their future, as the sun set. Even when Hertha returned, she wouldn’t speak to him. She hardly ate, which was odd for her. When they went to sleep, she still refused to speak with or even acknowledge him.
