The Wedding Gift

As I did my research for Resolution, I dug into the background stories of these people before they converted to Mormonism, before they immigrated to the Salt Lake Valley. One of the documents I found recounted an incident that shocked me. It provided a foundational insight into my great-great grandfather's capacity for cruelty and became the basis for Joseph Brown's character in Resolution.  

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"The Wedding Gift"

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A bite of cold air woke her. The scuttling of Joseph’s feet on the wood steps, a whiff of juniper. The morning ritual. Wood, fire, water. Rebecca watched her brother from the narrow bed that she shared with their mother. She could see the dusting of snow on his coat and his ice blue eyes above the scarf wound over his mouth and nose. He looked at her briefly then dropped his gaze to the load of wood in his arms. He would stack the wood next to the fire, haul in a heavy bucket of water from the cold rush of Mill Creek then saddle up their one horse to make the ride into Sugarhouse where he taught school, leaving his family in the dark.

          Rebecca lay there, long after Joseph had gone and watched the thin cracks around the window battens brighten with the rise of morning. She sat up and wiped her fingers into her eyes then glanced over her shoulder into the far corner of the dark room. Her sister-in-law, Eliza, was curled around her son, Hyrum, asleep on the bed she shared with Joseph; her mother’s steady snores rose from beside her.

Winter had arrived in mid-November with a wet deep snow that had marooned the three women and the boy inside the crude dugout. For six months, the women had nursed the coals, swept the red clay from the woven floor mat, mended their clothing, and watched their pitiful supply of flour and corn meal disappear. Only Joseph braved the thigh-deep snow, their lifeline to the other Saints in the valley.

          Rebecca slipped out of the covers and quickly dressed without waking her mother. Bright lines of light drew her to the heavy door. She lifted the latch and pushed with both hands, scraping against a foot of snow on the other side until it opened all the way to the bright daylight. She blinked at the brilliance of the sky, then took the broom next to the door and pushed the snow to the side of each step, a narrow pathway up to the March sunshine.

          The snow lay thick over the fields and trees. She could hear the gurgle of the creek flowing just beyond their wagon, hunched in the field, far from the dugout. Despite the new snow, there was a warmth from the bright sun. She tilted her face up to its glow with her eyes closed. “Please dear Lord,” she whispered, “let the spring finally come.”

           Joseph, with his new bride, had come to the valley two years before the other Browns arrived. Though he had little knowledge of farming, he had traded his skills as a cabinet maker to buy ten acres of land not far from the foothills of the Wasatch mountains. Good farmland, he had written to them, next to a cold mountain stream that flowed out of Mill Creek canyon. A stretch of cottonwood trees and willows clung to its banks. It was here, he had told them, that he would build them a house.

          Rebecca remembered the day Joseph had brought them home to Mill Creek. She, her mother, Sarah and her brother, Reuben, had stood wordless in front of the half-buried shelter, its teepee grass roof rising out of the packed bare dirt. Sarah and Rebecca had exchanged fearful glances and Reuben had willingly volunteered to go south with the Nelson company to build a new settlement in a place called Spanish Fork. No one had argued that he should stay.

          Trouble came soon after they moved into the dugout. The spring rains were brief, and by early June an intense heat had settled over the valley turning the green grass to a brittle yellow. Weeks passed without rain. Even the constant flow of Mill Creek withered into a trickle. In August, everyone whispered after church services about the long stretch without rain. Crops had dried up in the heat, then were chewed to the ground by clouds of black crickets. The wheat Joseph had planted pulled out of the dry ground like flax. Other than Eliza’s vegetable patch of stunted onions and squash, they had little saved for winter and had poorly planned for the additional mouths to feed. Even the Bishop’s storehouse had scant supplies for the families across the valley.

          The famine was the Lord’s test, the Prophet had exclaimed. To teach the Saints not to forget the word of the Lord. Joseph had sat next to his sister, his back rigid, his eyes glistening with belief as they had listened to the sermon. Rebecca had flushed a deep red, pushing away the doubts that had crept into her soul. Had it been a mistake, leaving England?

          The Mormon missionaries had told such amazing stories about Zion, how it would blossom like a rose, the Lord’s chosen place where they would build their new lives. But for the past year, her faith in the church had wavered and she struggled to believe that this barren valley had been worth leaving Bath and the man she had loved for more than seven years.

           Joseph had always disapproved of Martin. “He’s not worthy of you,” he had insisted shortly after they had been baptized into the church. “You must forget him and find someone who believes in the Gospel, Becca.” She had looked away, unable to meet the ice of her brother’s blue eyes.

          Though ten years younger than Rebecca, Joseph was the head of their family. He had been ever since Papa’s death. His power over their family only deepened after they had joined the Mormon church and Joseph had received the priesthood. But, despite Joseph’s orders, she had refused to forget Martin. And since she had left England, she had faithfully written to him, nursing the fragile hope that he would listen to the missionaries and join her here in Zion. For the two years she had been gone, there had been no word from Martin. England now seemed a thousand years and a million miles away.

          Rebecca shivered despite the warming sun and walked around the dugout into the snowy field when she heard horse hooves and the rumble of wagon wheels. Shielding her eyes from the bright sun, she watched a wagon approach. Joseph sat next to an older man who handled the reins of two horses. Joseph’s horse, Polly, followed at a slow clop, tied to the back of the wagon,. Joseph looked thin beneath his heavy coat and the fringe of his scraggly auburn beard sharply accentuated his long, pale face. He called out to her as the wagon pulled to a stop in front of her.

          “Rebecca, this is Brother Rigby. He and his wife live up in East Mill Creek.” Rebecca nodded at the older man next to her brother. “Brother Rigby runs the mill at the mouth of the canyon.” Wallace Rigby was a heavyset man in his late fifties with ruddy cheeks that shone above a grizzled beard. He touched his hat.

          “Sister Brown,” he said in acknowledgement. Joseph climbed down from the wagon and pulled a sack of flour from behind the seat. He put it up on his shoulder and walked around to the back of the wagon where he picked up a limp bundle of feathers, a bird the size of a small chicken. “Martha and I are happy to share our small blessings with your family.”  Rebecca began to cry at the sight of the food. “There now, Sister Brown. We must all count on each other,” he warmly assured her. “In fact, your brother has kindly offered your help to me and my wife.” He glanced toward Joseph who finally joined them. 

          “Rebecca, Sister Rigby has been fighting a bad cough for more than a week. And doesn’t seem to be getting any better. When Brother Rigby mentioned his concern, I thought of how good a nurse you were to Father and told him you would be happy to help.” Rebecca looked at Joseph and then up at Brother Rigby, fighting back the knot of anger in her throat.

          “I’m so sorry to hear about Sister Rigby,” she quietly stated and looked down at her wet shoes and hemline. “I would be happy to offer any help…” She knew that she had no choice. Joseph had decided for her.

          Joseph set the sack of flour on the bench of the wagon and put his arm around Rebecca’s shoulders and whispered in her ear, “Thank you, Rebecca. I knew I could count on you.” She shivered involuntarily and pulled herself out of his arm.

          “Why don’t I get a few things from the house and then come with you, Brother Rigby.”

          “That would be very fine, Sister Brown. I do need to get back.”

          Joseph picked up the flour and waited for her to step down into the dugout before he followed her. When they entered, Sarah met them at the door and signaled the need for quiet, pointing toward Eliza and Hyrum who were still deeply asleep. Joseph kissed his mother lightly and placed the flour sack and dead grouse on the small table in front of the fireplace.

          Without speaking, Rebecca put on her hat and took down several bundles of dried herbs from the shelf above the fireplace and placed them in a crudely woven basket. Her mother watched her, a question on her lips. “I’m going with Brother Rigby, Mummy. Sister Rigby is not well. And Joseph has exchanged me… my help for food.” She motioned with her chin toward the bird on the table. She kissed her mother lightly on the cheek and walked out of the cabin without acknowledging Joseph. She picked her way across the trampled snow to Wallace’s outstretched hand. It was warm and firm as she climbed up to the bench.

          Joseph had followed Rebecca out of the dugout with Sarah behind him.  “Thank you again, Brother Rigby. You have been an answer to our prayers.”

          Wallace looked at Joseph and Sarah standing at the top of the stairs, then at Rebecca’s sharp profile as she looked straight in front of her. “We thank you for sharing Sister Brown with us.,” he stated, then he snapped the reins over the horses’ backends and drove away.

 

 

They followed the muddy country road, past the far strung farmhouses. The steady rocking motion of the wagon soothed Rebecca and helped tamp down the quiet anger she felt toward Joseph. Perhaps she was wrong to harbor such negative feelings. Joseph carried the burden for all of them. She knew that they were dependent on him. But with the winter cold and lingering hunger pangs even the smallest interaction rankled her. He rarely asked about their feelings or sought their suggestions. Instead, their paltry suppers were cold and silent events, punctuated by Joseph’s lengthy prayers for forgiveness of their pride and admonition to obey the brethren. Which meant Joseph. He allowed no one to question his decisions. 

           Rebecca glanced at Wallace Rigby as she scanned the rising hillside and rolling fields. He kept his gaze steady on the muddy road that wound up the valley floor toward the Wasatch mountains, deep in thought. The sun warmed the heavy woolen lap rug that Wallace had provided her. Her heart lifted at the comfort of the bright morning sky. A phoebe called out across the melting snow fields. The edge of anger was finally easing,

           “I’m sorry to hear about Sister Rigby. Can you tell me a bit more about her illness?” Rebecca understood caretaking. She had nursed Eliza through the early months of her second pregnancy when morning sickness had left her tiny sister-in-law barely able to get out of bed. She had mastered a range of brews to settle an upset stomach.

           “It came on gradual...about two weeks ago,” Wallace began. Rebecca studied him as he spoke to the swaying backsides of the horses. “Got worse the last few days. She’s had a fever since yesterday with a terrible cough. She is so weak now…” He pressed his lips together to control his rising emotions. He quickly glanced at Rebecca then away, fighting to regain his composure. 

           “You are terribly worried.” He swallowed hard and nodded. Rebecca looked away and said nothing more. The valley was rising steadily ahead of them, and the horses puffed noisily and strained through the mud. She knew how hard it was to watch a loved one suffer. It had been a long time since she had thought about Papa’s death. She shivered and pulled her woolen shawl closer around her.

          Wallace quickly looked at her, his eyebrows knitted in concern. “Are you warm enough, Sister Brown?” 

          “Yes, yes, I am. The sun is warming things up more and more.” She gave him a quick smile and turned her face up toward the sunlight. Best not think about some things, she told herself.  “Have you been in the valley a long time?” she asked.

          “We came with the third party, nearly ten years ago. We were in Nauvoo with the Prophet.” He would have been there when Joseph Smith and his brother Hyrum were murdered, she mused. Rebecca studied Wallace more closely. 

          “You have seen many things, I imagine,” she replied solemnly.

          “And you? When did you come?” 

          “Oh, my...this is our second spring in the valley. So, one and a half years ago. Joseph and Eliza came before my mother and brother and I.” It seemed impossible to think that so much time had passed since they had joined the Church.

          “And your father? I take it he’s not with you.” Rebecca squinted against the sun as she blinked back sudden tears. She had not thought about her father for so long, and now this day… there were too many memories that had been carefully tucked away. They rode in silence for several minutes before she answered.

          “No. He passed away in England. Before we joined the Church.”  Papa had been the light and the darkness of their family. He was loud with a generous laugh most times. And he’d loved his family. Almost as much as he’d loved his ale.

          The wagon trail climbed the valley benches toward the mouth of Mill Creek Canyon and the Rigby cabin that was sheltered in a clump of wild oak and willows. The entire valley lay before them, empty and white with snow. Rebecca scanned the open expanse and thought about that October afternoon when she and her family had first arrived. Without warning, she was flooded with an ache of sadness. Why hadn’t Martin written to her?

          Wallace climbed down from the wagon and tied the reins to a post before walking around to help Rebecca. She could see that he was anxious. Without speaking, he led her to the whitewashed adobe brick house and opened the door. Rebecca could hear Martha’s ragged coughing from the porch. She clutched her basket and followed him into the room. A fire burned steadily in the fireplace on one end of the room and a pot-bellied stove at the other end churned heat through its grate. It was stiflingly hot. Martha Rigby sat in a willow rocking chair in front of the fire, swaddled in a heavy quilt. She looked up at her husband with a fevered stare and drew herself deeper into her covers. 

          “I can’t seem to get warm,” she mumbled. Rebecca could see her body quiver with an onset of chills. 

          “Martha, this is Sister Brown. She’s come to help you.” Wallace’s voice was authoritative, yet tender. 

          Martha peered up at him. “Who?” she squawked.

          “Rebecca Brown, the schoolteacher’s sister. Do you remember this morning he came by?” Wallace knelt on one knee next to her chair and took her hand in both of his. Martha studied her husband’s face intently then looked over his shoulder toward Rebecca. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but only swallowed hard and nodded. Another coughing spasm quickly followed. The raw and rasping sound filled the room. Rebecca took off her bonnet and shawl, then stepped to Wallace’s side.

          “Brother Rigby, would you please put a kettle of water on. I will make an herbal tea to help settle her cough.” She knelt in front of Martha when the coughing at last subsided. “Sister Rigby. There’s no need to speak. Just rest.” She put her cool hand against the older woman’s forehead. Martha closed her eyes under the gentle touch as if willed to sleep. “You are burning up with fever. Brother Rigby, we need to cool her down. Can you bring me a cloth and a bowl of cold water?”

          Wallace pulled himself up stiffly and looked about the room, confused momentarily until his eye fell upon the kettle. He muttered to himself as he carried it outside. Within a few minutes he had returned and placed the kettle on the pot belly stove. Rebecca watched him and suppressed a smile. He seemed lost and confused.

          “There’s a dish cloth over on that table, Brother Rigby. Please pour some of that water into a bowl while it is still cool, then bring it to me.” He quickly obeyed, relieved by her explicit instructions. With two hands, he carefully carried a bowl of water that he had filled from the kettle to where Rebecca was kneeling. She took it from him and placed it on the floor next to her. Wallace watched her wring the cloth and gently lay it against Martha’s cheeks and forehead, marveling at how Martha murmured contentedly.

          “Oh, that feels so good…” she whispered. Rebecca repeatedly dipped the cloth into the bowl of cool water and gently wiped Martha’s neck and arms. Martha leaned back into the pillows and pulled open the throat of her nightgown for Rebecca’s touch.

          “There now,” Rebecca murmured. “Lay there and rest while I brew some special tea for you.” She rose from the floor and looked about the tidy house and found a cupboard with porcelain dishes, painted with delicate pink roses. “How lovely.” She took a cup and saucer from the upper shelf, reminded of the dishes they had once owned in Bath. Without wasting time, she placed a generous scoop of dried rose petals and lemon balm into the cup. “This should help you relax, Sister Rigby, and to sleep.”

          Throughout the morning and into the afternoon, Rebecca refilled the teacup and tenderly wrapped cool cloths against Martha’s forehead while she slept intermittently between long fits of coughing. Wallace sat in the chair next to them and watched in silence. His eyebrows were drawn together in unsettled concern as he listened to his wife’s ragged breathing. 

          “Brother Rigby, I am not a nurse, and I do worry that your wife may have pneumonia. You may best seek more help than I can give. Perhaps you could send one of your children to get help.” Wallace looked from Rebecca to his sleeping wife, whose pale skin seemed translucent against the dark wool quilt pulled up around her shoulders.  

          “We have no children,” he replied woodenly, “...that are living. Three babies but not one lived past a day. How can I leave her? It will take till tomorrow afternoon to bring someone.” Rebecca reached across and placed her hand on his two that lay cupped and useless in his lap. 

          “I will stay. You should go and I will be here with her till you come back.” He looked at his wife for several minutes without responding then stood up. Rebecca looked up at him and nodded gently to encourage him to go. 

          “I will return as quickly as possible,” he gruffly responded, fighting the emotion that clogged his throat. “There is bread and a bit of smoked meat in this cupboard.” He pulled on his coat and picked up his hat. He bent over his wife and gently kissed her forehead before walking to the door. He stopped and looked across the room at Rebecca. She looked at him expecting a final request, but instead, “Thank you, Rebecca” was all he said before he left

 

Dr. Johnson brought Rebecca back to the dugout late the following day. She had slept only a few hours and was overwhelmed with exhaustion when she climbed down the steps and into the warm darkness of the dugout. Sarah looked at her with relief and concern when she entered, and quickly crossed the room to take the basket from Rebecca’s hands. Eliza sat near the fire, embroidering a delicate piece of fabric, and watched from her chair. Hyrum sat at her feet playing with a stick doll.

           Rebecca was too tired to speak. She took off her bonnet and shawl and gratefully passed them off to her mother. “A very long day and night…” were her only words. She walked catatonically to the narrow bed she shared with Sarah and collapsed. Sarah and Eliza exchanged glances, a silent agreement to let Rebecca sleep. It was several hours later when Rebecca stirred. She awoke to the surprising smell of bread. Sarah had set out plates and a bowl of biscuits on the table. Rebecca sat on the edge of the bed; her mouth was dry, and her stomach growled with hunger.

          Sarah looked up and smiled at her daughter. “There now. You had a much-needed rest.”

          Eliza crossed the room and sat down next to Rebecca. “What happened? Sister Rigby?”

          Rebecca took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “She is very sick. I don’t really know if she will make it. Dr. Johnson seemed to think things will turn tonight...for better or ... she won’t make it.” 

           “Oh, that is such a sadness,” Eliza whispered. “Is Dr. Johnson going back to the Rigby’s?” 

           “No. He spent a long time there. Left some medications with Brother Rigby and instructions to give her water and food even if she protests. She is so weak now.” Rebecca covered her face with her hands and pressed her fingers against her eyes. “I stayed through the night while Brother Rigby was gone to get Dr. Johnson.” Sarah left the fire and sat on the other side of Rebecca. “Oh Mummy, it felt more like watching over her coffin than her alive. She lay so still, all pale and thin. Until her cough would come back and shake her little body till I thought she would cough blood.” Sarah put her hand on Rebecca’s knee. The glow of the fireplace filled the room with deep shadows. After a few minutes, Sarah got up and walked over to the cast iron pot hanging above the yellow flames and stirred its content with a long wooden spoon. 

          A horse neighed outside the dugout, and they heard heavy footsteps stamping on the wooden steps outside the door. Cold air penetrated the warm room as Joseph threw open the door, his arms full of split wood. Eliza quickly went to him and closed the door as soon as he was through the doorway. Joseph set the logs next to the fireplace and wiped his hands on his heavy coat. All the women were looking at him. He scanned their faces. “Good evening to you all. Rebecca, how did things go with Sister Rigby?” He took off his coat and hat as he spoke, landing a quick kiss on Eliza’s cheek. Rebecca looked at him as she pulled her hair back and resecured the loose strands in the clip at the nape of her neck. 

          “She’s very ill,” she stated quietly. She didn’t know why she felt the edge of anger toward her brother. She hadn’t thought of him at all while she tended Martha Rigby. But now, here in the dark of their small, shared room, the suppressed irritation returned and settled over her.

          Joseph didn’t notice. “That was a great service, I am certain. Brother Rigby is a fine man. Supper smells good, Mum. Thank you.” His voice boomed with energy, set off by the women’s silence. “I think that the snow will be gone by tomorrow. Feels like spring may finally be coming.” He didn’t seem to address any of the women in particular. They watched him as he moved about the kitchen, trained to wait for his signal that it was time for them to gather. Joseph tousled Hyrum’s hair as he took a chair next to his son. “I have been reading up on orchards. And I think this spring we should get some cuttings and plant them.” He pulled his chair to the table. Rebecca quietly crossed the room and sat next to Joseph. Sarah gathered the plates from the cupboard and filled each one with the thin stew from the pot. Eliza took a seat across from Rebecca and held Hyrum on her lap.

          “That seems an interesting idea,” Sarah replied as she handed her son his plate. 

          “Brother Sessions has an excellent orchard in the North Canyon Ward, and he has said that he would help me get started.” When all the plates had been placed on the table, Sarah took her seat and waited for Joseph to bless their supper. They dropped their hands into their laps as he prayed.

          After the amen, Rebecca carefully lifted a spoonful of hot soup to her mouth. “Will you be going into town?” she asked tentatively.

          “Yes, in fact, I’m planning to go this Saturday. I have a cabinet and bookshelf to offer in exchange.”

          After a long silence, Rebecca straightened her back and turned to her brother. “Would you please take a letter when you go?” Her heart jumped a beat as she watched his face darken into a scowl. 

          “Not to that worthless Martin Whitcomb, I hope.” Sarah and Eliza both looked down at their plates and remained silent. Rebecca flushed a dark red.

          “I do not think that it is your place to pass judgment, Joseph.” Rebecca was surprised to find the courage to speak against her brother. 

          “And I do not think that it is your place to defy the Patriarch of your household,” Joseph acidly shot back. “I do not approve and have never approved of your relationship with this...unworthy suitor.” An awkward silence settled over the table. Rebecca could not find the words to speak.   

          Sarah hesitantly spoke up. “Martin is a good man, Joseph.” Her voice was meek. Joseph gave his mother a stony glance and slammed his spoon down on the table.

          “It’s time to let Martin go, Rebecca. You have a new life here in Zion. And if you can let this man go, I promise you, Rebecca, the Lord will bless you.” Tears filled Rebecca’s eyes and a knot filled her throat. “He lacks ambition and had his chance. I’d rather see you dead than see you waste your life waiting for such a man.” It was more than Rebecca could bear. She pushed herself away from the table, grabbed her shawl and left the dugout. The night air was crisp but welcoming on her wet face. Cold stars filled the sky and the ground crunched beneath her shoes as she walked out into the field. 

          Watching Wallace Rigby’s tender care for his wife had reawakened Rebecca’s longing for her own home, for a life with the man she had loved for so long. Could Joseph be right though? Was she wasting her time, keeping her future pinned to the narrow hope that Martin would ever join the Church and marry her? White patches of snow gleamed in the starlight. The gurgle of Mill Creek filled the darkness. Rebecca covered her face in her hands and sobbed. She didn’t notice Eliza’s quiet steps until she was close beside her. Eliza placed an arm around Rebecca’s waist and rested her cheek against her sister-in-law’s shoulder. 

          “Am I so wrong, Eliza?” she whispered. Eliza studied her before speaking. 

          “Who is to say who we should love…” They held each other, shivering in the darkness. “It is for you to decide, Rebecca.” Eliza reached up and wiped the tears from Rebecca’s face and gently patted her cheek. “Joseph means right.” Rebecca nodded and lifted her skirt to wipe her nose.

          “Yes, I suppose. But he makes it awfully hard … his arrogance. He’s always been the one telling us what to do.” Eliza laughed softly. 

          “I know. It can be hard to bear sometimes. But he is watching out for you. And he does love you, Rebecca. I sometimes think he’s more scared than he dares let on. He can’t be weak...or wrong.” 

          “He’s lucky to have you, Eliza.” Rebecca murmured. Again, Eliza laughed lightly and held Rebecca’s hands. 

          “I hope so! Come, let’s go in so we don’t freeze out here in the dark.” Eliza pulled Rebecca toward the dugout. “Such a sky!” she muttered looking up at the expanse of stars. “Tomorrow should be a glorious day.” Holding hands, they picked their way across the field and stepped down into the dugout’s warmth. 

 

The following day was filled with a warm sunshine that lapped up the last remnants of snow and winter. The Wasatch mountains rose like frosty sentinels at the edge of the greening valley. Everywhere, signs of new life emerged. The women were eager to be outside and worked together to wash and hang out the floor mats, the quilts and bedding. They opened the windows and door to their dark home. The light cut through the gloomy interior and filled the room with freshness. Hyrum played at their feet, nesting in a clump of new grass.

          At the end of the week, when the earth had dried out and the paths became navigable, Rebecca asked Sarah if she would walk with her to the Rigby’s mill to check on Martha. There had been no word, and during the passing days, Rebecca had been filled with a gnawing concern. Despite the four-mile trek up the valley floor, Sarah was pleased to accept her invitation. It was a beautiful day for a long walk. Halfway up the crisscrossing wagon road toward the mouth of Mill Creek canyon, Dr. Johnson pulled up next to them in his small wagon. 

          “I thought that was you, Rebecca,” he said as he pulled the reins on his horse and stopped next to the two women.  “Good day, Sister Brown,” he nodded toward Sarah. Rebecca gave Dr. Johnson a warm smile.

          “Yes, we thought we would go check on Sister Rigby. Such a glorious day for a walk. I pray she is doing better?” Rebecca looked up at Dr. Johnson’s drawn face and her heart skipped a beat. 

          “I wish I could say that was so. No, I fear she is not making much improvement. But no doubt a visit would do Brother Rigby good. I am heading up that way. Can I take you and save you a mile or so?” He patted the bench seat next to him. 

          Before much time had passed, they pulled into the secluded grove of trees that surrounded the Rigby’s house. Dr. Johnson helped Sarah down from the bench seat, then came around to the back and took Rebecca’s hand as she awkwardly climbed out of the wagon box. The two women followed the doctor to the front door and stood a few steps behind him when he knocked. 

          Wallace Rigby opened the door. Rebecca was startled to see how tired he looked. His eyes were puffy and red. He smiled wearily when he realized Rebecca and Sarah were with Dr. Johnson and combed his messy hair with his fingers. “Well, this is a surprise...a nice surprise.” He glanced at Sarah, but his eyes settled on Rebecca. 

          Rebecca smiled and dropped her eyes while she spoke. “I felt I needed to come look in on Martha, Brother Rigby.” She lifted her gaze and searched his face. “How is she doing?” He heaved a deep sigh and opened the door wide for his guests to enter. 

          “She only wants to sleep. Please, please come in.” They followed Dr. Johnson into the dark cabin that had a cloying smell of decay. Both women put their hands up to their faces to block the intruding odor. In the far corner, they caught sight of the bed where Martha Rigby lay amid a mountain of rumpled blankets. There was no movement. Wallace followed their gaze to the bed, and stammered, “She’s been asleep since this morning. She looked at me and then went back to her deep sleep.” 

          Sarah put her hand on Wallace’s arm. “You must be exhausted, Brother Rigby. Please go sit down. We are here to help.” He looked at her dumbly, as if she were speaking to him in another language. It was clear that he had not slept for a long time. Rebecca stepped around her mother and sat down in the rocking chair that was close to her pillow. Rebecca removed her bonnet and held it in her lap while she watched Sister Rigby’s ragged breathing. It sent a chill through Rebecca as she thought about her father. The deep sucking of air followed by a long exhale. Martha’s eyelids looked wet and were the color of yellow wax. Her mouth hung open as she drew in each breath. Rebecca touched her forehead. It felt cold. 

          Dr. Johnson had stepped away from Wallace and stood beside the bed. He and Rebecca looked at each other in solemn understanding of what was happening. Martha Rigby was dying. He also put his hand on her forehead, then lifted her thin arm from beneath the blankets to check her pulse. He stood there a long time, a deep frown on his face while he looked at his shoes. Finally, he gently placed her limp hand on her chest and lifted the blanket to her chin. Rebecca watched and sat very still. It would perhaps be this very day, she thought. 

          Sarah had filled the teapot with water and was busy putting teacups on the table. She looked up when Dr. Johnson crossed the room to stand next to her. He gazed out the window to the warming spring day. The grass around the scrub oaks was already several inches high, thick and emerald. “Spring is always a bit of a miracle,” he muttered. He took a deep breath and turned around to look at Wallace Rigby who sat at the table, hunched over his hand, looking only at the narrow grain in the wood table. Dr. Johnson pulled out the chair next to him and sat down. Wallace looked over at him. With barely a movement of his head, the doctor signaled his message. 

          “How long?” Wallace asked. 

          “Today…. maybe tomorrow. I’m afraid I won’t be of much use anymore, Wallace. And I need to get down to see the Steadman boy. Shot himself in his foot by accident.” Dr. Johnson pushed back his chair and looked up at Sarah who had her back to them as she soundlessly spooned loose tea into the teapot.

 “Sister Brown, it would be a kind…” Sarah turned around and looked at both men.

          “Of course, we will stay, Dr. Johnson, Brother Rigby. We are happy to be here to help.” Wallace Rigby’s face crumpled, and he buried his face in his large, square hands. His sobs filled the room. The doctor stood up and placed his hand on the weeping man’s shoulder until the spasm of grief ended.

          Wallace wiped his face on his sleeve and blinked away the tears hanging on his lashes. “I cannot thank you enough, sisters,” he choked as he looked over at Rebecca and then to Sarah.

          Rebecca stood up and stilled the rocking chair with her hand. Poor Wallace. She wanted to cross the room to him, to touch him with some reassurance. But she didn’t move.

          “Do you have family here, Wallace? Someone you would like me to notify?” the doctor asked as he gathered his hat and medical bag.

          “Ah, mmm, no. Martha and I came without family. It’s been just us two for quite a while.” Wallace tried to normalize his voice as he answered. The doctor nodded.

          “I’ll send up Bishop Warren.” He kept his hand on the door handle as he gave a last look at the bed and Rebecca. “Martha is in good hands.” He placed his hat on his head and opened the door. The light chirp of birds seemed a shocking contrast to the tomblike feel of the house. 

          Martha’s breathing became a deep rattle that filled the quiet room throughout the afternoon. Sarah, Rebecca, and Wallace sat at her bed without speaking. At different times, each would stand, walk to the window, then return without speaking. The hours passed slowly, and the afternoon settled into a deepening dusk. As the full rise of stars filled the window, Martha Rigby took a deep, jagged breath that she slowly exhaled until there was no movement, no sound. The three who watched over her studied her stilled form, waiting for a last signal of life. When none came, Wallace stood up and quietly placed his hand over her forehead and eyelids.

          “Sleep well, my dear,” was all he whispered.

 

The spring weather bloomed into a radiant April and May. Rebecca had never welcomed sunlight and flowers more eagerly. Each morning, as she escaped the dark hold of the dugout, she lifted her face to the bright warmth, energized with an unspoken hope. Joseph had announced that he had exchanged carpentry work for a load of adobe bricks. He would build a new house that summer. Eliza’s pregnancy had finally started to show; she looked healthy and smiled more. The bishop’s storehouse was filling up with communal sacks of flour and meat. Sarah had received a letter from Reuben begging her and Rebecca to come live with him in Spanish Fork. A promise of change was ahead of them. 

          Rebecca, hoe in hand and her floppy bonnet shielding her face, stood in the middle of their vegetable garden. The scritch of her hoe kept pace with her thoughts about the coming summer and a new place to live. She smiled to herself, lost in her thoughts, until she heard wagon wheels on the lane leading up to their dugout. She swept the brim of her bonnet up so she could see and was both pleased and startled to see Wallace Rigby. She waved at him and waited for him to ride up next to the garden. 

          “Whoa,” he called to the animals as he pulled on the reins and stopped the wagon. The dust rose then settled in a puff behind him. “Good morning, Rebecca.” He gave her a timid smile. It had been nearly three months since Martha’s funeral.

          “Well good morning to you as well, Wallace,” Rebecca returned as she stepped over the rows of early vegetables and walked to the wagon. Wallace took off his hat and wiped his forehead on his sleeve. Rebecca noticed that he was dressed in his Sunday coat, his beard trimmed, and his boots clean from mud. “You look all dressed up! Are you on your way to town?” she asked. 

          He glanced down at her and flushed a light red color as he put his hat back on his head. He cleared his throat. “No...no, I thought...well, I wanted to come see you, and ah, tell you how much I appreciated your help with Martha. And, I was thinking, it’s such a beautiful day… I wondered if perhaps you would like to … go for a ride…” His words caught her off guard. She glanced around her to check he was speaking exclusively to her, then back up at him. 

          “Oh, well, my, of course you are so welcome. I was, we were happy to help you, and…. that sounds like a wonderful invitation. But...I still have the last of my chores. Would you like to have a drink of water and maybe sit down under the cottonwood tree over there for a bit?” She was flustered. This felt somehow wrong. She looked over at the dugout doorway and could see her mother at the small table inside. “I’m sure Mummy would love to say good morning.” 

          Wallace pulled on the wagon brake and climbed down. He dusted off his coat in an awkward motion. “I would love to say good morning to her as well.” Rebecca wiped her hands on her dress then took a few steps to the dugout stairs.

          “Mummy, come see who is here for a visit,” she called out. Sarah came to the doorway, drying a plate with a gray dish rag.

          “Well, what a nice surprise! It is a pleasure to see you again, Brother Rigby. What brings you down from East Mill Creek?” She noticed his quick glance toward Rebecca and the rise of color in his cheeks as he quickly pulled his hat from his head. 

           “To thank you again, tell you how much your help with Martha meant to me.”

          Sarah gave him a warm smile.  “It is what we do for each other,” she replied. There was an awkward pause as Sarah waited for him to speak.

          Rebecca stepped forward and touched his arm. “Please come take a seat by the creek, Wallace. It’s nice in the shade there.” Wallace turned to her gratefully, his face lit up by her voice. She gently pulled him toward the rushing water of the wide creek. The Browns had set up an outdoor table with two benches under the wide branches of a young cottonwood tree. Wallace willingly followed her and took a seat at the table. “I’ll bring us something to drink,” she added, then turned back to the dugout and to her mother. She and Sarah exchanged questioning glances.

          Sarah walked over to Wallace. “It was a beautiful service, Brother Rigby. I didn’t know your wife, but from the kind remarks, it sounds like she was a very good person.” Wallace looked down at his hands.

          “She was. She was a wonderful wife and would have been a wonderful mother. It was a great sadness to us both that our family never grew. We both had hoped for children.” His voice was steady, but soft.  He looked up as Rebecca came out of the dugout carrying a tray with a crock pitcher and three cups. He stood up and took the tray from her. Rebecca watched, amused, as he carefully placed it on the table, then stepped to his side and poured water from the crock into each cup. 

          “Here…” she said as she handed him a drink and one to her mother. “Won’t you please sit down. I just need to put away some things. Mummy, Brother Rigby has invited us to go for a ride on this beautiful day. Isn’t that a nice offer?” Sarah’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

          “Well, yes. That is a nice offer.” She looked at her daughter and then at Wallace who seemed a little deflated. She paused. “But I really must wait for Joseph and Eliza. No, you go. Enjoy this pretty day.” Rebecca gave her mother a panicked look. Sarah smiled at her. “No. I’ll be fine. You two go ahead.” She walked back to the house, leaving them alone in the shade of the cottonwood tree.

 

Later that afternoon, Wallace delivered Rebecca to the Browns’ farm. Sarah watched their return from her seat beneath the cottonwood tree. She noted that neither spoke as they bumped over the ruts of the lane and finally pulled up a short distance from the dugout. Rebecca looked over at Wallace then climbed down from the wagon without waiting for his help. She looked up at him and gave him a worried smile. Wallace looked as if he were about to say something, but instead, he just nodded. She gave him a reserved wave then turned away. He straightened his back and shook the reins. As he turned the wagon around, he lifted his hat at Sarah. She acknowledged him with a nod and watched the wagon grow small as it cut across the field. After it was nearly out of sight, she got up and went to the dugout.

          Rebecca was sitting at the small table just inside the doorway. She held her bonnet in her lap and seemed to be engrossed by its faded fabric. Sarah watched from the doorway and waited for her daughter to look up at her. When at last she did, Sarah only lifted her eyebrows, eyes wide with curiosity

          “He asked me to marry him,” Rebecca murmured quietly. Sarah moved to the table and stood next to Rebecca; she placed her hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “Brother Brigham has called him to build a sawmill in Tooele...he wants me to go with him. As his wife.” Neither of them moved. The silence was heavy as each weighed this new information. 

          “What did you tell him?” Sarah asked. 

          “I didn’t know what to say.” Rebecca studied the bonnet with a frown. “I told him I had to think about it.” 

Sarah walked around the table and sat across from her daughter. “He seems to be a good man…” Rebecca nodded without looking up. “And perhaps this…”

Rebecca closed her eyes and pinched her lips tightly. Tears slid down her cheeks, following the curve of her nose. “Oh Mummy. He must be your age! And besides…. if I marry him, then, it’s over.” Sarah knew what she meant. She waited. “I just finally give up the hope of … of love.” She brought her curled fingers up to her mouth as a sob escaped from her throat. 

“Oh Rebecca. Love is just a small piece of life. And it grows with time.” She reached across the table and put her hand on her daughter’s arm. From the doorway, she caught sight of Joseph and Eliza returning home from the city. Rebecca looked up in anxiety at the sound. “We should ask Joseph,” her mother simply stated. Rebecca watched the wagon pull up in front of the doorway and watched her brother alight from the seat and lift Hyrum to the ground. Eliza slid across the bench and let her tall husband lift her down as well. It felt like an eternity before they finally stepped down into the dugout. Eliza’s face glowed from the sunshine but when she saw Rebecca’s worried and teary face, she stopped at the doorway. Her hand flew to her mouth. 

“What’s wrong?” she breathed. Before either could answer, Joseph came up behind her, Hyrum sitting high on his shoulders, straddling his neck. He took in the scene with surprise. 

“Wallace Rigby paid a visit to Rebecca this afternoon.” Sarah still held on to Rebecca’s arm as she spoke. “He has asked her to marry him.”

“Marry him!” Eliza repeated in surprise. “But his wife has been dead but two months!”

“Wallace Rigby is a fine man,” Joseph quickly countered. “You should accept, Rebecca.” Eliza turned and looked up at Joseph in shock. 

“Joseph,” Eliza said, “this is Rebecca’s decision.” Joseph ignored her. He lifted Hyrum from his shoulders and crouched next to Rebecca so he could look directly at her face. 

“Rebecca. You are going on to thirty-five years old next month. Wallace Rigby is a successful man and is highly esteemed by the Brethren. This is a good match. He will take good care of you.” Joseph’s voice was firm and loud, as if Rebecca were hard of hearing.   

“But he is more than 20 years older than I am…” Rebecca whispered. “And I don’t…. have those kind of feelings for him.” She kept her eyes on her hands, afraid to look at Joseph. She knew he was scowling at her.

“Rebecca,” Joseph’s voice softened as he took her hand. “Look at me, sister.” He waited for her to raise her eyes. “The Lord brought you here, to Zion. This is where he wants you to be. And he has brought a good man now into your life. You need to trust that this is what the Lord wants for you.” Rebecca searched his face.

“Do you really think so,” she murmured.

“Yes. Yes, I do.” Joseph’s voice was adamant and full of energy. He stood up and looked  at Eliza who stood frozen in the doorway. “This is an answer to our prayers.” Eliza looked at him skeptically and then at Rebecca. 

Rebecca regained her composure, straightened her back and lifted her chin. “No! I must decide, Joseph. It isn’t the Lord’s decision. It’s mine.” Joseph’s eyes became a cold blue as he met her wavering gaze.

“Rebecca, you are not listening. It is not your decision. You need to follow the guidance of the Lord.” His voice was low, and the words came out clipped and slow. He held her gaze until, at last, she had to look away. Her shoulders crumpled forward as she succumbed to his power. Sarah and Eliza remained frozen, afraid to intervene.

When Rebecca dropped her chin to her chest, they each released a sigh of relief. Rebecca gave a slight nod of her head and whispered, “All right. I will do as you say.”

Joseph inhaled deeply through his nostrils and looked about the room at the women. “I will ride to Brother Rigby’s house tomorrow and tell him that you have accepted to be his wife.” He quickly walked out of the dugout to tend to the wagon without looking at any of the women in the room. 

​

The night before her wedding day, Rebecca took a rare hot bath that her mother had prepared for her in the solitude of the dugout while Joseph, Eliza and Hyrum ate supper outside. She set aside the light brown dress with tiny blue flowers that she would put on come morning.  Sarah poured warm water over Rebecca’s dark hair and stood ready with a blanket to wrap her once she had stepped out of the water. It was like being prepared for her final burial. She refused to imagine the coming day and night and shivered as she sat in the water studying her feet and ankles.

The family awoke early. The day promised a bright, hot sun. Joseph left the house to harness the horse to the wagon. Sarah said little as she helped Rebecca brush her hair and fasten the small buttons at the back of her dress. Eliza stepped to her sister-in-law and handed her a small, folded hanky. It had been ironed into a perfect small square, with the initials EBR neatly embroidered in blue thread. Around the edge of the soft white fabric, Eliza had stitched delicate rows of lace. Rebecca took it from her and studied it as tears filled her eyes.

“It is beautiful, Eliza,” she whispered. “Thank you.” She gathered her petite sister-in-law in her arms as she held back a tight sob then pulled away when she caught sight of Joseph stepping into the doorway.

“The wagon is ready,” he announced to the room. They were to meet Wallace Rigby at noon at the Endowment House where Brother Grant would marry them. Rebecca wiped her eyes with her fingers and tucked Eliza’s present into her satchel. Sarah stepped in front of her and placed a starched bonnet on Rebecca’s head and tied the long ties into a bow beneath her chin.

“There now. You are a lovely bride.” She smiled and patted Rebecca on her arms. Rebecca returned the smile though her heart squeezed inside her chest. Not only was she leaving to marry an essential stranger, but she was saying good-bye to her dearest companion, her mother. It was one more thought that she pushed aside. Not now. Not today.

She kissed Eliza good-bye, knelt to where her nephew clung to Eliza’s skirt, and quickly kissed his cheek before standing back up. “Good-bye, Eliza. Please write to me about the new baby.” The two women embraced a final time before Rebecca turned and faced her mother. Sarah’s mouth was a contorted line of grief.

“I love you, Mummy. Perhaps you can come live with us when we have settled.” Rebecca knew that Reuben would be coming to Mill Creek within the month to take Sarah to Spanish Fork, but believing in a possible future with her mother back in her life kept her from weeping inconsolably. Sarah swallowed hard and gave her daughter a forced smile of encouragement. Neither spoke as Rebecca turned from her mother and climbed out of the dugout for the last time. 

 

She and Joseph didn’t speak throughout the long ride into the city. She had nothing to say to him, so kept her face forward, the brim of her bonnet a tunnel to what was in front of her, and watched the valley change from open farmland to uniform blocks of houses. At last, they pulled up in front of a long, two-story building that anchored the corner of the square. The Endowment House. The skeletal construction of a large oval tabernacle rose in the center of the square, next to an immense hole dug for the foundation of a new temple.

Joseph tied the horse to the post and walked around to Rebecca, who waited, perched on the seat. He reached up his arms and looked at his sister with a straight, full gaze. They had not looked at each other so directly for many weeks. Rebecca didn’t move. She allowed herself a minute to look at her brother — without fear or hesitation. A final examination of what lay between them. At last, she dropped her gaze, slid to the edge of the seat, and accepted his help to leave the wagon. 

The bright sunlight left her blind when she stepped into the cool darkness of the Endowment house. She blinked and waited for her eyes to adjust until she finally saw Wallace standing across the room, watching her. Rebecca straightened her shoulders, lifting her chin, and offered Wallace a faint smile. He walked across the room to her and shyly took her hand to lead her back to meet the tall older man, Brother Grant, the second counselor to the Prophet. Joseph eagerly followed them and stepped in front of Rebecca to shake Brother Grant’s hand. Rebecca tried not to feel annoyed, angry. She had wanted Sarah. Not Joseph. But he was the head of their family, the patriarch, he had explained. It was right that he should be there. She turned her face to Wallace.

Could she be happy in this marriage? He had been kind to her. He had listened to her when she had told him that there was no possibility that she could return to Martha’s house as the new sister Rigby, and sleep in the same bed where his wife had died. This meant delaying the wedding a few weeks so Wallace could prepare a temporary place to live in Tooele. He had assured her that she would have her own place as soon as he could build it.

Rebecca looked closely at his face for the first time. She stood nearly as tall as him and could look into hazel-colored eyes. She studied the soft, full mouth framed by his greying beard. His eyebrows were wiry white caterpillars perched over his deep-set eyes. Could she learn to love him? He dropped his eyes timidly and took both of her hands in his. His dry and calloused fingers lightly held hers as Brother Grant invited them to follow him to begin the most sacred rites of the Church, the Endowments. After the hour-long session of scriptures and promises, she and Wallace finally knelt in front of Brother Grant to pronounce their vows of celestial marriage. When Rebecca rose from the soft cushion, she had become Wallace’s wife, bound to him through the end of time, forever shared with Martha Rigby.

Wallace’s demeanor lightened dramatically as he escorted his new bride out of the Endowment house and into the desert sunlight. Joseph followed them, a look of satisfaction on his face. He chatted amicably with Brother Grant, who had also walked with them to the entrance. Rebecca felt forgotten as she stood to the side of the doorway. Wallace had gone to get his wagon and had left her in Joseph’s care. At last, Joseph turned his attention to her. “Let me get your things, Rebecca.” She watched as he walked back to their wagon and pulled her satchel from behind the wagon seat as well as a flat package.

He set the satchel on the ground next to her feet. The package, held under his arm, was wrapped in heavy paper and tied with string. She looked at it briefly, not wanting to ask if it were for her. He smiled at her, pleased with himself.  “I have something for you to open later...when you are alone.” She had come to this marriage with so little. A gift was far from what she had expected. But perhaps he understood that she would need something of her own. Joseph quickly leaned down and kissed her cheek, just as Wallace walked up from behind Rebecca and joined them. As the two men shook hands, Rebecca’s feelings for Joseph softened. She held his gift against her and welcomed his kiss good-bye. 

 

The last of the warm autumn weather turned cold just before the first of November. Rebecca was grateful that Wallace had fired up the pot belly stove before leaving her alone in their small cabin. She held her hands above the hot surface of the stove, then placed her warmed palms on her belly. For the past week she had felt the tiny flutter that seemed to lie just below her skin.

Their cabin was built at the mouth of Tooele canyon and stood high above the valley floor. From their doorway, she could look down across the grasslands that flowed northwest to the edge of the Great Salt Lake. At dusk, the sun seemed just beyond her reach as it slipped slowly behind the sharp ridge of Fremont Island. Behind her, the Oquirrh Mountains rose tall and sheltering. The trees that crowded the craggy ridgeline provided a steady source of timber to the expanding settlement.

The sawmill had been finished for nearly a month and demanded Wallace’s constant attention. He would be back late that evening he had told her when he kissed her forehead and said good-bye. Rebecca accepted the solitude. She had her own work to fill the day. A long overdue letter to Sarah, baking bread for their supper, and best of all, stitching the first small piece of clothing her new baby would wear.

She could not say she was happy. But she was not sad. During the first weeks there had been so much to do that she could not afford an inventory of her feelings. Wallace was a kind companion. And she was learning what it meant to be his wife. The sound and smell of him lying next to her. The weight of his arm draped over her in the middle of the night no longer kept her awake. She accepted his awkward kisses as he gently tugged at her night dress before rolling on top of her in a quiet eagerness that had left her pregnant within weeks of their wedding day. And once she stepped into her own small house, a twelve-by-sixteen foot room with a wood floor, a hearth, and windows with glass, she felt that perhaps she was home.

The wind picked up as the morning turned into a dark afternoon. A storm was coming. Rain would be welcomed after the heat of the long dry October. Rebecca had finished the dough that would become biscuits cooked in a Dutch oven later that afternoon. She wiped the last nubs of flour from the table, clearing a space where she could write a letter to her mother, telling her the news of the baby. Wallace had brought her Eliza’s letter two days ago when he had gone into the city for supplies. How wonderful it was to hear that Eliza’s baby had been born, a wee little girl who seemed to be hardy despite the winter of starvation. They had named her Caroline after Eliza’s sister. She was born in the new house Joseph had finished days before. There had been no news from Sarah who had been in Spanish Fork for over two months with Reuben. That worried Rebecca, but she knew that letters took a long time.

With the table wiped clean, Rebecca went to the leather trunk that held their few supplies to find paper. She rummaged through the blankets, books, and assorted clothing until she pulled up from the bottom of the trunk the package Joseph had given her on her wedding day. In the emotional chaos of that afternoon and first night as a bride, she had stuffed the package behind the other boxes and trunks in Wallace’s wagon. Finding a time to be alone would not happen for weeks, and by then, she had forgotten all about Joseph’s gift. But now, there it was, still wrapped in its paper and string. Rebecca lifted it out of the trunk. It was light, not large enough to hold much more than perhaps some money. Something Joseph would understand she might need. Hope rose in her throat as she thought about the cradle she might buy.

She lay the packet on the table and with her scissors from her sewing basket, quickly snipped the string. She turned it over, gently opening the heavy paper that was folded over a flat bundle of papers. She wrinkled her brow, her mind still trying to make sense of her brother’s gift. She lifted the flap of the bundle and gasped audibly as she realized what lay on the table. Her letters to Martin. Her stomach wrenched as she lifted each letter from the pile, recognizing her own handwriting, catching the first words, My Dearest Martin at the top of each. But then, at the bottom of the pile, lay two other letters, folded and sealed. She read her name written in a familiar handwriting and cried out although no one was there to hear her. She broke the seal of the top letter with a shudder of fear. Tears made the words impossible to read. Frantically, she wiped them with the back of her hand while holding the page in front of her. Her heart dropped into her stomach, and she let out a long painful groan.

“.... I have joined the Church and now wait for word from you….I will come if you still want to be together….please let me know as soon as you can….” It was dated January 1856. Rebecca’s mind whirled with images of Martin when she had last seen him, her imagination constructing his baptism, the hope and excitement as he wrote his letter. Her letters, pushed into Joseph’s hands, the angry look as he stuffed them in his coat pockets.

She dropped the paper and with shaking hands, ripped open Martin’s second letter. There were no words, only a large question mark scrawled across the page. She stared at it, not moving, not breathing, until a terrible wave of anger washed over her. Joseph’s words whispered again in her ear … I have something for you ... open it when you are alone ... she saw his face once again, felt his good-bye kiss. He had done this to her … and now there was no going back. He had created her destiny. She picked up the last letter and crushed it to her mouth. Grief filled her throat. There was no going back. It was over. She lay her face on top of the pile of letters and wept loud painful sobs.