For Time and Eternity (9 page)

Nathan stood behind me, whispering into my ear, “I promise. Say the word, and I’ll find the swiftest horse and bring you home.”

Slowly, my father got smaller and smaller. I believed Nathan’s promise, but God himself hadn’t created a horse fast enough to bring me home. The home I knew had disappeared, lost behind my father’s shouts, the moment my foot left the shore.

Chapter 9

Immediately upon landing on the other side of the Missouri River, I was taken in by the Moss family, and Evangeline instantly became my dearest friend and confidante.

“You don’t mind, then, that Nathan loves me?” I asked her one night as we lay next to a dying campfire.

“Of course not,” she said. I can still see the way the moonlight cast soft shadows on her face. “Who knows? Maybe someday he’ll be married to both of us.”

The first time she said it, I laughed loud enough to earn a chastising word from her mother, who slept in the wagon with the younger children.

“That’s impossible.” Though it was a warm night, I felt a chill run through my whole body.

“Not at all.” Her voice was calm. “Lots of our men do. I think Joseph Smith had at least a dozen. But we’re not supposed to talk about it.”

“Then stop.” I turned my face toward the fire and closed my eyes against the stinging smoke.

We never spoke of it again for the rest of our journey. Indeed, nobody did. Instead, there was so much for me to learn about my newfound family. I sat with the children for the evening catechism and learned the stories of the heroes from the
Book of Mormon
. Sometimes when Nathan was in camp, he would act them out, much to everyone’s delight. In the shadows cast by the dancing flames, he transformed into a man called Abinadi, prophesying about the coming Christ and later dying in a fiery furnace. Or he would sweep us up in an imaginary battle as one of the two thousand sons of Helaman’s army.

Later, when we would have a chance to walk alone under the stars, I’d ask him why I had never heard any of these stories.

“They’ve been hidden away,” Nathan said. “They were written on golden plates and buried, waiting for the right time, the right man—the right prophet to bring them to the world.”

“Joseph Smith?” I thought back to what Evangeline had told me about the man. “But how do you know it’s all true?”

“It’s faith, Camilla. Nothing more, nothing less.”

He spoke with such a comforting authority. Not stern and austere like Papa, but with a commitment that seemed to well up from within. With it came an enthusiasm I’d never felt during the hours spent in our church pew or at home with our family Bible. Nathan brought the stories to life—even those more familiar to me, like Moses and Joseph. Soon they began to meld together for me, and I was hard-pressed to say which hero came from which text. All were equal gospel for these people, and they became so for me.

Nathan would be gone for days at a time during our journey west as he would ride ahead with some of the other men and scout the trail. Our company was one of the lucky ones, unmolested by Indians and only lightly touched by death. There were three babies born during the months of travel, though only one would survive to grow up in Zion. One little boy suffered a broken neck when he tumbled headfirst from a wagon. I stood next to the open grave of the young woman who succumbed to fever, and I joined in singing “Amazing Grace” for the elderly man whose heart stopped in the middle of the night. Through it all I remembered what Rachel had told me about Nathan being afraid to die alone on the trail and to enter eternity without a spouse to share it with, yet for weeks he did little more than court me, and I truly began to fear that I had been stolen away from my home by a lie.

“Don’t be silly,” Rachel said one evening when I aired my fears to her. “He cannot marry you until you’ve been baptized.”

“But I’ve been baptized.” Though the evidence of such—my certificate and lacy white gown—were tucked away in Mama’s keepsake trunk at home.

“That doesn’t count. You have to be baptized into their church. Our church.”

And so I was baptized in the Platte River. Wearing a white homespun covering, I stood in the waters with Elder Thomas, also dressed in white, where I pledged to follow the teachings of Christ. Afterward I sat on a smooth, flat stone while several of the men stood round me, laying their hands on my head and declaring me a member of the church. I was supposed to keep my head bowed, but I did look up to catch a glimpse of Nathan, standing outside the circle, looking on with what can only be described as hunger. Whether it was hunger for me or for those privileged enough to declare me a Saint I couldn’t tell.

Our party agreed to tarry in camp one extra day, and I awoke to find Rachel and Evangeline on either side of me, each holding a hand and saying, “Get up! For today you shall be a bride!”

My hair had been left free to dry after yesterday’s baptism, and it had dried into soft waves. Secreted away in the Mosses’ wagon, Rachel ran a brush through it, and rather than giving me my usual childish pigtails, she pulled it softly away from my face, securing it with a length of blue silk ribbon at the crown while allowing the rest to remain long and loose down the middle of my back. She held a mirror up so I could see the resulting image.

“What do you think?”

Despite the protection of a borrowed bonnet, my skin had grown quite tan after so many days walking beneath the sun. Still, the face looking at me from the glass was cleaner than it had been in weeks. It was thinner, too, bringing new height to my cheekbones and a sharpness to my chin.

“I wish I were prettier.”

“Nathan thinks you’re beautiful.”

“What do you think?”

Her face appeared over my shoulder within the mirror’s frame, and any aspirations I had of beauty disappeared.

“I think you aren’t nearly as lovely as you’re going to be someday.”

“Yoo-hoo!” Evangeline’s distinctive voice preceded the poking of her head through the wagon’s canvas. She gave me an approving smile and looked to Rachel. “Have you shown her yet?”

“I thought I’d let you have the honor.”

At Evangeline’s command we scooted closer to the front of the wagon and let her in. She lifted the lid of the wooden trunk that had been serving as my seat as Rachel fixed my hair. After some rummaging, she brought forth a blue calico dress covered with a lawn of bright purple poppies.

“It’s borrowed.”

“And the ribbon is blue,” Rachel added.

“And this is from Sister Ellen.” Evangeline handed me a small blue case, like a miniature steamer trunk, with a tiny brass latch at the top. I opened the latch and discovered that, rather than a little box, it was a Bible, its pages locked within the clasp. “It’s old.”

“It’s beautiful,” I said, running my finger along its velvet top.

“Something new will be a little more difficult,” Rachel said.

“She’s newly baptized,” Evangeline said with triumph.

Rachel looked at me and cocked her head. “So be it.”

Before my own, I’d been to only three weddings in my life. All of them took place in the home of the bride, where tables laden with the bridal feast held much more appeal for me than any spoken vows. They’d been stuffy, curious affairs—too many people packed into too small a room. The women cried, the men shifted from foot to foot, and the children stayed restless until the time came to cut the cake.

I remember, after the wedding of my cousin Ila, riding home with my parents, and the only thing Mama said for the entire drive was “Oh, that poor, poor boy.”

Whatever sadness I felt at the idea of my parents’ not being with me on my wedding day disappeared the moment I stepped down from the Mosses’ wagon. To my surprise, the entirety of our company stood, making an aisle. It was like walking a winding path through a forest of family—a blur of smiling faces and hands reaching out to bless me as I walked by. They whispered, over and over, “God bless you, Sister Camilla,” and “May God bless your family.” Finally I came to Nathan, standing on the riverbank, right where I’d been baptized the day before. Morning still blew cool across the water; sunlight touched his hair. More than any other ceremony I’d ever attended, God seemed an invited guest to the union of two lives. He stood as a witness in the clouds; his creation, our altar.

Once I took my place next to Nathan, the assembly redistributed themselves, sealing off the path I’d taken to form a looser gathering around us. Later that night, Nathan and I would find a more secluded spot along the river’s edge where I would become his wife in every sense of the word. I would lay my head on his shoulder and tease him for tricking me.

“What choice did I have?” I said. “It was either burst through that mob or swim across the river.”

He would hold me close, thrilling me with the feeling of laughter rumbling through his chest.

“God works as he will, my love. There’s no escaping his plan.”

Chapter 10

Cottonwood Canyon, Utah Territory

Fall 1856

The oxen were yoked eight to a team. Their hooves plodded along the dusty road.

“Can I touch it, Mama? Can I touch the stone?”

“We both will,” I said. “And say a prayer.”

Abandoning our wash basket beside the creek, we took each other’s hands and made our way through the tall October grass to the roadside, where we stood an arm’s length from the great lumbering beasts. So slowly did they move, we could easily reach out to touch the enormous limestone slab tied to the oxen’s cart and stroll along beside.

“Heavenly Father,” my daughter prayed with the sweet sincerity of her five years, “please keep the oxen safe as they bring the stone to build thy temple. And all the workers, too. And bring Papa home. Amen.”

I echoed her prayer silently, and we took hands again to watch the entire train of beast and stone.

“Do you think they’ll finish the temple by the time I’m grown-up?”

“I don’t know, Melissa. Brigham Young has such a plan, I don’t know that it’ll be finished by the time
I’m
grown-up.”

She rewarded me with her bubbling laughter. “Silly, Mama. You’re already old. You’re twenty-one! And you’re going to have another baby.”

I sighed. “I suppose you’re right.” Bending down as much as my expanding belly would allow, I touched the rim of my bonnet to hers, creating something of a dark tunnel between our faces. “Am I wrinkly yet?”

“Just a little, but I think you’re pretty.”

I hugged her to me and pushed the bonnet off, dropping a kiss on top of her warm blonde head. “I think you’re pretty too. You look just like your father.”

She looked up, squinting in the sunlight. “Papa’s not pretty!”

“I think he is.”

The last of the laborious turning wheels passed, and I looked up to see a familiar figure high on the road where the teams disappeared at the top of a gently cresting hill.

“It’s Papa!” Melissa tore out of my arms and began to run toward him.

“Wait,” I called her back. “Take the wash basket to the house. We’ll be there shortly.”

“But—”

“No arguments. Go.”

She pouted, but she obeyed, and when she was safely on her way home, I took my first steps. Walking at first, then running, though it was a heavy, clumsy, waddling run, making me feel every bit as lithe as the oxen hauling the stone.

He jumped down from the wagon’s seat and, abandoning the rig, came toward me. Long before he was visible in detail, my heart leaped just as it had the first time I saw him. And as he got closer, the worn blue shirt, the patched buckskin jacket, the familiar smile shining beneath the shadow of his hat’s brim, I felt every bit the young girl again. I counted the steps until I was in his arms, and though we were a good distance from our cozy little cabin, I felt at home the minute he wrapped them around me.

Neither of us spoke. Instead, he reached under my chin and untied my bonnet, tossing it to the ground before swooping me closer for a deep, warm, welcoming kiss.

“You’re home a day early,” I said once I could bring myself to release him.

“Had I known I’d get such a warm welcome, I’d have been here yesterday.” He gave me another quick peck and turned his attention to my rounding belly. “And how’s our boy?”

“Growing, as am I. If we’re not careful, they’re going to mistake me for an ox and yoke me up to one of those wagons.”

“Well,” he said, looking deadly serious, “we all must do our part in the service of Heavenly Father. It seems only fair that if I cut the stones, you should haul them.”

“I didn’t marry a stonecutter. I married an artist.”

“Carpenter, not artist.”

“And what did they say this time?”

I knew it wasn’t good news, as he smiled straight ahead. “I don’t think they were nearly as impressed with my artistry as you are.”

“Oh, darling.” I resisted the urge to peek back into the wagon, but I knew what was there. For the past two years, since Brigham Young’s call for the Saints to bring their offerings to the temple, Nathan had set about on a quest for longevity in worship.

“This temple will be built by the hands of the Saints who worship the Christ of the latter days,” the prophet had said during a rousing assembly at our little chapel. “You will tithe your time and your talent, blessing Heavenly Father with both.”

We’d sat awestruck as he related his vision, and on that day Nathan dedicated himself to designing the very chairs for the most exalted of the worshipers—the elders, bishops, and apostles.

“But I’ll try again,” he said with his particular jovial resilience. “I want to leave a legacy.”

“You do that with every stone.”

“So does every other man. I may have limited talent, but I have limitless time.”

“And I have a new chair for the table?”

“I don’t know about that. If it’s not good enough for an apostle of the church, what makes you think it’s good enough for you?”

I tried to think of a clever reply, but I was never as quick as Nathan was, so I gave him a playful slap on his arm, followed by a quick kiss where I’d landed the blow.

He feigned injury and rubbed his arm. “Just for that I’m not giving you a ride home.”

“I’d rather walk anyway. It’s getting harder and harder to climb up in that seat, and all that bouncing can’t be good for the baby.”

“Might make him come a little sooner.”

“Sooner’s never better with babies.”

The horses stood silently beside him and, at the slightest click of his tongue, fell in step behind us.

“So how are things in town?” I asked, ever hungry to hear news.

“Busy, as usual. You wouldn’t believe. Another new mercantile. And two restaurants. Plus one little shop set up just for buying cookware.”

“I’ll be in a little better shape for traveling next time.”

“And we’ll have a new baby boy to bring in for a blessing.”

“You’re so sure it’s a boy?”

He brought our joined hands to his lips. “God has given me everything else I’ve ever asked for. What’s left?”

“And did you go to the post office? Was there mail?”

Nathan stopped, and I did too. Silently, he reached into the worn leather satchel strapped across his shoulder and brought out a small bundle of envelopes.

“Three.”

As always, I allowed myself the briefest moment of hope when I took the letters—each addressed to me in my mother’s careful hand. With shaking fingers, I drew out the string to untie the knot that held them together.

“Camilla, don’t. Wait until we get home.”

But I would not be stopped. When the knot proved unyielding, I simply wrenched the letters free. Heedless of the date of posting, I tore open the first to find within it only another envelope, addressed by me, sent to Mr. and Mrs. Arlen Deardon, Kanesville, Iowa.

“Not even opened.”

“Darling, I’m so sorry.”

“This one,” I said, holding up the first, “has locks of the girls’ hair in it. I was trying to explain how their hair—Melissa’s, especially—is the color of spring butter. And this one—” I held up another—“Lottie wrote her own name at the bottom. More of a scribble, but she was so proud. And I posted this one after I knew we were going to have another. . . .”

I broke into tears, and Nathan’s strong arm caught me at my elbow, holding me up against him.

“I don’t know why you put yourself through this time after time.”

“They’re never going to forgive me.”

“You’ve done nothing for them to forgive. You followed God’s prompting. And look how he’s blessed you. A home, two beautiful daughters. A loving husband and a son on the way.”

Once again he’d managed to reverse my tears, and as he named all the details of my life, I had to realize that my days of joy had rarely been tempered with moments of regret. Even the grief of this moment dissolved into something more akin to disappointment.

“I just wish they knew all of that. I think they—at least Mama—would want to know about our life. My life, at least.”

“If nothing else, they know that you’re alive and well. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be sending letters at all. I’m sure your mother takes comfort in that.”

“We have been blessed, haven’t we?”

“More and more each day.” He swept a stray hair behind my ear and kissed me once more before putting his arm around my shoulders and guiding me home. For the rest of our walk he filled me in on the rest of the news from town. The temple, he said, would someday be the miracle of the western frontier, no less because of the dedication of the men who built it. “Can you imagine what the world would be if every man gave one in ten days’ labor to the Lord?”

“You give more than that. Between the quarry and the workshop. What if God called you to choose?”

He thought for a moment. “As much as I like following in the steps of Jesus in my workshop, there’s nothing I like better than being in that quarry. Chipping that granite out of God’s creation, knowing it will be a new creation built unto him.”

“But you’ll stay home for a few days now? You have some creations of your own that need you.”

“How soon, do you think?” He looked down at the swelling of our child.

“Oh, a few weeks yet. But I was referring to a fence that needs mending and a filthy chicken coop.”

“And the garden?”

“We’ll have more than enough to put up for the winter. Oh! Did you get a chance to see Rachel and Tillman? How are the boys?”

There was just enough hesitancy in his step to catch my attention, and though we did not stop walking altogether, he brought a slowness to our pace that had me nearly dragging my feet.

“Is everything all right?” I looked up to see his face set stoically forward.

“Yep,” he said, jaw clenched tight.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He wouldn’t look at me.

“Nathan.” I clutched his sleeve and brought him to a halt. “Tell me.”

“Tillman’s taken another wife.”

The news hit me like a stone to the small of my back, and I held tighter to the worn blue cotton of my husband’s shirt.

“Another? That’s—”

“Four. I know.”

“What does Rachel think about this?”

“Exactly what any saintly wife would think. That we are all to follow the will of Heavenly Father as he reveals it to the prophet.”

Of course this wasn’t the first time I’d heard of such things. Two of the families who’d traveled with us from Iowa were made up of one husband with two wives and sets of children. And I’ll never forget meeting Rachel’s Tillman the day we arrived dirty, weak, and exhausted, only to be introduced to the woman who would become Rachel’s sister wife.

“Poor Rachel,” I muttered, not realizing I’d spoken out loud.

“Don’t pity her.” His voice held the taint of envy that came whenever he spoke of a highly regarded Saint. “She’s the first wife of a prominent family. Tillman owns half of the Eighteenth Ward. She’ll never want for anything on this earth, and just think of the glory she’ll have in eternity.”

“But she’ll never have what I do.”

“What’s that?”

“A simple life. Long nights with her husband. Long talks. Secrets.”

“She has all that.” He sounded unconvinced.

“But she has to share. And I don’t think I ever could.”

He remained silent one breath too long.

“Could you, Nathan?”

“The Lord led me to you, Camilla. I obeyed his will. That I will always do.”

He began walking again, leaving me no choice but to follow. We were silent now, our steps in sync, but I feared our private thoughts were miles apart. The moment our little home came into view, we both quickened our pace. Nathan cupped his hands around his mouth and hollered, “Hellooooooo!”

Our distant front door opened and our daughters poured out of it. Long hair flying loose about their faces, they tore through the gate of our fenced-in yard and ran, their little arms and legs pumping, until they were close enough to leave the ground altogether and leap into their father’s embrace.

“What is heaven doing without its two prettiest angels?” He swung them in a wide arc before setting them, giggling, on four wobbly feet.

“Presents! Presents!” Lottie had been able to speak of nothing else since he left.

“Now, Lottie,” I said, gently chastising, “your papa’s safe return is present enough.”

Her lip pouted out the way only a three-year-old’s can, and she stomped her little foot.

“Maybe,” Nathan said, “just maybe after I’ve had a chance to sit down and eat some supper, I can go through some of these boxes and see if I don’t have a few presents for each of you.”

“For Mama, too?” Lottie asked.

“For Mama and Melissa—” he touched the older girl’s nose—“and even for our new baby brother.”

“Or sister,” Melissa chimed in.