For Time and Eternity (18 page)

How to respond? I knew she spoke out of love not for her father’s church, but for her father himself. I used to love the sight of her curled up in Nathan’s lap, listening with rapt attention to Mormon teachings. Maybe that was the magic of it—the bond between the two of them, which she and I seemed destined never to share. A bond I’d never had with my own father. I couldn’t remember a single time I’d ever curled up in his lap—or even at his feet. We’d only ever sat like this, at a kitchen table, Bible open and lifeless. I’d never wept over the death of Jesus with my mother; I’d never waited, breathless with anticipation for the moment when we would read those words: “Ye seek Jesus of Nazareth, which was crucified: he is risen; he is not here: behold the place where they laid him.”

I’d never bounced in my seat like my precious little Lottie, who clapped her little hands and said, “He is alive! He is alive!”

I knew it was all true, I believed with all my heart the stories and the prophecies and the gospel, but none of it ever touched me until that summer. Finally one night, having finished the Gospel of Luke and wondering what book to begin next, I thumbed through the pages, asking the Holy Spirit to lead me, and I came across these words:
The True Christ Described
. That night, after a supper of white beans and corn bread, I opened the Bible to the book of Colossians.

“This is a very old letter,” I said, “written by a man named Paul. He was an apostle.”

“Our church has apostles,” Melissa said.

“No, darling. Not really. A true apostle is one who witnessed the risen Christ. Nobody today can truly be called an apostle.”

She pouted and sat back in her chair, but Kimana was intrigued. “Read the letter.”

It began with Paul’s greeting, how he gave thanks to God for the people he addressed. For just a moment my heart tightened, thinking of all the unanswered, unopened letters I’d written to my parents. If they could only know how grateful I felt for what they had given me. As I read further, though, all melancholy left, and the power of God’s Word—in fact, that very power within me—came forth as the perfect words of one who truly knew Jesus Christ came out of my lips.

“‘And he is before all things, and by him all things consist. And he is the head of the body, the church: who is the beginning, the firstborn from the dead; that in all things he might have the preeminence.’”

“What’s
preeminence
?” Melissa asked.

I hesitated, thinking. Oh, my Missy was a bright girl. When I was her age, I never asked what words meant. If I didn’t know, I didn’t know, and I went on to the next one. But hers was such a seeking mind, if not an open heart, so I could not leave her unsatisfied. “Well,” I began, “I think it means he should be first. He should be the first thought in our mind; we should consider him our first authority.”

She seemed satisfied with my definition.

“Keep reading,” Kimana said.

“‘For it pleased the Father that in him should all fulness dwell; and, having made peace through the blood of his cross, by him to reconcile all things unto himself; by him, I say, whether they be things in earth, or things in heaven.’”

“Peace through blood,” Kimana whispered. “Never have I seen peace come through blood, and I have seen—my people have seen—so much blood.”

“What’s
reconciled
?” Melissa asked.

“That means an end to a disagreement. When we don’t believe in Jesus—the true Jesus—we are in a disagreement with God. And when we sin, we are in disagreement. But when Jesus died, his blood wiped away that disagreement. Listen: ‘And you, that were sometime alienated and enemies in your mind by wicked works, yet now hath he reconciled in the body of his flesh through death, to present you holy and unblameable and unreproveable in his sight.’”

By the time I finished that first chapter, Lottie’s good, quiet behavior was near an end, and Melissa was not nearly as enthralled as she had been with the stories of Jesus. So, earlier than most evenings, we joined our hands around the table and bowed our heads for prayer. That night, though, it was Kimana who lifted her voice, but my throat burned with tears as if the words were my own.

“Great Father in heaven,” she prayed, “I did not know your Son, Jesus. But I know him now. I am clean. I am holy. I have peace through his blood. May you never be the enemy of my mind.”

Never had I heard a petition more beautiful. From that night on, Kimana’s prayer became my own—not only for my own soul, but for the souls of my daughters.

Chapter 17

Late in August, the news made its way out to our little village that the new immigrant party would be arriving in Salt Lake City within a week. It was always a cause for celebration—new souls won, new blood, new labor. In years past, I’d been a part of that celebration, finding all the bits and pieces of my own home to contribute to theirs. Food, clothing, whatever I could afford to part with would be bundled into a box and brought to the temple site to be displayed with everybody else’s donation.

This year, however, I felt no such generosity of spirit. Instead, I packed my best dress and bonnet into a carpet satchel.

“You are sure you won’t take the horse?” Kimana asked as she buttered bread and placed it in a milk bucket along with a few strips of dried beef and a sealed jar of water. “It is a long walk. Will take you all day.”

“We don’t have a saddle,” I explained.

“Saddle,” she said with disdain. “A good horse needs nothing more than a thick blanket and a firm hand.”

“Well, of all of those, all we have is the blanket. I’ll be fine. I walked across half the country to get here, didn’t I?”

“But to go alone . . .”

“Perhaps some fine Saint will take pity on me and give me a ride.” I picked up the satchel to test its weight, imagining how heavy it would feel that evening. “It’s a busy-enough road.”

“Please, Mama!” Melissa whined, still picking over her breakfast. “Please let me go. I want to meet Papa too.”

“Me too!” Lottie chimed in, more concerned about accompanying her sister, I was sure.

“I’ve already said, it’s too far for the two of you.” And truly it was, though I knew Melissa would have been quite the trooper. My reason for leaving them home stemmed from a much more selfish root. I wanted to be alone when I finally had the chance to see their father again. Not alone, exactly, as I would have half the population of Salt Lake City plus the dozens of bedraggled new citizens fresh from the trail, but a nagging fear tugged at me, as I didn’t feel in any way like the same woman he’d left in the spring.

So in those first minutes past sunrise, I kissed each of the girls good-bye and even subjected Kimana to a quick embrace.

“Take care of them,” I said. “Remember us in your prayers.”

“We will,” she said. “Every night until you get home.”

The road into Salt Lake City was well-worn, largely due to the constant pilgrimage of oxen and carts laden with the temple stones mined from the quarry. I passed no fewer than six such carts on my journey, half of them having a day’s worth of travel separating them. Each would spend three days covering the same distance I would in less than one, and it gave me an odd feeling of strength and accomplishment to stride past, leaving them in the wake of my dusty skirts.

I could not remember when I’d last had so much time to be alone. I spoke to God throughout the entire journey—sometimes aloud, until my breath would give out, and then with a simple, constant prayer repeating itself in my head.
Lord, give me strength—for this journey today and the one ahead.
I couldn’t articulate in any way what I thought that journey might be, but I knew I’d set myself on a new path, and I had no idea how Nathan and I would travel it together.

The temple stones and I weren’t the only travelers on the road that day. Three wagons passed me by, driven by people I would have called friends and neighbors just a few months ago. Neighbors they remained, but I don’t see how any true friend could crack a whip and speed the team past another. I’d grown used to having my greetings ignored at the trading post, and the basket of spice muffins I left at Sister Marguerite’s door when she had taken ill was returned, untouched. Still, I was glad not to be wounded and waylaid by the side of the road because there didn’t seem to be a Good Samaritan among them.

I gauged myself to be at a halfway mark when I spied a little grove of cottonwoods that seemed the perfect place for lunch. Walking in a little ways, I found myself hidden from the road, though I reckoned I would be able to hear a wagon passing by, in case some peril should befall me. My feet were tired—not accustomed to such arduous use—but I resisted the urge to unlace my boots. I knew from experience that I would have a hard time stretching the leather around their swollen mass; it would be relief enough to lean myself against a tree and prop them up on my satchel.

I opened the jar and drank down the cool water before spilling a dab on my handkerchief and wiping my face and neck. The shade felt cool and a breeze blew through. Given that I was all alone, I rolled up my sleeves and opened the first two buttons of my blouse, dabbing the damp cloth along the inside of my collar. The only intrusion on my comfort was the sharp pain of hunger, so I offered up a quick prayer of thanks before diving into the bucket and pulling out the slices of buttered bread. To my delight, Kimana had also coated each slice with honey, and I smiled at the sweet surprise.

“Thank you, Kimana,” I said aloud, mindless of the fact that I could barely speak around the mouthful of food.

She had packed more than I could possibly eat at one sitting—no matter how sharp the hunger—and I debated as to whether I should continue on with the half-empty bucket or simply leave it tucked here in this grove to be retrieved when I journeyed home with Nathan. After a few minutes, though, the answer to that question lost its immediacy as it was replaced with whether or not I would continue on at all. Sated and comfortable, the idea of getting up and walking one more step seemed more like a foreign threat than a necessary action. I yawned and stretched and settled back against the surprisingly comfortable tree trunk.

“Just a few minutes,” I told myself. “Until my eyes open up again.” Thus settled, I closed them, shutting out all but the sound of a summer afternoon. So much buzzing and calling, the wind underscoring all as it rustled the leaves above.

And then, something else. Something so familiar, I had to open my eyes fully to know I wasn’t dreaming. The rumble of wagons. One simply cannot spend months walking alongside a train of wagons and ever mistake the noise of a dozen axles. Rising above even that, a sound that brought my heart to fully stop within me.

Nathan.

I scrambled to my feet, smoothing my skirt and my hair almost simultaneously.
How could it be? They weren’t due to arrive for days. And why didn’t they stop in Salt Lake City? And why . . . ?
I turned my eyes to heaven, staring straight up to the blue sky framed by the trees around me.

“Thank you, Lord.” Although I wasn’t exactly sure what I was thankful for. Nathan’s safe return, of course, but I would have much preferred to meet him wearing my best dress and bonnet, not looking like something that just got dragged off the road. Still, he was
here
. He was
home
—or close to it. After a final tucking of loose hair behind my ears, I stepped out of the grove.

There he was, astride Honey, the horse that had spurred such bitter words between us. It looked none the worse for having journeyed across the known world and back. And he, from what I could tell, hadn’t changed. I stood on the roadside, feeling every bit as though I were fifteen years old again, standing at the edge of the road to my father’s property, wondering if I was going to see him that day, only now, I wondered if he would see me. At the moment, it seemed doubtful, given his attention was so fully focused on an engaging conversation with the older gentleman driving the wagon alongside him. I couldn’t catch their topic, but there was no mistaking the animation on Nathan’s part. He held the horse’s reins with one hand, gesturing wildly with the other, his body turned in the saddle. That’s when I realized why I felt so young—because the Nathan I saw riding that horse wasn’t the same man who rode into the dawn nearly three months ago. This was the man who had taken over my life the first day he walked me to school. It was like he had emerged renewed from the melancholy and frustration that had plagued him for the past year.

There was a woman on the wagon’s seat too, her bonnet turned toward Nathan, showing nothing of her face. Suddenly she threw her head back in laughter, and I longed to know just what my husband had said to produce such a reaction. So enraptured were the three with each other, I doubted whether my presence would be noticed even if the gentleman ran over me with his wagon, so abandoning any pretense of what a refined lady would do under such circumstances, I flapped my arms as if scaring off a murder of crows and shouted my husband’s name. Twice.

The woman heard me first, as she turned and looked straight at me. Though her face was mostly lost in the shadows of her bonnet, I could tell she was young. Much younger than the man driving the wagon. Her skin appeared pale and smooth, as did her hands, which I noticed when she brought them up to interrupt Nathan’s speech and point straight at me.

“Camilla!” He couldn’t have looked more surprised if I’d actually swung out of the tree’s branches and landed on his saddle. He brought the horse to a halt and swung over the side, breaking into a run the moment his feet hit the ground and sweeping me off mine in the next minute. “Darling, what are you doing here?”

On closer inspection I could see that his skin was darker, both toughened by the sun and glazed with trail dust. New lines formed at the corners of his eyes, making him seem at once peaceful and wise. Nothing had aged in his embrace, though. His arms still felt like steel bands wrapped around me, and my hands spread across his muscular back, instantly loving the feel of him.

“I—I was planning to meet you in town.” My words sounded so small in the midst of this moment. In fact, I didn’t want to talk at all. It had been so long since we’d simply looked at each other or held each other. What I really wanted to do was kiss him, right there in the bright light of afternoon, and if it weren’t for the couple sitting high on the wagon seat above us, I would have. Thankfully, Nathan felt no need for such decorum. In one motion he tore his hat from his head and drew me to him, his lips on mine briefly, but full of promise.

“There’s so much to tell you.” His face blurred before me as he touched his forehead to mine. “I don’t know where to start.”

I heard the squeaking of the springs beneath the wagon’s seat and imagined the occupants squirming in light of our blatant display. This brought me to squirm a bit on my own. I pulled away, feeling suddenly shy, and suggested that Nathan introduce me to these fine people.

“Of course.” He gave my arm a final squeeze before turning and tucking me to his side. “Camilla, this is Brother Kenneth Dunn, newly arrived from London by way of New Orleans.”

The gentleman tipped his hat to me and, in that small gesture, revealed himself to be of an entirely different breed from anybody I’d ever met.

“And this,” Nathan continued, “is his daughter. Miss—Sister—Amanda.”

I don’t think anybody else would have noticed the hitch in his voice, and if they had, it might have passed as a mere quirk of speech. But I knew my husband’s voice as well as I knew my own. I heard it through my own ears, amplified and magnified. His speech was always flawless and smooth, every word seemingly rehearsed before given utterance. I glanced at Nathan, only to see his eyes steadfastly glued to Miss-Sister-Amanda Dunn. His lips tugged into a smile I knew too well; his throat bobbed as he swallowed, and my own burned at the thought of what he was holding back. Or not holding back, as the case was, for after a few seconds, that same stranger who failed to notice the hitch in his voice would have to be blind not to notice the way he looked at her.

A small, sweet voice laced with an accent that gave a soft, pinched quality to her words said, “How very nice to meet you.”

I tore my gaze away from my husband and looked up to see Miss-Sister-Amanda having pushed her sunbonnet off her head, revealing a face prettier than I wanted to see. Her hair dark brown—almost black—and her skin contrastingly fair. How faithfully she must have shielded it from the sun for it to have that porcelain sheen at the end of summer after a journey of two thousand miles. Her eyes were bright blue, the kind people call cornflower, though I’d never actually seen the flower that inspired such a description. Her mouth was wide, but her lips narrow, and her nose could only be accurately described as pointy. The overall effect was one of a perfect English rose, though I’d never before considered what a perfect English rose would look like.

At my husband’s nudging, I managed to offer a weak hello in response to her greeting. Then I turned to Nathan. “Are they not settling in Salt Lake City?”

“Brother Kenneth owned several businesses in London. He’s been given the job of overseeing the work at the quarry.”

“Oh, well . . . how nice.” What else was there to say? Whatever had passed between Nathan and Amanda could not be discussed now, at this roadside, yet the same summer sounds that so recently had given such peace now grated in my ears, underscoring the awkwardness of the moment. “And do they have a home waiting for them?” I turned my attention back to the wagon. “Is there a house waiting for you two? Or will you be staying with some of our neighbors?”

“I was told there’s a cabin,” Brother Kenneth said.

“A small one,” Nathan added. “Just one room built on the site. Not really suitable for a lady.”

“Well—” I sent my brightest smile to Amanda—“we’ve all had to adjust to life on the frontier. It’s a far cry from London, I’m sure, but you and your father will find the place to be a cozy little home in no time.” Nearly exhausted from that last bit of false cheer, I dropped my weight against Nathan and said, “Speaking of home, shall we? I know the girls will be so surprised to see you.”