Chapter Eight
It took Joshua over a week before he finally found the missionaries alone in the small apartment over the tailor shop. Twice he had seen them on the street preaching, but he had no desire to talk to them in the presence of any of the local Missourians. He had also found the one called Frederick G. Williams alone in the tailor shop one day, but Williams was from Ohio and had only joined the other four men when they came through Kirtland. Joshua immediately left. It was the ones from New York that he wanted.
Finally, on a Sunday evening, much later than callers usually came, Joshua climbed the stairs and banged on the door. There were three of them there—an Oliver Cowdery, a Peter Whitmer, Jr., and one called Parley Pratt. Though they had obviously been in the process of preparing for bed when Joshua knocked, they seemed eager to talk with him and quickly invited him in. He ignored their invitation to remove his coat, but he did sit down.
“How may we help you, sir?” the one named Cowdery asked when he was settled. Oliver Cowdery was a small man, no more than five feet five or six, but he was clearly viewed by the other two as the natural leader, and so Joshua turned his full attention to him.
“It is my understanding that you men might know Joseph Smith.”
The blunt directness of his statement shocked them all a little. “That is correct,” Cowdery said. “Do you know Joseph?”
Joshua ignored the question. “Do you know any of the families around Palmyra Township?”
“Of course,” Cowdery said, smiling broadly. “I myself taught school in the village. That’s how I came to meet the Smith family.”
“Do you know of the Benjamin Steed family?”
Both Cowdery and Whitmer lit up. “But of course,” Whitmer said. “I have not personally met the father, but Mrs. Steed and the children have been in my father’s home on numerous occasions. We live down in Fayette Township.”
“I know Nathan, the oldest son, very well,” Cowdery broke in eagerly. “In fact, I baptized him with my own hand. I was also there the evening he baptized his mother and sister Melissa.”
“Baptized them?”
“Yes.” Cowdery was elated, and the words came out in a torrent. “The authority to baptize was restored to the earth through angelic ministration. Joseph has organized a church—Christ’s church—on the earth again. The Steeds were one of the first families to join.”
“My—” Joshua caught himself. “The father? Did he join this church too?”
“No.”
Joshua grunted inwardly. Well, at least that was something.
Whitmer spoke up again. “Sadly, Mr. Steed has not as yet seen fit to believe. But he has permitted his family to join. The two younger children were baptized a few weeks after the rest of the family.”
Joshua felt a sudden pain shoot through him. “The youngest. Tell me about him.”
Cowdery gave him a sharp look, reading more in Joshua’s face than Joshua wanted to show. “Matthew is going on eleven now. He’s sharp as an ax blade fresh off the grinding wheel. A delightful young man.”
“And Melissa? Tell me about her.”
“A wonderful girl,” Whitmer said warmly. “Very lovely. A strong spiritual testimony of the work.”
Parley Pratt had been watching Joshua closely, though to this point he had not spoken. Now he stirred. “You obviously know the Steeds well, sir.”
Joshua only nodded.
Pratt was not about to be put off so easily. “May I ask how you know them? Are you from New York State?”
Joshua looked at him steadily for several moments, then turned back to Cowdery. “You said Nathan is the oldest son. That is not true.”
“He isn’t?” Whitmer asked.
“No.”
“No, that’s right,” Cowdery said. “I said oldest son, but I do remember that Nathan had an older brother, name of Joshua, as I remember. He left home some years back.”
“Of course,” Whitmer agreed. “Now I remember. Sister Steed prays for him in every prayer she offers.”
Joshua’s eyes came up to meet Cowdery’s. “Still?” he asked in a strained whisper.
Cowdery nodded, looking perplexed by Joshua’s sudden show of emotion. “Yes. They’ve not heard from him since he left. He was supposed to have come—” He stopped, his eyes suddenly widening. “West.”
Joshua nodded slowly.
Cowdery was staring at him in wonder. “You’re Joshua,” he said in amazement. “You’re Joshua Steed.”
“Yes.”
Cowdery jumped up and came over and pumped Joshua’s hand vigorously. “Of course. I should have noticed. I’ve only met your father once or twice, but the resemblance between you is strong.”
For the next ten minutes they talked, Joshua eagerly probing for every detail he could draw from Cowdery and Whitmer. Pratt indicated that even though he was originally from New York, he had most recently been living in Ohio. He had met the Steeds but did not know them well, and therefore said little.
Finally, Oliver Cowdery held up his hands, warding off further questions with a laugh. “I’m sorry we can’t be more helpful, Joshua, but remember, we’ve been gone almost four months now. We’ve been told that most of the Saints are gathering to Ohio, but we haven’t specifically heard which families. Perhaps your family—”
“My father will never leave that farm.”
“That’s what Nathan said too,” Whitmer volunteered. “But I’ll wager four bits that Nathan and Lydia will go.”
Joshua looked down at his hands quickly. This was the question he had specifically avoided asking. “So they did marry?” he asked slowly.
“You knew Lydia too?” Cowdery asked.
“Yes.” He kept his voice flat and dispassionate.
“She’s a wonderful woman. It almost didn’t happen, you know. Lydia was dead set against Joseph Smith, and when Nathan wouldn’t turn his back on what he believed, she broke off their engagement.”
That startled Joshua considerably. “When was that?” he demanded, quickly calculating. It had been last summer—no, summer a year ago, summer of ‘29—that he had been making plans to start east early the following spring and see if Lydia might still have him. Then had come the news from a man passing through Independence that Lydia and Nathan were promised to each other.
Cowdery seemed puzzled by the sudden interest in details.
But Joshua couldn’t help it. He had to know. “Do you remember when it was that Nathan and Lydia broke the engagement?” Joshua asked again. “Think.”
The dark eyes were half hooded as Cowdery tried to remember. “Well, I baptized Nathan in late May or early June.”
“Of ‘29?”
“Yes. Joseph and I were well along with the translation of the Book of Mormon by then, so yes, it would have been ‘29. Nathan wrote Lydia about being baptized.” He looked up. “She had gone to Boston.”
“Yes, I heard that.”
“It was the letter about his baptism that really upset her. She came right home. So by the time Nathan’s letter got to Boston and she made it back home it would have been July, maybe early August. They broke off the engagement a short time after that when it became clear that their differences over Joseph Smith were too deep.”
Joshua felt a great emptiness inside him. “So that would have been July or August of ‘29?” he asked in a low voice.
“Yes.”
It hit him like a blow. He had planned to return to New York in the early spring of ‘30. By then, he told himself, he could be a successful freight operator and return in triumph to make reconciliation with his family. He was also filled with thoughts of Lydia and hopes that they could pick up again where they had left off when he had fled. “So when did they get back together?” He didn’t want to hear it, but he couldn’t bear not knowing.
“That one I do know, because Nathan and your mother had come to Fayette for the organization of the Church. That was April sixth, not quite a year ago now. When Nathan returned from there, Lydia had had a complete change of heart. She was baptized the next day, and they were married a few days after that.”
Joshua stood and walked to the window, his fists clenching and unclenching, trying to calm the sickness spreading through him. He should have gone. He should have followed his instincts and gone back East. He would have left in late February or early March and been in Palmyra before April when Lydia had finally decided to marry Nathan. Instead, when he heard that Lydia was getting married, and to Nathan, something had snapped in him. That had been the night he drank himself into a stupor, then dragged a minister out of bed and took him to the house of Clinton Roundy, where he asked the saloon keeper for the hand of his daughter, Jessica, in marriage.
“Is everything all right, Mr. Steed?”
Joshua felt the eyes of the three men boring into his back. He took a quick breath and turned around. “Yes, everything’s fine.”
“They’re expecting a baby, you know.”
Joshua swung around to Peter Whitmer, the pain knifing through him. “No, I didn’t know that.”
“Well, she was last October when we left,” Pratt volunteered. “In fact, it was due sometime this spring. Maybe they’re already parents.”
“No,” Cowdery said, “I think it’s not due until May.” He watched Joshua’s face for a moment, then leaned forward. “May I ask you a question, Mr. Steed?”
“About Nathan and Lydia?” Absolutely not. But he kept his face inscrutable.
“No, about your family. I know it is not my affair, but why have you never written your parents?”
Joshua felt a quick rush of relief. This was not pleasant ground, but it was safer. “I did. I wrote several letters.”
“You did? They never got them, at least they hadn’t by the time we left.”
“I never mailed them.” It came out quietly, completely belying the churning storm going on inside him. He looked at Cowdery. “Did Nathan ever tell you why I left?”
“No.”
Good! He took a deep breath. “Well, it doesn’t matter now. I planned to go back. I still do. Maybe this summer.”
Pratt stirred in his chair, still obviously intrigued by what was going on in Joshua’s mind. “We’ve decided that one of our number needs to return and make a report to Joseph. It’s been determined that I shall go. I shall be leaving at the first of next week. Would you like me to take a letter back with me? I’ll see that your family gets it.”
“No!” It came out short and hard. A letter now was not the answer.
Pratt seemed not to be surprised. “All right,” he said, his voice still mild. “Do you object if when I see your family I tell them I have seen you?”
Joshua considered that. It might be the easiest way. “No,” he said.
“Good. I’m sure your mother will be thrilled.”
Noting the play of emotions on Joshua’s face, Oliver decided to change the subject. “What do you do here in Independence?”
“I own and run a freight company.” He was going to let it go at that, then he remembered that one of these men might be seeing his family shortly. “I’ve got fourteen wagons and the teams to pull them,” he added.
From the look on their faces it was clear that they were suitably impressed. Well, let them be. Let the word go back that Joshua Steed had made his own way in life.
“So you knew Joseph, then?” Cowdery asked.
“Yes. He and Hyrum worked for my father when we first came to Palmyra.”
“Then you know about the angel Moroni and the Book of Mormon?”
“Yes,” Joshua answered, his voice suddenly curt, “but I’m not interested in that.” He stood up. “I never believed any of it then, and I’m not about to now.”
Oliver and the others also stood. Oliver smiled, not taking offense. “We’re sorry to hear that, but we believe every man has a right to choose his own faith.”
“Is that what you’re out here doing? Preaching Joseph Smith?”
“No,” Whitmer said quietly, “we’re preaching the gospel of Jesus Christ, which Joseph restored to the earth.”
“Your kind is always quick with the good answer,” Joshua retorted angrily. “Sounds like the same thing to me.” He felt a quick pang of regret as he saw the surprise in the men’s eyes. What had brought about this sudden anger? Well, let them wonder, he thought. He was angry—angry at himself, angry at the fate that had cheated him when he was so close to winning what he most longed for. And Joseph Smith was part of all that too. If it hadn’t been for his tales of the gold plates...
He brushed that thought aside angrily. What was done was done. And that had nothing to do with these men. They seemed decent enough, in spite of their foolishness. And they had kindly told him of his family. He forced himself to speak with more control. “I don’t want to discourage you, but you won’t have much luck here. People out here are too busy dealing with real-life things.”
“Oh, to the contrary,” Oliver said amiably, “we’re having good success. Many are listening to us, and we have already baptized enough to start a branch of the Church here in Independence.”
Joshua just shook his head and moved to the door.
“When Parley returns we hope he can convince Joseph to come see for himself how the work is going.”
The anger was back instantly. Joshua’s voice went very cold as he turned to Pratt. “You tell Joseph for me that if he comes to Jackson County he might not find things to his liking out here.”
Oliver’s voice took on a firmness of its own. “Joseph goes where the Lord calls him, Mr. Steed.”
Joshua straightened to his full height, his eyes turning ominous. “This is the frontier, Mr. Cowdery. Law and order out here ain’t what you’re used to back East. This ain’t no place for the weak.”
Oliver’s eyes glittered with anger. He obviously did not like being threatened. “I came over a thousand miles to get here, a good part of that on foot. Being religious doesn’t make us weak, Mr. Steed.”
Joshua snorted in derision. “You got no idea what hard is, mister. So you tell him. You tell Joseph for me that if he tries to bring his angels and his gold Bible out here, these Missouri wildcats just might jam them right down his throat.”
With that he spun on his heel and went out, slamming the door behind him.
Carlton Rogers hung back, looking at the displays behind the glass counters in the Gilbert and Whitney Store. Newel Whitney gave him a curious look once or twice, but seemed to sense that Carl was hanging back because he wanted to talk to him in private.
In about five minutes, the store was empty of customers. Newel wiped his hands on his apron and sauntered over to where Carl stood by the stove.
“Mornin’, Carl.”
“Mornin’, Mr. Whitney.”
“How’s your family?”
“Right fine. Thank you for asking.”
They both fell silent, and Carl started to squirm a little. He began to trace the line of the floorboards with his toe.
“Something we can help you with today, Carl?”
He looked up, glanced quickly out of the front window to make sure no one else was headed for the store, then finally turned to the storekeeper. “Would you mind if I asked you some questions? Not about the store,” he added quickly. “More personal-like?”
A little surprised, Mr. Whitney nodded. “Sure. Let’s sit down.”
Before doing so, he grabbed the poker and used it to open the door on the cast-iron stove. He leaned down, got two pieces of wood and shoved them into the belly of the fire, then shut the door again. Satisfied, he sat down across from Carl. “All right, son. What is it?”
Carl felt his face flame and knew it approached the color of his hair. He always blushed so easily. But this had been bothering him for some time, and so he was determined to seize the opportunity while he had it. “About two weeks ago I was in the store. Remember?”
“Of course, I remember. That was the day Brother Joseph arrived.”
“Right. Umm...that’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“I see. What in particular?”
He blushed even more deeply. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything about this to my pa.”
Whitney gave him an understanding smile. “Of course not.”
“It’s not that I’m trying to hide anything, you understand.” It came out more quickly than he had planned, and he forced himself to pace his next words. “It’s just that Pa has some feelings about the Mormons and...”
“I understand,” Whitney reassured him. “I won’t mention this to him.”
“Thank you.”
Whitney waited and Carl began to fidget again. He had rehearsed this over and over in his mind, but now to actually say it sounded foolish.
Newel Whitney was a perceptive man. Not yet forty, he was already a partner in a successful mercantile establishment. He had a reputation for honesty and integrity and a wise head. It didn’t take much to guess what was on Carl’s mind. “Is this about some of the things Joseph said that day?”
Carl felt immense relief. “Yes.”
“About the vision?”
He looked down, but nodded.
Whitney sat back, pulling up one knee as he talked. “To understand what that was all about, I need to start a little earlier. Do you have time?”
“Yes.”
“All right.” He paused for a moment to collect his thoughts. “I think you know about the four missionaries who came here last fall from New York.”
“Yes. I never met them, but everyone was talking about them.”
“Yes, they were. Well, actually my wife and I had been followers of Mr. Sidney Rigdon, the Campbellite preacher.”
“I know Mr. Rigdon.”
“The Campbellites—or ‘Disciples,’ as we called ourselves—believed in baptism for the remission of sins, but they did not give the gift of the Holy Ghost. The book of Acts specifically says that Peter and the other Apostles had the power to give the gift of the Holy Ghost. That was the one thing about the Disciples that troubled my wife and me greatly. It was something we greatly longed to have.
“Well, one night my wife and I were praying to the Father, asking him to show us the way. This was before the missionaries ever came. It was about midnight. We were in our house, just right over there.” He pointed across the street toward the west. “We prayed most earnestly.”
Carl had gone very quiet now and was watching Newel Whitney intently.
“Suddenly, the Spirit rested upon us. A cloud seemed to overshadow the house. And then it was like we were out of doors. The house passed away from our vision. We were not conscious of anything but the Spirit. A solemn awe came upon the both of us. We saw the cloud and felt the Spirit of the Lord with great power.
“I can’t tell you how that felt, Carl.” He shook his head. “There are not words that can adequately describe it. But it was wonderful!” His voice dropped in pitch, tinged now with wonder. “Then a voice spoke out of the cloud. It said, ‘Prepare to receive the word of the Lord, for it is coming.’”
Carl felt a little shiver go up his spine. He must have looked as if he were going to speak, for Mr. Whitney paused and looked at him expectantly. He gave a little wave of his hand to indicate that Whitney should go on.
“At the time we didn’t know what it meant, only that somehow the word of the Lord was coming to Kirtland.”
“And then the missionaries came?”
His question seemed to please the storekeeper. “Yes, it was just a short time later that the four men from New York arrived with the news of the restoration of the gospel and with copies of the Book of Mormon.” He let his foot back down to the floor and leaned forward. “And they claimed that the priesthood of God had been restored to the earth. That priesthood included the authority to bestow the gift of the Holy Ghost.”
“So your prayers were answered.” Carl had not made it a question, but a conclusion.
“That they were. However, that was not the end of it. I am of a much more practical mind than my wife. I tend to undertake every endeavor with some caution.” He smiled, as though chiding himself a little. “I suppose that partly accounts for my success in the mercantile business. Elizabeth was baptized right away. I took a few more days before I was convinced. Then I too was baptized.”
“And did you receive the gift of the Holy Ghost?”
“Indeed. It was a most marvelous experience. At the baptismal service, the gifts of the Spirit were clearly manifest. Some prophesied; others, like myself, felt a great joy infuse our souls, purging our sins as though by fire.”
Carl felt quick envy. “That must have been wonderful.”
“It was,” Whitney said in a faraway voice. “I still bask in the light of that experience.”
A movement out of the corner of his eye caught Carl’s attention. He turned and saw a woman and her two children coming down the hill from town. She had a large bag on one arm and was obviously headed for the store. He turned back to Mr. Whitney and spoke quickly. “But Joseph—Mr. Smith—said you had prayed him here. You didn’t actually pray for him to come, then?”
“No, not specifically. The voice we heard only said that we were to prepare for the word of the Lord, because it was coming.”
“But Joseph actually saw you praying?”
He lifted his hands, palms upward, as though the evidence spoke for itself. “You heard what he said. And you saw that he knew me the moment he saw me, though we had never before laid eyes on one another.”
Carl sighed. His face was puzzled. “I don’t understand how that is possible, Mr. Whitney.”
The older man chuckled. “If you understand one thing, then understanding the other becomes very simple.”
“What is that?”
“You have to understand that Joseph Smith is a prophet. Like Moses and Abraham and Peter and Paul. Once you believe that, then visions and the ability to give the gifts of the Spirit are much easier to comprehend.”
The bell tinkled softly as the door opened and the lady and her two children came in the store. Carl stood quickly and stuck out his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Whitney. Thank you for your time.”
Whitney gripped his hand and held it for a moment, even when Carl started to pull it back. “Think about it, Carl. Just think about it.”
“I will, Mr. Whitney. I promise.”
As Carl Rogers walked back up the hill from Kirtland Flats, he moved slowly, barely aware of his surroundings. He was at that moment a very thoughtful and, in many ways, a very troubled young man.
It was quiet in the Steed home on this March midmorning. It was still too wet to work the fields, and Benjamin had gone into town to have some metalwork done at the blacksmith shop. Melissa had gone with him. Matthew and Rebecca were attending the school just about a mile down the road. That was another sign of their growing prosperity. Both children were now attending the primary school in Palmyra Village. The bread was mixed and rising; the breakfast dishes were done; the laundry and ironing weren’t due to be done until Thursday. That meant Mary Ann Steed had an hour or more before she had to start lunch for Benjamin. It was one of those times that were starting to come to her more frequently now that her family was growing up.
She went to the chest in the corner of the parlor and opened the top drawer. Inside there were two books, both treasured by her. A large family Bible with black leather cover took up most of the room. Next to it was the Book of Mormon. She reached down and caressed its cover. This was the book Nathan had bought for her, one of the first ones off the Grandin press. But it was the Bible she took out.
Moving to her favorite rocking chair, she sat down. It was located next to the south-facing window in the kitchen. It was her favorite chair because not only did it catch the sun, but from here she could see Ben when he brought the team back to the barn or the children when they came from school.
She settled in, letting the warmth of the sunshine soak in for several moments. Finally she took her reading spectacles from the small lamp table and put them on. Mary Ann treasured the Book of Mormon. She had read it now four times and was going through it for the fifth. But she had grown up with the Bible, and if anything, the Book of Mormon had only served to deepen her love for it. She made it a point each week to spend time with both books. Today, she decided, she would read something in the four Gospels.
But this didn’t seem to be the day for reading. She started, then in a few moments she let the book slip to her lap again and gazed out of the window. Her thoughts were on Ohio. Nathan and Lydia were now busily engaged in their preparations for departure. Melissa was still unmovable in her decision to go as well; she didn’t know when or how, but going she was. And Mary Ann would lose yet another of her children.
Unbidden, the ache inside her rose to the surface again. The groups were forming. Hyrum had gone on ahead. Newel Knight would be taking the Colesville Branch. Mother Smith, Joseph’s mother, would take a group from around Fayette. Martin Harris was gathering the ones from Palmyra and Manchester. Soon there would be no one left. No one left to talk to about the Book of Mormon, or Joseph. No one with whom to gather for worship services. No more conferences in the warmth of the Whitmer cabin, where the Spirit had so often touched her and others. It was as though she were watching the world move slowly away from her while she stood rooted to the spot, unable to move.
Finally she got stern with herself. She had come in here to read, not daydream or wallow in self-pity. She looked down. She was in the seventeenth chapter of Matthew. She started again, picking up where she could last remember reading with any comprehension. She decided she would read aloud to keep her focused on what she was doing.
“‘And when they were come to the multitude, there came to him a certain man, kneeling down to him, and saying, Lord, have mercy on my son: for he is lunatick, and sore vexed: for ofttimes he falleth into the fire, and oft into the water.’”
She stopped. This was a story that always touched her. In Vermont, a family named Chandler had lived two farms down the road from them. They had a fourteen-year-old boy, Thomas by name. One day when the Chandlers were at the Steeds’ for a cornhusking, Thomas suddenly stopped in the midst of what he was doing. His body stiffened, then his eyes rolled back. Mary Ann could still hear the anguished “Oh no!” of his mother. She lunged for him, but she was an instant too late. Thomas hurled backwards, hitting the ground with a sickening thud. He began to shake violently. White foam bubbled out of his mouth as he jerked and shook, while all looked on in horror.
It was the Steed children’s first experience with someone afflicted by epilepsy, and it had terrified them. That night Mary Ann sat them down and read this very account to them. Then she talked about the Savior’s love for people, regardless of whether they were like other people or not. “Others will shun Thomas because they think he is strange,” she told them, “but if you are to be like the Savior you cannot do that. You must always remember, Thomas may be different, but he still needs to be loved.”
She continued on, now caught up in the story and no longer needing to read aloud. “I brought him to thy disciples,” the anguished father told the Master, “and they could not cure him.”
Mary Ann looked up thoughtfully. How it must have shamed the disciples—to stand and hear this sorrowing parent declare their inadequacies for all to hear. The Savior rebuked them for their lack of faith, then stepped forward. The result was clearly stated. The boy was healed “from that very hour.”
It was one of the great miracle stories of the Gospels. For a moment, Mary Ann sat there in silence, thinking about Thomas and that day at the cornhusking. Finally, with a small sigh, she dropped her eyes and continued to read. Suddenly something leaped out at her.
Afterwards, when the disciples were alone with Jesus, they asked him why they couldn’t cast out the evil spirit. Jesus told them it was due to their unbelief, then talked about having faith like unto a mustard seed. Then came the words that caught her eye. The account closed with these words of the Savior to his disciples: “Howbeit this kind goeth not out but by prayer and fasting.”
Why had she never seen that verse before? She went back three or four verses and started again, reading slowly, concentrating. The disciples were troubled because they had not been able to effect the miracle. Jesus taught them about faith. But then, then...“Howbeit this kind goeth not out but by prayer and fasting.”
She closed the book slowly, keeping a finger in the place. Were there some things so difficult, some challenges of such monumental proportions, that prayer alone was not sufficient? She opened the book and read the words one more time, feeling a quickening of her spirit. “This kind goeth not out but by prayer and fasting.”
She closed the book again and set it aside, her mind racing. If fasting and prayer could work a miracle as wondrous as casting out an evil spirit, could it soften Benjamin’s heart as well? Could it help him to see and feel the power of the Book of Mormon? Could it cast out the bitterness he felt about Joseph?
She paused, trying to calm her soaring hopes. Could it get them to Ohio?
An hour and a half later Benjamin returned from town. Mary Ann served him a lunch of bread and soup. As he finished, and prepared to go out again, he stopped to kiss her on the cheek. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I’ll be out in the barn.”
“All right.” She watched him move to the door, then spoke. “Ben?”
He stopped and turned around.
“I...” She took a quick breath. “I’ll not be eating with you from time to time over the next few days.”
His brows furrowed. “What?”
“I’ll be fixing all the meals, of course, but sometimes I just won’t be eatin’ with you.”
“Why not?” He peered at her more closely. “You feelin’ all right?”
“Yes, yes. I’m fine. It’s just...” She let it trail off, not sure that she could explain.
“Just what?” he demanded.
“I’ve...I would like to fast for a time.”
“Fast?”
“Yes. Go without food and water.”
He gave her a long appraising look. Then finally he nodded slowly. “Is this about the kids? Lydia and Nathan?”
She smiled a little, feeling a quick rush of relief. “In a way.”
He shrugged, not pleased but not really angry either. “Whatever you think is best.”
He opened the door and was gone.
She watched him stride across the yard and disappear around the barn. “Thank you, Ben,” she finally murmured.