The Veil Read online

  Two weeks and three days later, Sophronia and Hannah saddled their horses and packed a mule with clothing, blankets, a few cooking utensils, and a barrel filled with salt pork, wheat flour, dried fruit, and nuts. Then they headed toward the Wasatch Mountains. A sliver of a moon rose above the dark silhouette of pines, casting dim light on their way as they climbed rapidly along an unused, rock-strewn trappers’ trail, far from the main road leading to Fort Bridger.

  Hannah worried about Sophronia and watched her carefully, making sure she didn’t become too fatigued. But her aunt seemed to relish the adventure and told her to move onward as quickly as possible. Even so, they were well aware of the dangers and stopped often to listen for the sounds of someone following.

  But the night was silent except for the yipping of distant coyotes and the occasional hooting of an owl. A sharp breeze stung Hannah’s cheeks as they rode, and she breathed in the fragrant mountain air, sometimes closing her eyes and considering that Lucas might have ridden the same trace on his way east, breathing the same air, looking up at the same moon.

  The next morning they stopped by a stream, ate some dried venison and cold biscuits, and watered the animals before riding deeper into the forested mountains. The trail disappeared then reappeared as a fainter trace than before. Sophronia rubbed her back and her arms, and Hannah tried to get to her stop and rest. But she stubbornly clamped her lips together and kept riding.

  On the third day they reached the Red Fork of the Weber. Gingerly the horses eased down to the ferry crossing, neighing and snorting as they slid in the rocky sand.

  “Well, well, well,” shouted an old man as he heard the commotion and limped from his house. “What have we here?”

  “You must be Elk,” Hannah said pleasantly. “Lucas Knight told us about you. We’re friends of his.”

  “That right?” Elk said after he cleared his throat and spat at the dirt, raising a small dust cloud. He narrowed his eyes at Hannah. “Now, what I’d like to know is why two ladies’d be traveling alone on this trail. Two ladies comin’ from the valley the way you are—strikes me as unusual.” He spat again. “Unusual indeedy.”

  “We’re on our way to meet another pioneering group of Saints,” Hannah lied. “They’re mostly women and children. We’ve been sent to help.”

  Elk gave her a sly, gummy smile. “That right?” He made no move toward the ferry.

  She nodded.

  “Funny I ain’t heard nothing about any incomin’ group. Fact is, the only folks I been told might be comin’ are soldiers.”

  Sophronia dismounted then stepped forward slowly and deliberately until she had fixed her gaze straight at his eyes. “Sonny,” she said, “the wrath of God will fall upon your shoulders unless you help us across this river.” Her wild, white hair glowed in the sunlight, and she raised her fist heavenward, looking up at the purple heavens.

  Elk’s mouth fell open as if he believed God’s wrath might actually be forthcoming any moment. “Git yer horses,” he rasped. “Git ‘em ready to step on board.”

  Sophronia smiled and grabbed for her horse’s reins. Hannah followed her aunt to the ferry, and within minutes they were floating swiftly across the river. They were halfway to the north side of the Weber when she saw that Elk’s gaze was fixed on a distant point. When he noticed her questioning look, he quickly shifted his stare.

  Then she spotted a ribbon of smoke where Elk had been looking. It appeared to be from a campfire several hours behind them on the same trail. Her heart leapt to her throat, and she turned to see that Sophronia was watching it too. Their eyes met, and Sophronia set her lips in a thin line then turned to watch the distant shore.

  That night Sophronia seemed too tired to continue riding. Hannah found a campsite a short distance from the trail. They didn’t dare light a campfire, so after a meal of nuts, jerky, and cold biscuits, they placed their bedding pallets side by side for warmth.

  The eerie quiet of the night gave Hannah the feeling they were in danger. When she heard the first wild animal, like the call of an Indian, she was certain.

  “Are you awake?” she whispered hoarsely to her aunt.

  “Yes, child, I am.” Sophronia’s voice sounded weak. Hannah reached for her hand and squeezed it. Her aunt’s hand was cold.

  “I’ve got the Hawken.” Hannah reached for the rifle, which she’d earlier placed by her bedroll.

  “It’s loaded, child.”

  “I know.” She helped Sophronia find shelter in the brush, tucking the blankets around her shaking body. The journey was taking its toll on her health. She patted her aunts soft cheek. “It’ll be all right,” she whispered.

  “I wish I could do more.”

  “No, you just stay here and hold on to this.” She placed the second Hawken in her hands. “I know you remember what to do with it.”

  Sophronia straightened her shoulders and gave her an answering grin. “It’s like riding a horse, dear. You never forget how.”

  Hannah quickly grabbed the other Hawken and the balls and powder horn, then scooted in beside Sophronia to wait. In the distance, another wild call hooted and was answered by another, closer to their camp. It was a long wait until she heard the approach of horses’ hooves and some rustling in the brush. She peered into the darkness but could see nothing.

  Suddenly all was quiet. The silence was so palpable she could taste it. The forest creatures had halted their nocturnal wanderings, and the night birds had quit their lonely calls.

  But Hannah knew they were being watched by living, breathing creatures. Above the loamy scent of soil and decaying leaves, she could smell the sharp, pungent, wild-animal scent of Indians. Probably Utes. She also knew it was their way to await sunrise to attack. She swallowed hard and reached for Sophronia’s frail and icy hand.

  As Hannah waited through the long night, she wondered if this was where death would overcome her. For the first time in years, she thought about her family back at Wolf Pen Creek. She wondered if they had ever missed her presence after she left.

  And Mattie. Sweet Mattie McClary, the only blood kin she thought really loved her until Sophronia had taken her into her heart.

  Where was Mattie? Did he ever wonder about his little sister, the one he called Fae, like the sprites and angels? She settled back against the tree trunk and listened again to the silence. Only the moan of a breeze in the pines could be heard.

  She remembered Mattie’s stories, the sound of his voice telling her about God in his heavens, looking down on them both, holding them in his hands. Mattie had told her that he’d once heard their Irish grandma’am say that God was her friend above all others, that he walked with her and talked with her. The rest of the family thought the old woman was tetched in the head. But Mattie had said he knew for certain she wasn’t, because there was a kindness and gentleness and lightness of spirit in her that it seemed could only come from God himself.

  And Mattie had said something else about God that until now she’d forgotten. He said, and she couldn’t remember why he knew, that God had known about Hannah and loved her since before the beginning of time.

  As she sat with the Hawken across her knees and Sophronia by her side, Hannah thought about such a God … a God who had known her name and loved her long before she was born.

  It seemed like such a simple thing, yet it was profound in its tender simplicity. A God who knows my name. And loves me. She looked up at the heavens and considered the brilliant stars in the black velvet sky. Was there a God other than the one who called for revenge and the atonement of spilled blood? Was there really a God of love?

  Around her, the eerie silence breathed its fear into her, and Hannah’s heart pounded. God, she breathed, are you here?

  Beloved child, I have called you by name. You are mine.

  Sophronia suddenly tightened her grasp on Hannah’s hand, turning her niece’s attention to their present danger. “Did you hear that, child? A twig snapped,” she whispered. “There. Again. Did you hear it?”
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br />   Hannah did. She squeezed Sophronia’s hand in reply and waited as the moccasined footsteps approached. But they moved no closer. She waited again, almost afraid to breathe, for what seemed to be hours.

  The sky was turning ashen now, and the faintest hint of dawn outlined the eastern horizon barely visible through the pines. Hannah knew it wouldn’t be long before the attack. She only hoped their deaths would be merciful and quick.

  Again, the footsteps sounded, and she quickly stood, Hawken to shoulder. Beside her, Sophronia struggled to her feet, holding her own rifle. Almost as if acting on an unspoken order, a circle of savages stepped through the brush in front of them.

  “Stay back,” Hannah commanded, pointing the Hawken at the one she assumed was their leader. But the Utes continued to move forward. Their wild smell, or maybe it was her own fear, nauseated Hannah.

  “That won’t be necessary, my dear,” a calm and civilized voice said from outside the clearing. “You can lay down your arms.”

  Surprised, Hannah glanced at Sophronia, then back to the place the voice had come from. “Who is it? Show yourself,” she demanded, still holding the Hawken.

  “You know who I am,” said the voice. A moment later, John Steele stepped into the clearing. John Steele, Mormon agent to the Utes, the man who could command their every move. “And you are outnumbered, so I would suggest you drop your weapons immediately. You never know what might set these savages off.”

  Mutely, Hannah laid the Hawken at her feet. But Sophronia kept hers trained on John Steele. “Tell your aunt to drop her weapon,” he said evenly. “Now.”

  “Aunt Sophie, do as he says,” Hannah said, but Sophronia didn’t move. It was as if she didn’t hear Hannah’s voice. “Please, Sophie, put it down,” she said softly.

  “I’ve had enough of this nonsense to last a lifetime,” Sophronia muttered. Her arm was now shaking under the weight of the rifle. “And I’m not going back.”

  “You’re coming dangerously close to apostasy,” Steele said.

  “If I am, then I’m proud of it,” Sophronia muttered. “Proud indeed.”

  “Sophronia, you don’t know what you’re saying,” Hannah pleaded. “Please, put down the Hawken. Let’s talk to John and get this all straightened out.” Then her eyes met Steele’s. “John,” she said softly, “this isn’t what you think.”

  He laughed. “I know exactly what it is.” His voice was low, threatening.

  “It is exactly what he thinks, Hannah,” Sophronia said. “I don’t care if I have to shoot my way out of this, I’m not going back. And I’m not letting him take you back.”

  An Indian near to Sophronia drew a bowie knife from a sheath. Fearing for her aunt’s life, she grabbed for Sophronia’s weapon.

  But it was too late. Sophronia pulled the trigger.

  John Steele fell backward, a string of foul words spewing from his mouth. Blood spurted from his right shoulder, and he grabbed the place with his left hand, still swearing. He glared at the two women. “You’ll pay for this,” he breathed. “You’ll pay dearly.”

  Sophronia collapsed in Hannah’s arms.

  Hannah tended to her aunt then bandaged John’s shoulder where the bullet had nicked him. Solemnly the group, all on horseback, made its way back down the mountain to the Red Fork of the Weber.

  Sophronia remained silent, but as they rode John described to Hannah the details surrounding an apostate’s dishonorable trial.

  “You must also understand, dear,” he said with a smile, “once an apostate attempts to leave the Church, all property, all belongings, are confiscated. You and your aunt now have nothing to call your own. Nothing.”

  They rode in silence for several minutes as the information sank into the depths of Hannah’s despairing soul. “But don’t fear; you’ll be well cared for. Saints take care of our own.”

  When she didn’t answer, he laughed lightly. “Now, there is one way you can save your aunt’s life.” He laughed again. “Perhaps even her home, though never again will it be considered truly hers.”

  TEN

  John Steele asked to make an announcement the next Sunday at the bowery following the morning services. As if aware of the arrangement, the Prophet, smiling his congratulations, nodded his approval as John stepped onto the dais. Hannah caught her breath, wondering how she could possibly get through the ordeal.

  A pleased expression graced John’s face as he stood before the congregation. After a few words praising Hannah’s industrious and giving nature, he smiled and asked her to join him on the platform. Hannah understood very well the role she was required to play. With a smile and a nod, she held her head high and stepped onto the platform, taking her place by his side.

  But as she turned to face him, waves of suffocation threatened to overtake her.

  John took her hand then turned to the watching crowd. “May I be the first to introduce you to the next soon-to-be Mrs. John Steele,” he said in a proud tone. “Our dear Hannah McClary has consented to settle down into the proper life of a Saint, as my wife, as part of the Steele family.”

  He smiled down at her, his eyes menacing. Her stomach twisted, and she swallowed hard.

  “Even the angels in heaven are rejoicing this day,” he continued. “Hannah will soon be joining me, her holy husband, as one flesh, one spirit in celestial marriage. Our union, my friends, will be more than the joining of man and wife. It is a necessary step in our journey into eternity, especially Hannah’s journey to God. No wonder the angels rejoice!”

  There were murmurs of delighted agreement from the crowd. A scattering of “amens” rose from both the men and the women, along with some light applause.

  John turned toward Hannah, taking both her hands. Reluctantly, she again raised her gaze to his and straightened her spine to keep from shuddering. His expression was bright with feeling, but it contained no trace of the holy estate of which he spoke. She drew in a breath to calm herself, but to no avail.

  John lifted one of her hands and kissed her slender fingers as sweet sighs rose from the women in the congregation. The Saints loved a betrothal almost as much as they loved a wedding. The men and women assumed this was to be a natural coupling of man and woman, God-ordained, just as Joseph Smith and Brigham Young set forth. A young woman, with no man to care for her well-being, would soon have a close-knit family to care for her every need. And her husband-to-be would gain a higher place in heaven for taking her into his fold.

  Hannah turned again to the crowd and nodded, playing the role of John’s happy betrothed as best she could. She hoped John wouldn’t notice that her knees were trembling or that her hands had turned clammy.

  Her gaze swept across the crowd, finally resting on Sophronia, who sat in the back. But Hannah quickly looked away, unable to bear her aunt’s sorrowful face. She knew about her aunt’s slaughtered dreams, the dead hopes that lay cold in her heart. For they were the same as hers.

  But Lucas was at the heart of her desperate dreams. How different this announcement would have been had he been the one standing at her side. What celebration! What joy! Lucas! Her beloved. Oh, Lucas!

  Suddenly, Hannah no longer could find the strength to pretend false happiness or even contentment with her lot. Drawing in a deep breath, she tilted her face upward, as if seeking solace somewhere far distant from this place, this valley and its people.

  She pictured Lucas, the love in his eyes when he beheld her, the husky timbre of his voice when he spoke her name.

  John Steele was saying a few more words to the congregation, but Hannah heard only the noise of his voice.

  She stood mute, completely still, as more applause filled the room and several men called out thanks to God and the prophets for John’s good fortune.

  Tears filled Hannah’s eyes, and the people calling out their congratulations faded into watery, misshapen forms.

  The only image she could see clearly was Lucas’s face.

  “You’ll have to do better than that,” John Steele said an
hour later as he drove Hannah home from services. He was taking the longer route through some verdant orchards and fields to the north of the city. He flicked a whip over the backs of the high-stepping team of grays pulling the carriage. Hannah didn’t answer.

  “You brought me disgrace by your actions. Perhaps you don’t realize the honor I’ve bestowed on you, the mercy. You and your aunt could have been punished for your act of attempting to leave the valley. Instead, because of me and my position, doors will open to you.” He paused, flicking the reins. “Yet you stood before the congregation this morning like a lamb about to be slaughtered.”

  “I’m doing my best, Brother Steele,” she said. “You have to understand, this is all new to me. It’s … difficult.”

  He directed the carriage to the side of the road and halted the horses under a sycamore tree. “I’ve told you to call me John,” he said, facing her.

  “All right, John,” she said, giving him a tight smile. “Is that better?”

  He looked at her as if trying to assess her. “You do understand your position,” he said. “You’re not out of danger’s reach. At least not without my help.”

  “Of course I understand.” She lifted her chin to give him an unblinking assessment of her own. “I’m upholding my end of the bargain,” she said. “I’ve agreed to marry you, but I didn’t agree to like it. You can bully me into this sham of a betrothal, the disgrace of this union you call marriage, but you cant make me like it—or you.”

  He suddenly threw back his head and laughed out loud. “Ah, my dear,” he said finally, “don’t you see? The more you resist, the more irresistible you become. It’s your spirit that attracted me from the first time I saw you.” His words chilled her, and she turned away from him.

  John reached across the carriage seat, put his hand on her jaw, and turned her back around to face him. She recoiled, shrinking into the farthest corner of the bench seat. John’s hands dropped into his lap, but his fingers wrapped around the whip handle, white-knuckled.