The Sister Wife (26 page)

B
ronwyn watched Mary Rose and Gabe from her upstairs window. She'd noticed her friend's body changing, and knew—perhaps even before Mary Rose did—that she was with child.

Her own heart leapt at Gabe's unabashed joy. If he'd been wearing a hat, she was certain he would have tossed it as high as the clouds. She longed to run out and rejoice and laugh and shout and dance right along with them.

But her own condition prevented her from joining them. That and the sweet knowledge that this was a private moment only they should share. Watching them together, Bronwyn wondered how she could love a friend so deeply and, at the same time, love so deeply the husband they shared.

She watched Mary Rose move toward the garden with a spring in her step, a smile spreading even wider across her face. As she knelt to dig potatoes for dinner, Gabe came up to stand behind her. She glanced up at him, in full view of Bronwyn, who still stood at the window.

He took her hand, helped her stand, and drew her into an impassioned embrace. Bronwyn almost gasped. She blinked and backed away from the window as he led Mary Rose toward the back door.

She saw his face clearly, and she knew the look. Their footsteps would too soon be on the stairs, then down the hall, and through his bedroom door. She grabbed a shawl, lifted the sleeping Little Grace from her cradle, and then hurried down the hall, hoping to be down the stairs and through the front door before they came in the back.

She was too late.

She heard their murmuring voices at the bottom of the stairs, just as she reached the top.

Mary Rose looked up when she saw Bronwyn, and briefly their eyes met as Mary Rose ascended, Gabe's arm wrapped around her. She couldn't be sure, but she thought she saw a glint of triumph. Gabe seemed too interested in nuzzling Mary Rose's temple to notice Bronwyn standing at the top of the stairs, holding Little Grace.

Bronwyn ran to the creek, holding the still sleeping child at her bosom. She had been so sure of Gabe's love for her, his passion, and his praise of her beauty, that she hadn't considered he might turn again to Mary Rose. She dropped her head, ashamed of her jealousy and surprised at its intensity.

Was it the child Mary Rose carried that had turned his head?

Would it turn again when he found out that she too was expecting a wee babe?

She looked down at Little Grace and swallowed hard, a swift and sudden grief, a longing for Griffin overtaking her. Marriages weren't meant to be like this, were they?

She and Griffin had felt the burning of truth inside them when missionaries spoke of the Prophet's new revelation, God's restoration of the only true Church in the world. Together, they had
been baptized, rising from the ocean waters as if new beings. Griffin had been so certain that God called them to America, to Nauvoo, to help build his kingdom.

But how would he have felt about Gabe taking Bronwyn as his second wife? Would Griffin have done the same thing should Gabe have been the one to die? How would she have felt if he'd brought Mary Rose into their lives as a second wife? The thought brought with it waves of regret for not understanding how Mary Rose must surely have felt…until now.

She rocked Little Grace in her arms, softly singing a lullaby, more to herself than to the child:

Hot tears filled her eyes as she sang the words
“and never suffer want or need.”
She wondered if she would have come so willingly to Gabe if she'd had other choices. Griffin had taken out a loan through a bank in town, owned and run by the Prophet, to have the money to build the farm next to Gabe and Mary Rose.

When Griffin died, Mary Rose's grandfather and his new bride, Sister Cordelia, purchased the property from the bank. Bronwyn neither owed money, nor did she have any of her own.

She was at the mercy of the Church. And, in cold, hard terms, at the mercy of its representative, Gabriel MacKay.

Tears spilled down her cheeks and dripped onto Little Grace's blanket as she wondered about Gabe's rush to marry her. Had it been because of love? Or lust? That thought made her tears fall faster. Or simply because he had been ordered to do so?

She looked up when she heard rustling in the willows and the crunch of children's footsteps approaching on the other side of the creek. Soon, the merry eyes of Coal and the twins peered at her through the foliage, then they tumbled out before her, hopping across the stream's stepping stones and landing on the streambed in front of her.

“You been crying, Auntie Bronwyn?” Pearl said, looking up at her face with concern.

Bronwyn smiled and wiped her eyes. “Just a little.”

“Whatth wrong?” Ruby cuddled up beside her on the stone and circled her small arm around Bronwyn's waist.

Coal wrinkled his nose. “Is Little Grace all right?”

She looked down at the baby, who sighed in her sleep. “She's perfect,” she assured the children.

“We got to help Grandma Cordelia make andouille sausages,” Pearl said, puffed up with pride.

“And I got to thtuff the cathingth…casings,” Ruby said.

“And Grandpa Earl made me a swing. It's hanging from the big oak tree out back of their house,” Coal said.

“Itth for all of uth, thilly,” Ruby said.

Bronwyn heard the soft crunch of shoes on gravel, the snaps of twigs, and the rustling of willows. Sister Cordelia appeared next. She gave Bronwyn a wide smile as she teetered precariously on the stepping stones. It didn't help the older woman's balance that she held a basket in one hand.

The children ran into the barn to look for their hoops and sticks, and Bronwyn scooted over to make room for Cordelia to sit beside her.

“You look like you could use a friend,” Cordelia said. She placed the covered basket beside the large stone.

Bronwyn started to deny her need and don the mask she too often wore: that of sunny optimism no matter the circumstances.

But her heart was too heavy to attempt it. Besides, she knew Cordelia well enough to recognize that the astute little woman would see right through her deception.

“Aye,” she said softly. “I'm feeling lost.”

Cordelia reached for her hand. “I wondered how long it would take.” Her Cajun lilt seemed almost musical to Bronwyn. She relaxed, just hearing it. Among all the Saints, she knew of no one she admired more—and had ever since the night Cordelia told her how to break a window with the butt of a gun and start shooting at the thugs who surrounded them. A tiny woman with coal black hair and a fiery spirit, she seemed to look upon others with the same grace and acceptance that had been extended to her.

Little Grace stirred and opened her eyes. Cordelia reached for her and bounced her on her lap, cuddled her close, and covered her soft downy head with kisses. “I love how babies smell,” she said, smiling at Bronwyn. “You are so blessed to have her, did you know it?”

Bronwyn nodded. “Aye, 'tis true.”

Then Cordelia studied Bronwyn's midsection for a moment. “I could be wrong, but there's another on the way, is that true too?”

Bronwyn sighed. “Aye, that too is true.”

“And you feel even more like a lost lamb now than before—because, dear, Mary Rose is also having a babe?”

“How did you know?”

“My grandmother was a midwife. Some called her a witch, and had she lived a century earlier she might have been burned at the stake. But she was wise and taught me the signs. I wish I'd listened more carefully when she told me of her herbs and medicines, but her art died with her.” She reached into her basket and drew out a fresh biscuit. She broke it in pieces and gave them one by one to Little Grace, who chomped at them with relish.

“You asked if I feel like a lost lamb…?” She laughed lightly. “'Tis true. I just hadn't thought of myself as such.”

“Perhaps it's because of our Prophet. I sometimes feel like he's let us down by thinking himself bigger than God. When I first heard his message it was simple and easy to understand. There were no secret temple ceremonies, no revelations of plural marriage, no teachings that said every man can become a god depending on how he follows the ‘law' of the Prophet.”

Bronwyn caught her breath. She'd heard about outspoken, strong-willed women being tried for blasphemy, excommunicated from the Church, their families shamed. She studied this woman she'd come to love and respect as much as if she were her own dear grandmother, and she feared for her.

Cordelia laughed lightly, and then, as if reading Bronwyn's mind, said, “Don't get me wrong. I love this church with all my heart. I will never forget the love and acceptance I felt after being shunned so long as a fallen woman. Brother Joseph welcomed me with open arms, and when other members whispered behind my back, he called them up short. He wouldn't allow anyone to see me as anything other than one with equal access to God's grace.

“But I've come to realize that our Prophet has feet of clay.”

“What do you mean?”

She sighed deeply. “I could be excommunicated for saying this, but I don't care. I think our Joseph lost sight of God's original plan for him.”

Bronwyn sat back, astonished. “Does Grandpa Earl know how you feel?”

“Oh laws, yes. And worries himself sick that I'll take over a Sunday meeting and tell the whole congregation.”

“Would he ever take another wife—even if commanded to by Brother Brigham or the Prophet himself?”

She laughed, this time louder than before. “He brought it up once, and I simply said it was hogwash and pointed to the rifle
over the doorway. Said I'd shoot at any woman who tried to get his pants off and convince him to take her as a second wife. Or any man too big for his britches, ordering others to live their lives in such a way—including the highfalutin so-called apostles. Every one of them takes himself too seriously in my opinion and needs to be taken down a notch or two.”

She shook her head slowly and grinned at Bronwyn. “Guess you didn't know you'd inherited such a spitfire of a grandma.”

Bronwyn laughed. “I figured it out the night you had me shooting at that mob.”

“Well, dear. In my opinion—yet again—you could use some spitfire yourself.”

Bronwyn's eyes widened. “Me?”

“Yes, dear. You. We've got some tough times ahead of us. I see all the signs of it in perfect alignment…and you, all of us, need to come together as a family if we're going to make it through.”

“What signs?” Bronwyn looked down at Little Grace, and her heart skipped a beat.

“The wolves are already nipping at our heels, lying in wait to attack us again, rape our women, kill our children, make old men dance…” Cordelia turned to Bronwyn, her face softening. “I'm sorry to go on and on about this.” She looked at her evenly. “Are you scandalized, just hearing it?”

Bronwyn didn't answer right away. Gathering her thoughts, she watched the creek for a few moments, the way the water swirled, almost backward from its usual flow, then found its path and gurgled downward once more.

“You've given voice to my thoughts. I haven't dared to say them aloud—not since Mary Rose and I became…estranged. We once spoke openly of our feelings about the Church and the Prophet, we laughed at some of the absurdities of his claims.” She chuckled at the memories that came to her. “Now our conversations are limited to caring for the children, planning our meals,
and, recently, trying to bring a sense of holiness into our household—just as the priesthood teaches.”

“You miss her, don't you?”

Bronwyn nodded and blinked back fresh tears. “I betrayed her. I don't know if she can ever forgive me. She smiles and acts as if everything between us is all sunlight and posies, but it isn't.”

“They have too much power over us, these men, power that causes more heartache than not,” Cordelia said. “We have no voice. Men, supposedly godly men, tell us that we can only be called into glory if we've pleased our husbands enough on earth so they will remember our secret name.” She narrowed her eyes. “Do you see the power that gives them over us?”

Bronwyn nodded. “I've known it, but let it happen because I believed the Prophet's revelations.” Quick tears rushed to Bronwyn's eyes. “But what can I do? I have nowhere to go. I have one child, and now another on the way.”

“There's another shepherd…” Cordelia said, her gaze on the creek again, a slight smile curving the corners of her lips.

“I don't know him.”

She turned back to Bronwyn. “Someday you will. You may not recognize his voice right away. But listen with your heart, the deepest, quietest part of your heart. You'll hear his voice.” Cordelia's eyes grew moist. “I promise you. Listen to him; he will tell you which way to go, he will walk with you or carry you if you need him to. Either way, he will never leave you.”

“How do you know this?”

Cordelia smiled, gathering up Little Grace, and standing. “Will you bring along the basket, love?” she said to Bronwyn.

Bronwyn stooped to grab hold of the handle.

“Fresh-baked buttermilk biscuits and Cajun sausages, hand-stuffed by Coal, Ruby, and Pearl. Some might find them a bit spicy at first, but I guarantee, your family will love them.”

They walked into the opening near the barn, to the shouts
and laughter of the children as they played with their hoops and sticks. Mary Rose and Gabe stepped through the back door, with eyes only for each other.

Bronwyn stopped and caught her breath at the sight. Cordelia touched her hand as she halted. “You asked me how I know about the shepherd,” she said, forcing Bronwyn to tear her gaze away from Gabe and Mary Rose. “I know, dearest, because I've heard his voice.”