PROLOGUE
LOUISA BEAMAN
Livonia, New York
August 1827
Our mother whistles for us as if she is calling a pack of dogs. Today I am the only one she is summoning. My older siblings’ tasks have taken them to town and my little sister is most likely attached to our mother’s hemline. I delicately stroke the small white flowers of the mugwort. I pick two, keeping the stems long. I secure them in my braids, one on each side. Mother will whistle again in a minute or so if I don’t appear on the ridge of our small farm. I sling the rucksack over my shoulder. It’s full of the other herbs I’ve been gathering all morning, mostly rosemary, lavender, wild onion, and cayenne.
White fluffy clouds hang low in the sky as I crest the small hill nearest the northern side of our property. The sheep cluster in the shade, hiding from the late summer sun; the cattle doze in the heat as their tails whisk the flies away. Close to the back of the house, two horses that aren’t ours are tied to the hitch post. I can’t imagine who would be coming to call when all my brothers and sisters are away. Curiosity causes me to pick up my pace.
After coming through the back door, I leave the rucksack in the kitchen and move toward the parlor. An unfamiliar male voice is speaking, asking for my father’s help. I stop in the hallway and listen. The man explains he and his brother need help translating a sacred something of gold. Did he say a gold plate? I don’t quite catch all the words exactly but understand they need my father’s assistance. The something is valuable, life changing, holy. My heart races as I wonder what in the world it could be. The man continues and explains they need a secure hiding place for this relic. My father assures them he has the perfect place.
Curiosity gets the best of me. While the conversation continues regarding an oath of secrecy, I inch forward and peek through the doorway. My father is speaking now about confidentiality and being a staunch man of God. The back of the man’s head is all I can see and immediately I know I have never met him in my life.
Another man sits in silence, listening, his attention rapt on my father’s every word. He is sitting in profile from where I stand so I can see much more of his face than the other one, but I don’t recognize him either. The man in profile turns his head to see me. My heart skips a beat. He has the most beautiful blue eyes I’ve ever seen. They sparkle with intelligence and mischief …and then he smiles at me. The effect is instant. Heat bolts through my body, and I am unable to move forward or backward. My feet root to the floor. My stomach, and a little lower, suddenly feels as if a million moths are fluttering inside me. I’ve never felt anything like it. My palms get moist as my mouth dries up.
“Hello,” he says. Just one word, two syllables, and somehow, my life will never be the same.
The other man, who was speaking again, stops. Both he and my father turn their attention to me. Now all three are looking at me, their smiles appearing from thin air.
“Louisa, my child, come in and meet our guests,” my father says and motions for me to join them. Did he just call me a child? He makes introductions labeling me “the next to youngest.” It’s accurate as I am the sixth of seven children but again, I’m nearly full grown. “This is Hyrum Smith and his younger brother, Joseph.” The men nod and Hyrum stands and holds his hand out for me to shake.
“Hello, Louisa, it’s so nice to meet you. We had the pleasure of meeting a couple of your brothers earlier this week,” Hyrum says as he returns to the chair he was sitting in.
“Nice to meet you too,” I say and turn to his brother.
Joseph Smith, his name on my lips causes me to smile. A bit of a blush creeps up my neck as I take in his tousled, sandy blond hair, high cheek bones, and those eyes. Piercing. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen eyes so blue.
Joseph doesn’t stand but holds his hand out, palm up. I’m not sure what to do so I lay my hand a top of his.
“I like the flowers in your hair,” Joseph says to me, his eyes dancing, our palms touching.
“They ward off witches.” I hear myself say just moments before my cheeks burn red from embarrassment.
“Witches?” My dad repeats with a hearty laugh.
“It’s mugwort,” Joseph says. “My mother was an herbalist.” I nod and remove my moist hand from his. I’m completely tongue tied. “Once when I was a child, I had an infection in my leg.” Joseph continues. “If it wasn’t for my mother’s faith and her knowledge of healing herbs, then the doctors would have amputated it. I thank God every day to have been born to a woman so wise.”
“Yes, sir.” My voice doesn’t seem as if it belongs to me even though the words came from my lips.
I should tell him my favorite chore is finding the herbs for my mother; I should say something clever or insightful
“You can call me Joe,” he says.
A small puff of breath escapes my lips, but no words come to me. Joe.
“She most certainly cannot,” my mother says from behind me. “In this household, our children respect their elders. She will call you ‘Brother Smith’ like everyone else.” My mother delivers this to Joe all the while giving me a look that makes my blood run cold.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says.
His smile brings the fluttering sensation back to my belly even though the smile was for my mother.
“I need your help in the kitchen, Louisa,” my mother says as she walks away.
“Yes, Mama.” I turn to Joseph. “I…um…I’m not really a child, my father, he called me a child but…” My sentence stammers. There’s a little hitch in my voice, but I continue, ignoring the flush to my face, and the flurries to my insides. “I’ll be thirteen in February.”
Joseph is now at a loss for words, but his smile does not fade. His handsome face frames those sparkling eyes as he looks right through me. I thought surely my knees would give way when he winks.
“Run along, now,” my father says, and I nod to Brother Smith, Joseph…Joe.
It’s unusual that I suddenly feel as if I have been twirling like a little child; my mind feels swimmy, thoughts jumble around without reason. Hyrum and Joseph need my father’s help. They will be staying at our house for a couple days. I will see Joe again, possibly a couple more times before he leaves, God willing. Maybe I’ll get to see the golden plates too. What makes them so special? Besides being gold, obviously.
“It was nice to meet you, Brother Smith,” I say to Joe as I pull one stem of the mugwort from my hair and hold it out to him.
He nods, graciously accepts it, and then holds it to his heart.
“It was certainly my pleasure. Thank you.”
The two men are tall, too tall somehow, much taller than my father even though my father is a bigger man. He’s much wider than the Smith brothers, gruffer. My father’s clothes are more lavish than our modestly dressed visitors. Joe’s shoes are nice Sunday-meeting style shoes, not work boots like the farmers wear. It makes me wonder what he does for a living besides collect gold plates.
My legs feel as if they’ve turned to butter. I don’t think they will be able to get me to the kitchen. What will happen if I faint, right here, right now? I mustn’t swoon. My mother needs my help.
“Louisa!” My mother’s voice rings out from the kitchen.
Did my father say he would hide the gold under our hearth? I still can’t imagine plates made of real gold. Where did the Smith brothers get them? Why do they want to hide them?
Suddenly, my little sister is at my side. She tugs at my skirt and starts to pull me toward the kitchen.
“Mother needs you,” she says urgently.
With Artemisa’s prompting, I force myself from the parlor. I turn my back on my destiny, the man I’m going to marry one day, Joseph Smith.
CHAPTER ONE
MARY ANN ANGELL YOUNG
Montrose, Missouri
November 1838
Gunshots aren’t entirely uncommon out here on the edge of town, so I don’t really pay no never mind when I hear the first one. Then there is a second and a third. They sound like rifles, hunters maybe, but there’s too many. I’ve lost count. The underlying hum in the air as the shots intensify sets the hairs on the back of my neck on end.
The shotgun stands sentinel in the corner. Without shells, it’s as worthless as a mute, toothless dog: no bark, no bite. There’s been no ammunition for some time, a couple months at least. I used the last of the buckshot shooting a flock of wild turkey. The leather slingshot hangs from my belt like a deadly accessory, but what good will that do? If it comes down to a hand-to-hand brawl, I could use the gun as a club. I’ve also got two knives, a big butcher blade and a smaller paring knife. The larger one slips into a leather loop I’ve sewn onto my dress belt so I can keep it close. For an instant, I picture myself using it to defend the children. Could I hack a stranger with the cleaver? One on one, perhaps, but what if there are more than one lawman? The fear settles in my stomach like a stone.
My infant daughter, Alice, is asleep in a wooden crate I’ve fashioned as a makeshift crib. She isn’t but six months old, a good baby. My husband hasn’t met his youngest daughter yet. We’d been living in an abandoned military shelter with another family when he was called to serve a Latter-Day Saints mission in England. That was February, and Alice wasn’t born until early May. She was but a few days old when lawmen came and told us the military building was private property, and we could no longer stay. I’m grateful we were there as long as we were. I thank God I had a safe place to birth my daughter.
The other family we were living with said they were going to head west and find other members of the church, but I felt like we shouldn’t go. Not just yet. Brigham won’t know where we went if we move too far while he’s gone.
The next morning, the seven of us set out to find a new place to call home. After hours of walking, we were blessed with a fallow field. A small horse shack is on the farthest end facing south. It’s perfect for our shelter. I suspected we’d only be there a night or so, but it’s been a couple months now.
Several more shots echo through the valley. I say a prayer quickly asking God to protect my children from whatever is happening outside. With some hesitation, I pick up the empty gun. There’s no good reason for so much gunfire. Something’s wrong. As I move from my little makeshift kitchen to the front door, I hear a horse approaching. That sound combined with more gun fire sets off a primal fear in my gut.
I fashioned a big quilt to the frame of the entrance to keep the weather out, and I pull it back just as our oldest son, Brigham Junior, who is five, plows right into me as he scrambles to get inside with his younger brother, Johny, toddling behind as fast as his little three-year-old legs can carry him. They feel the danger in the air too.
“Girls, you come inside now. Be quick about it,” I say calmly, keeping the trepidation from my voice.
The three girls obey, their eyes wide with wonder at what is happening. More shots ring out as they make their way into our small shack.
The oldest two girls cling to each other, tears welling up in their eyes. My heart twists. I love them like my own. They’ve been through so much since losing their mother, Brigham’s first wife Miriam, God rest her soul. How Brigham loved her. Still loves her, but she no longer walks this earth. She’s in the arms of our Heavenly Father now. Her death left Brigham a widower with two small daughters.
Elizabeth, whom we call Zina, and Vilate, are both sweet, pretty girls, petite in size. They look like their mother with golden locks and fair skin, but they both have their father’s deep-set eyes plus his disposition and sharp mind. Beautiful children. What a blessing to be able to raise them as my own. Brigham came with a ready-made family, and it is an honor to fill Miriam’s shoes.
The first time Brigham and I made love, I swore he cried out her name instead of mine. Mary Ann and Miriam do sound similar. It’s happened a handful of times since, but it doesn’t bother me that he still misses her. I wish I could have met her before she died.
Alice begins to stir with all the sudden commotion in the small space. Zina instinctively goes and quiets her. She’s a natural nurturer and will make a wonderful mother herself someday.
I turn my attention back to the road. The distinct sound of horse hooves set my nerves on edge. With trepidation, I make my way from the shaded shack into the late afternoon sunshine. It’s blinding. With trembling hands, I bring the shotgun to my shoulder in a deadly bluff. My heart pounds as the hooves grow closer, and a cloud of dust rises from the bend in the road. As the rider comes into view, the nervous energy in my gut boils into my throat. I scream a warrior cry like I’ve heard the Indians holler and charge ahead. If I must, I’ll use the gun as a bat and knock the rider from his mount. Adrenaline surges through my veins. I clench my teeth and sprint toward the danger.
The rider is side saddled, the hem of a dress flapping behind like a flag. It’s a woman. My arms swing down changing my aggressive posture. It’s Luana Rockwell, my dear friend. My face involuntarily lights up at the sight of her. Then my brain registers the stricken look on her face.
“Mary Ann!” She screams. “You must take your children and leave, immediately.” No proper salutations or niceties; she is all business. “Governor Boggs he’s…he’s…”
Her words falter as she brings the horse to a stop and slides off the side-saddle. Her expensive petticoats and skirts swirl around her thin frame.
“What has the governor done?” I ask, picturing his smug, ugly face. Lilburn Boggs is a pompous and lawless man, the devil incarnate. The citizens of Missouri granted him power in the form of a top political position, and he frequently wields that power without thought of consequence.
“He wants to kill you.” Her face is grave, serious.
“Kill me? Why? For what?”
“The Saints, all of you. You, your children, your congregation. Sister, please, listen to me. You are not safe here. It’s a war, an actual war between the residents of Missouri and the Mormons.” She’s cut off by sounds of gunshots that suddenly seem closer than they were only moments ago. “You must leave!”
“But…Where?” My mind reels.
Maybe if I can contact the missionary board, they could get a letter to Brigham. Who would I even talk to?
“Mary Ann, listen to me!” Her words are like a slap in the face, returning me to the current problem, not the future one. Luana’s eyes are wild with terror, causing my pulse to race as fear sinks in. “Get across the river to Illinois!”
“I…I don’t—” My mind spins.
The Saints have nothing but love and faith, yet we are being driven from yet another home. Two moves in mere months and to another state this time.
“Get out of Missouri, immediately,” she says. “Take the children and go, now! Make haste!” I’m struck dumb, so I only nod at Luana as she mounts her horse. “Porter, Prophet Smith and the other men have taken up arms and are assembling a militia to fight, but, Sister, you need to get out of harm’s way."
Again, I’m only able to nod as I watch her urge her horse to run, the dust flying behind like trailing smoke. Although Luana and I do not pray the same way, I am grateful for her heroism. Blessed are God’s earth angels.
More gunshots seem to be happening all around us opposed to one identifiable spot. I hear Anne, Johny’s twin, begin to weep, which causes Alice to wail, her newborn voice urgent and vulnerable.
The quilt is heavy as I pull it aside. That’s just as well. It’s a false sense of security. Light spills into the dim room. The three oldest children stand staring at me, eyes wide in fear, as the youngest three melt down into tears. Zina hands me the baby, and I bring her to my breast. She quiets immediately, as I lower myself into the lone chair I fashioned from branches and tied with twine. It’s the only furniture. Johny toddles up to me and pulls at my bodice. I expose my other breast, and, standing on his tippy toes, he suckles too. I lean down and pull him up to my lap still holding Alice. Anne comes and snuggles me on the same side patiently waiting her turn.
