Abby didn’t sleep a wink that night, not a minute, not a second. She tossed and turned, her eyes and brain jammed with ghastly images and fevered hallucinations. Scenes of the battle swam into sight, as real as if they were hovering just above her ceiling. She saw soldiers ravaging women and throwing babies into the air like they were rag dolls. She saw herself turning the young boy over, the boy who could have been Yahnai. The dead look on his face haunted her. She saw Connor’s wicked smile and endless evil. She saw him slipping like a ghost from one end of the battlefield to the next, showing concern and sympathy for his wounded and killed soldiers but none of that for the Shoshoni.
She gave up just before dawn. She was going to go for a walk, but she was afraid she’d be seen. Soldiers were camped in the square. She was offended just by looking out her single window. It was dark, but she could make out the image of the tents. She thought she was hungry, so she found some bread. But in the end, she couldn’t eat. She just picked at the bread, tired and dispirited.
Self-pity was an impulse Abby seldom tolerated, but now, as tears welled up from deep within her soul, she knew she had no choice but to let them come. She cried for the women and children who had died on the battlefield. She cried for Yahnai. She cried for the loneliness that filled her heart. And she cried for the future, which suddenly felt so uncertain.
* * *
Scooter called on Abby the next morning. She had a look in her green eyes that frightened him. He really didn’t know what the look meant. But one thing was evident: her mind was somewhere else—on Yahnai, on the battle, and on Connor. But certainly not on him.
The army was pulling out. Scooter concluded he just as well leave too. He had a responsibility to get his men and wagons back to Salt Lake City. With Connor’s army ahead of him, he would have an easier time making it through the snow-clogged roads and mountain passes. Winny, Carl, and Isaac, plus all the other tight-knit settlers, could care for Abby. He knew Abby would continue to mourn over Yahnai, whether actually dead or just missing. And she would continue to be haunted by what she’d seen on the battlefield.
He was having a rough time of it too. The scenes came vividly to him in dreams while he slept in a tent with his men. For once, he didn’t dream about Billy at the Battle of Shiloh, or about Tommy with his scalp taken off. The Bear River dream had been worse. When he returned to Salt Lake, he would have to find ways to take his mind off those dreams—and off Abby. Rebuilding harnesses, sharpening knives, weaving horsehair lariats, taking care of his livestock, investing his earnings in more livestock and wagons—he could stay busy.
Scooter found Abby still in her cabin when it was time to say good-bye. There was a kind of hopeless, crushed languor in the air. Bereavement showed in the way her shoulders slumped and in her gestures. She ran her fingers through her unwashed hair and then clamped her palms on her ears and twisted side to side, as far as her neck would turn. He wasn’t sure if she was easing stiffness in her neck or trying to rid herself of inner turmoil. He stepped inside the door and took off his hat. She didn’t look up.
“I’m fixin’ to leave,” he said.
Her head was down, and her face was pale and filmed with sadness. Her eyes were blank. In the soft light of the flames from her fireplace, her simple and vulnerable beauty was emphasized to the point of heartbreak.
“I know,” she whispered. She twisted and looked at Evan Browett’s picture and then twisted back again. Everything was quiet, like an observance.
Scooter paused, wishing they could part under more favorable circumstances. Yahnai’s bunk was covered with his things, making it a shrine of sorts. There was a drawing of a team of horses pulling a plow. A paper where he’d practiced his ABCs. A pair of summer moccasins he’d worn. A mason jar filled with sprigs of autumn leaves and sagebrush. They spoke of loss and bewilderment. Abby seemed to be soaking these things up as if the items would help bring the boy back.
“You made some good points with Colonel Connor.”
She made a defeated face and asked, “But what good did it do?”
“It did a lot of good. It may make Connor a better man in the future. And it had an impact on me. This whole experience, capped off by what you said, makes me have a different attitude toward Indians.”
“Well, I guess that’s something,” she said.
“Yes, it is,” he said.
There were a few moments of silence. He looked at her, noting how her beauty had changed. It was still there but sad and empty. He wondered what feelings she had for him and what feelings she truly had for Isaac Jacobs. If she never healed from this tragedy, would she make a good wife for anyone at all?
He had a question he had to ask. “Will you be Mrs. Isaac Jacobs by spring?”
She shrugged. “I’m determined to look for Yahnai until there is no hope. I’ll stay in Franklin at least through summer and fall. Then perhaps I’ll go back to my parents in Salt Lake. Without Yahnai, I have no reason to marry Isaac and stay here.”
“So you don’t love him?”
She didn’t answer. He took it that she only loved Yahnai at this point. And that love was causing her pain, too much pain to think about anything else.
“I might pass this way again in the spring.”
Her look was still vacant.
“I haven’t said my prayers for quite a while, but I’ll pray that your boy made it out alive and that someday you’ll find him. Time heals almost everything.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“What do you mean?”
“That a Missourian would say a prayer.”
The statement shocked Scooter. Was she now directing her venom toward him? He knew enough about the Mormons and their experiences in Missouri: Their being perceived as an economic, social, and religious threat. The opposition and persecution that followed. Armed mobs plundering Mormon homes and settlements. The state of war that developed. The government siding with the mob element. An extermination order and expulsion. The hard feelings that developed. Feelings now manifested by Abby. Scooter didn’t want to be guilty of the association. He wasn’t a Missourian, and perhaps now was the time to clear up the misunderstanding. But at what risk? He had never told anyone about his true past, not even a trusted associate like Oscar. He wondered if confiding with her would help her healing. He decided to take a chance. “I’m not from Missouri.”
Her visage turned colder. “Seems that telling lies is quite fashionable. Connor lied to me. Turns out you have lied to me as well.”
“I said that I was from Missouri, I suppose, because I started my business there.”
She rolled her eyes and looked away.
Scooter realized he had some making up to do. “I’m from Virginia.”
“That doesn’t necessarily make you a prayerful man.”
“I was raised in a God-fearing, Christian family. My parents taught me how to pray. We read the Bible as a family often.”
She said nothing.
“Do you believe me?”
“I have no way of knowing for certain. Besides, I guess at this point it’s not important where you are from.”
Scooter felt compelled to reveal more. “I felt uncomfortable around the soldiers.”
“Join the crowd.”
“If I go on, you must promise to keep a secret.”
“Are you about to tell me another lie?”
“Promise me. Will you keep what I’m about to tell you a secret?”
“If I must.” Her eyebrows lifted.
“You must, or I won’t continue. You must promise to tell no one what I’m about to tell you. It is extremely important. In many ways, my life depends on the secret I am about to divulge.”
She gave him a strange look. “Tell me, then.”
Scooter drew a deep breath and then let it out slowly. He began spooling out his background. “I was raised on a large plantation in Virginia, just outside of Richmond. When the war broke out, my father, being an influential man, was persuaded to join the Confederate army. General Lee made him an officer right off. Of course, that meant that I joined. So did my two brothers.” His confession hung in the air for a moment.
She stared at him as though he’d just confessed to shooting Abraham Lincoln.
He blurted out the worst. “So that means I’m a deserter, a deserter from the Confederate army. I left my post—not because of homesickness, not because I was afraid to die or because of unsanitary camp conditions, lack of proper clothing, or lack of pay. Or because my mother was starving and needed my protection.”
Abby’s mouth was open wide in disbelief.
He paused, wondering if he were doing the right thing. Living a life of secrecy defined who he was. He owed the whole of his life to that secrecy right now—his liberty, his status, his freighting business, everything. The war and his leaving his post, becoming a deserter, had initially turned his life upside down. Now he treasured his anonymity. He liked his secrecy. It felt warm and comfortable and reassuring. He guarded it.
He wanted to reach out and touch Abby. But he didn’t. He reached deep down and continued. “I’m sure you’ve heard of the Battles of Bull Run and Shiloh.”
She returned a slight nod.
Scooter felt his eyes turn misty. He clasped his hands together. “Those battles took my father and my two brothers.”
Abby’s jaw dropped.
He continued, “It devastated my mother, as you might imagine. She couldn’t stand the thought of losing her last remaining son. She showed up one day at my post. She told me to run, to go out West until the war was over. I didn’t want to do it, didn’t want to be known as a coward, not then, not in later life. But she begged and pleaded. I had to honor my mother. So I left. She gave me a horse and a passel of Union money, more than enough to go into the freighting business with no debt. So here I am.”
He hung his head and looked away. “And as you might expect, my name isn’t really David Perkins.”
“It’s not?” she asked with a bewildered look.
“No. I’ve gone by the nickname Scooter all my life. So that part is real. But my name is Jesse Kemp.”
“Jesse Kemp?” Abby looked as if she wanted to know more details, so he went on.
He’d traveled from Virginia to St. Louis as though everyone were looking for him. Eight hundred miles of lurking in the shadows, camping alone, traveling at night. But he’d changed in St. Louis. He’d had to. He went into the freighting business. Ever since St. Louis, he had been friendly and gregarious on the surface, without ever saying much about himself. He told no one his real name. He found that going by his childhood nickname worked just fine. If someone pressed, he used his alias, David Perkins—both names borrowed from fellow soldiers who’d been his friends.
Being a deserter, being careful, became a defining feature of his life. It made him what he was now. He had never stolen anything. He had never cheated anybody. He wasn’t married. He was as anonymous as he could possibly be and still be in business. From St. Louis to Salt Lake City, another thirteen hundred miles, he had gradually learned to relax just a little. Strangers, even soldiers, believed he was David Perkins, a freighter.
“So that’s it?” she asked when he stopped.
“That’s it,” he answered, knowing that there was one other thing in his past. But it was something not to be shared at this point. No use in disclosing the fact that he had nearly been engaged to a young lady in Virginia. A girl named Millie, a girl from whom he still received letters, which he kept in his lockbox under his wagon seat along with letters from his mother. A girl who expected him to return and marry her.
“Well, thank you, then. I guess that clears up the matter about your accent.”
“Yes. I’m sorry for the deception.”
“I forgive you. But I can’t forgive Colonel Connors.”
“I understand your feelings.”
“I hope so,” she said.
“It’s time for me to go. My men are waiting. We have to follow the army. Otherwise we risk getting bogged down in the snowdrifts.”
“I understand.”
“Good-bye, then.”
“Good-bye,” Abby said.
He stepped out into the cold and closed the door. He walked away. No handshake, no kiss, no touch. Scooter buttoned his coat and jammed his hat down over his ears. He felt strangely relieved that he’d shared the secrets of his past. He felt he could trust Abby to keep her promise not to tell anyone. He hoped so.
The weather hadn’t changed. The cold still went right through a man’s body. Scooter walked across the square to tell Carl and Winny good-bye. They were huddled in their small cabin with their daughter and baby.
“I came to tell you I’m leaving,” he said. “Thanks for your hospitality, but I’ve got to get my men and my outfit back to Salt Lake.”
Carl shook his hand. “We’re the ones who owe you. You’ve done a lot for Abby.”
Winny gave Scooter a warm, friendly hug and then said, “Yes. Thank you. Abby will remember you forever.”
“I just said good-bye to her.” He wished Abby would have given him a hug, like Winny just did. But she hadn’t, and it left a hollow feeling in his heart.
“How is she?”
“Her pulse must be as slow as a bear in winter. I’m worried about her.”
“We’ll watch her.”
“I hope they find her boy,” he said.
Winny wiped a tear from her eye. “We do too. We’re ashamed of the way the soldiers acted.”
Scooter said, “The world is a strange place at times. I don’t like people who place little value in the lives of some humans. There’s no honor in what Connor did to the women and children.”
There was a moment of silence.
The baby cried. Winny cradled the boy in her arms and rocked him. Carl put a husky arm around Winny and pulled her in. Scooter got the impression that they would eventually heal from the terror and calamity that would become known as the Battle of the Bear River. But perhaps not Abby.
“Well,” Carl said, “thank you again. I wish I could have done more. I wish we could have ridden ahead of the soldiers. I should have ridden out with you and Abby when we first saw the soldiers. I hesitated. It was the wrong thing to do.”
Winny said, “Don’t punish yourself. No one knew when Connor was going to attack for certain.”
Scooter shook his head sadly. “From a military standpoint, Connor did the right thing. He pushed on. He attacked immediately. I look back at it, and he was right. I should have recognized it quicker. I should have taken Abby to the camp when we saw troops out in the distance. We could have beaten the soldiers there easily. Warned everyone.”
Winny asked, “Will you be back this way again?”
“Yes. In the spring.”
“Be sure to call on us. And Abby.”
Scooter was glad Winny felt this way. “I will. You folks take good care of her.”
“Yes. We will.”