The Work and the Glory (82 page)

To his disappointment, after another moment or two the family began to load into the wagon. Melissa sat in the back, blocked from his view by the driver of the wagon. He watched, hoping for one more glimpse of her, as the wagon turned around and headed back toward the main part of town.

“Hmm,” he mused. “Melissa Steed.” He decided that the next time he was in town he would see if he could find out any more about the Steed family.

Jessica Steed watched her husband pull on his boots. He pushed his feet down firmly into them, stomped on them a couple of times to get them comfortable, then stood up. “We’ve got a load we need to take down to the river landing. I’ll not be coming back in time for dinner.”

“All right. But you will be back for supper?”

“Yes. Shouldn’t take us much past two or three this afternoon.”

“All right.”

He turned to the mirror over the dresser and picked up the brush. He began to pull it through the thickness of his dark hair. She watched him. When he was satisfied with his hair, he examined his beard, brushing it into place along the line of his jaw. It wasn’t actually preening, but it always amused her that he spent as much time in front of the mirror as she did.

“Are you going to answer your mother’s letter?”

He stopped, not turning around. The letter from his mother had been waiting for Joshua when he returned from a short three-day trip. It had touched Jessie to watch him read it. It was the first time she had seen real joy in him. But afterwards he had become withdrawn, reticent to talk about it. Jessica wanted to know. After all, they were her family now too.

He still didn’t answer. She decided not to push it, though it irritated her that he felt it was none of her affair. Finally he finished and turned and caught her watching him. “You doin’ anything today?”

“I’m gonna bake some bread.” She took a quick breath, trying to decide whether to break the news. Suddenly anxious, she clasped her hands together. “Then this afternoon I think I’ll go see Doc Jones.”

He had started to turn toward the door where his hat hung on a peg. He stopped and turned back slowly.

She felt like a field mouse under the scrutiny of a circling barn owl. She forced a shaky smile. “Yes, Joshua. I think I may be with child again.”

She felt a stab of pain. There was no joy in his expression, just dullness and hidden pain.

Finally he turned and took down his hat. He put it on his head, adjusted it carefully, then looked over at her. “No way you’ll consider Doctor Hathaway?”

She shook her head.

“He’s a real doctor,” he said, biting out the words, “not some farmer turned quack physician.”

“We’ve gone over this before, Joshua.” She felt the old tensions rising in her. She didn’t want to fight him again, but this was not negotiable. Not this time. Not ever. She would rather do without medical help than go back to Hathaway and his icy superiority.

He started to say something, then just shook his head, the frustration evident on his face. “Have it your way,” he said flatly. He spun on his heel and went out of the door, not bothering to shut it behind him.

With heavy heart, she moved slowly to it and pushed it shut.

The Gilbert and Whitney store lay just a short distance from the east branch of the Chagrin River. It was a lazy stream, not moving fast enough to stop the water skeeters from skimming clear across its ten-foot breadth. Melissa Steed looked at the water for a moment. It was a hot day, and she was tempted to walk down the grassy bank, remove her shoes, and dangle her feet in the tepid water. Though not terribly long, the walk from the rented house where her family now lived had been hot and dusty, and her feet were sticky inside her shoes. But it was only ten in the morning. The longer she waited to get her things at the store and make her way back, the hotter it was going to be.

Besides, inside the store it would be cool, and Melissa loved the inside of Newel Whitney’s store. The smells, the shelves of merchandise, the tools hanging from nails driven into the wall—she loved it all, and if she was going to linger, her first choice would be to do so in there.

“Hello.”

She jumped, startled, and whirled around.

He was not particularly tall, no more than three or four inches above her own five foot five. He was smiling at her, red hair catching the sun brightly, the freckles a peppering of red across his nose and cheeks. He was smiling, and his teeth were neat and even. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You...you didn’t.”

“I just saw you standing here and...” His already ruddy complexion deepened noticeably. “I wondered if you were thinking about going wading.”

She smiled at his perceptiveness. “Actually I was.”

He grinned. “It does sound good, doesn’t it?”

She nodded, still a little bewildered. Who was he? Where had he come from? Why was he talking to
her?

“I’m sorry.” He stepped forward and stuck out his hand. “My name is Carlton Rogers. My friends all call me Carl.”

Without thinking she curtsied slightly, then instantly berated herself for it. It was a girlish thing to do. And Melissa was hardly a girl anymore. “How do you do?” she answered, more demurely now. “My name is—”

“Melissa Steed.”

Her eyes widened. “You know my name?”

“You came to my father’s livery stable the other day to meet your father.”

“Oh.” She didn’t remember seeing him at all—which was most strange, for she was sure she would have remembered him if she had seen him even once.

He was suddenly a little embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you, but I saw you coming down the hill and thought you might be coming to the store here.” Actually, he had learned that the Steeds had moved into a house on Main Street temporarily while Mr. Steed looked for some property he could buy. Carl had been watching the house on and off for several days, hoping for just such an opportunity as this. “Do you have things to buy?” he finished.

“Yes.”

“Me too.” He smiled and she saw how it softened the corners around his eyes, which were the same color of green she had once seen in a painting of the sea crashing onto the seashore. He looked to be a little older than she was, maybe twenty-three or so.

“I have a cart,” he said. He turned and pointed, and she saw the small four-wheeled cart with its pull handle. “It’s a walk back up the hill. You’d be welcome to put your stuff in with mine.” He colored again and looked down at her feet. “That is, if you don’t mind.”

One part of her counseled for demureness. That called for a polite refusal, or at least an appropriate wait and at least a semblance of reluctance before responding. But demureness had never been a strong characteristic Melissa had cultivated. She smiled. “That would be very nice, thank you.”

It was nearly noon when Jessica came around the corner of her house, carefully holding the bowl containing the yeast start she had borrowed from the neighbor. She stopped short. Her father was sitting on the front porch, smoking a cigar. At the sight of her, he immediately stood up.

“Hello, Jessie.”

“Hello, Pa.”

She went up the steps and joined him on the porch. He dropped the cigar and stomped it out. He knew she didn’t like either him or Joshua smoking the foul-smelling things inside the house.

“Joshua’s not here, Pa. He had to take a load down to the river.”

“I know.” He stepped quickly and opened the door for her. She gave him a sharp look, but he ignored it. She went in and he followed her.

“Sit down, Pa,” she called over her shoulder. “I need to care for this yeast, then I’ll be right with you.”

She went into the kitchen, set the bowl on the table, wet a towel in the bucket of water that stood in the sink, then wrung the towel out and placed it over the bowl. She moved the bowl slightly so the yeast start would be in the sun for the next hour or so. That would start it rising, and soon she would have enough for a new start of yeast of her own and would return the bowl to her neighbor.

She wiped her hands and went back out into the sitting room. She sat down, folded her hands in her lap, and looked at Clinton Roundy. There was no mistaking the fact that they were father and daughter, though she realized with a start that he was starting to look old.

He began to squirm a little under her examination and wouldn’t meet her gaze. She felt her heart sink. Something was amiss. Her father did not make social calls, not even to his daughter and son-in-law. Something was on his mind, and she could tell he was hurting with the pain of it.
He needs money,
she thought. She shook it off immediately. Unless he had squandered his money something fierce, he was one of western Missouri’s more prosperous citizens.

“To what do I owe this?” she finally said, seeing that he wasn’t going to go further without some encouragement.

“Uh...how have you and Joshua been doin’ lately?”

“We’re doin’.” She wasn’t about to say more. Their troubles were between the two of them.

Her father began to squirm again. She suddenly felt sorry for him, and guilty that she was not helping him through it. “What is it, Pa? What’s wrong?”

He bit his lip, reached in his pocket for another cigar, remembered her ban, and quickly dropped his hands to his side again.

“Come on, tell me.”

He took a deep breath. Took another. Then, finally, he leaned forward. “Has Joshua said anything to you about how he’s doing lately—moneywise, I mean?”

She felt a quick thrust of disgust. “How much do you need, Pa?”

He blinked, looking baffled. Then understanding hit him. “It’s not me, Jessie. I’m talking about Joshua. I don’t need anything. It’s Joshua. He’s been losing money.”

She just stared at him.

“That’s right. Lots of it.”

“But how could he? The company’s doing twice the haulin’ of anyone else in town.”

Again he looked bewildered for a moment, then realized she was not following him. He looked at his hands, as though shamed for having to say it. “He’s not losing it at the freight company, Jess,” he said in a low voice. “He’s losing it at the poker table.”

She came straight out of her chair. “What?”

“That’s right. There’s a new man in town. Came in about two months ago. He comes out of Pittsburgh. A real sharpie with cards.” He shook his head sadly. “Joshua’s good, but he’s no match for this one.”

Feeling herself reeling, Jessie dropped back down in her chair. So that was why he had been coming in so late some nights. Joshua usually went to one of the taverns and spent the evening there, but he had been returning much later than usual for the past while. She had not felt undue concern, because he did not seem to be drinking heavily.

She lifted her head to look at her father. “How much?”

“What?”

“How much has he lost?”

Her father shook his head. “No one knows for sure. I’ve seen him lose more than a thousand dollars in the last three weeks.”

“A
thousand dollars!”
It came out more as a shocked whisper than a shout.

“Maybe more. He’s gone through his savings. He’s now borrowing from others. Clem Simpson. Ezekiel Mecham.” He paused. “Me. Word is he’s gone to the bank and got a mortgage on the business.”

He looked down at the floor, his face a study in misery. “I’m not asking for the money he owes me. You know that, Jessie. Joshua’s been good to me. It ain’t that at all. I’m just getting worried. It’s like the thought of winnin’ has a hold on him and won’t let go. He’s got to beat this card sharp. No matter what.”

She stood and walked slowly to the window.

“But he’s not good enough. Not anymore. He’s got to be stopped before he loses everything. Will you talk to him, Jessie?”

She nodded, numbly.

“Don’t tell him it was me that—”

She turned her back on him. “I’ll talk to him.” It came out so quietly, he had to strain to hear her.

“Thank you, Jessie. I know he’ll listen to you. I just can’t seem to—

“I said I’ll talk to him!” she barked.

Her anger shocked him. He stood now too, fumbling with his hat. “All right, Jessie. Thank you for listenin’. I’m...”

She did not turn and he finally let it trail off and exited quickly. Jessie did not turn around as the door shut behind him.

Four days after the arrival of Benjamin Steed in Kirtland, his son and daughter-in-law were entertaining visitors in the small one-room cabin they had moved into just two days before. This was part of the legacy Father Morley had provided through the giving of his land and timber to the Church. Nathan and Lydia were sitting on a wooden bench with their backs against the rough-hewn wall of logs. Across from them in their only two chairs sat Sidney Rigdon and Parley Pratt. The baby was asleep in a small rocking bassinet that Sister Morley had dug out from her attic and dusted off for them. The men had come at their request. Benjamin Steed had sold their farm back in Palmyra along with his own. Five hundred dollars. He had brought the cash with him, and now they had it in hand.

Since their arrival in Kirtland, Lydia and Nathan had heard much talk about a new economic order, “the law of the Lord,” revealed through the Prophet Joseph. There was no question in their minds about whether or not to live this law, only about how to do it. Joseph, off to one of the nearby communities to meet with some of the Saints, had sent Sidney and Parley to respond to their queries.

Now, as Sidney Rigdon spoke, Lydia watched him closely. Though perhaps not as striking as the Prophet Joseph, he was a distinguished looking man and commanded immediate respect. He was not as tall as Joseph and was starting to show a tendency toward stoutness. He had bright, alert eyes beneath narrow eyebrows. His nose was large, but it was straight and well-formed. Like Martin Harris, he wore a Greek-style beard, with the whiskers coming under the chin and throat, leaving the chin itself clean shaven. His voice was clear, and he articulated his words with great precision.

“Has Joseph let you read the revelations on consecration?” he asked.

“Yes,” they both said at once.

“We read them together last night,” Lydia added.

“So I think we understand the basic principles,” Nathan said. “It’s the more practical questions that we have.”