someone?” He flicked his eyes to Nephi and back.
“This little guy? If David and Miriam are really thinking of getting married and starting a family, don’t you think they could use a little child-tending practice? I’ll be right back.”
She left, barefoot, then returned a minute later and latched the door behind her. “I told them my feet were killing me, and you were going to give me a foot rub before we join the breakfast mob.”
“Did they buy it?”
She grabbed his shirt and dragged him back to the bedroom. “I don’t really care. Get your clothes off, mister. We’re on the clock.”
It wasn’t easy making love to a woman with what felt like an overinflated beach ball between them. The situation called for a little creativity. Thankfully, human imagination proved greater than the obstacle in question.
Later, walking out to breakfast, Jacob felt a larger number of eyes than usual watching them.
“How are your feet?” David asked when the couple sat at the table where David and Miriam were feeding Jacob and Fernie’s children.
“Hmm?” Fernie said. “Oh, they’re better, thanks. Water retention, it’s one of the worst things about pregnancy.”
“A massage would help the swelling go down, I imagine,” Miriam said.
Jacob had busied himself cleaning up the mess Nephi had made of his hash browns and scrambled eggs. He looked up to see David and Miriam giving perfectly innocent smiles and Fernie blushing as she picked at a loose thread on the sleeve of her dress.
* * *
Elder Kimball broke down and cried when he entered Blister Creek. He stopped the car, got out, and hunched over for several minutes, letting the pent-up emotions of the past five years spill out. When it ended, he leaned against the car, wiped his eyes on his sleeve, and then stopped to listen to the breeze and the quiet tick of the engine.
He’d driven in from the east, felt a burning, almost painful sensation the first time he’d looked over the Ghost Cliffs and into the valley. Irrigated fields gleamed in a patchwork of sage and emerald. Red rock stood like castle walls to protect east and south. The temple, its white spire gleaming in the sunlight. And now, down in the valley, he couldn’t hold it in any longer.
“This is my home.” He leaned against the car for support. “This is where I belong. Nowhere else.” There was nobody else with him, and his words hung in the air, then died.
But it took most of the afternoon before he dared enter the town itself. He drove around the edges, sticking to ranch roads, and twice turning the car around and driving for the hills when he saw a woman standing on a porch, watching him. There were several abandoned houses on this side of the valley, and he pulledup to one, thought about hiding the car in the barn and waiting in the house while he built his courage. But no, it wouldn’t be any easier to face Abraham Christianson tomorrow.
Kimball took a deep breath, turned the car around, and made for the house. A surreal feeling washed over him as he drove up to his old home, with its many wings and outbuildings. The front room dated to the nineteenth century, when a group of polygamist wives fled into the wilderness with their children, just ahead of the federal authorities. The house had expanded again in the 1920s, then in the ’50s, the ’70s, and again in the last twenty years as Kimball’s own family and wealth had grown.
But the building and land had always belonged to the church, not to the family. Kimball was barely in handcuffs in the back of an FBI car before Abraham Christianson had organized the boys of the Aaronic Priesthood to haul the Kimball possessions to the curb.
The farmhouse showed a fresh coat of paint on the white clapboards and some new plantings in the flowerbeds around the house, but otherwise looked the same. Even the front door was still a burnt orange, like a sunset after a dust storm. Why wouldn’t Abraham make the house his own, add his own
“This little guy? If David and Miriam are really thinking of getting married and starting a family, don’t you think they could use a little child-tending practice? I’ll be right back.”
She left, barefoot, then returned a minute later and latched the door behind her. “I told them my feet were killing me, and you were going to give me a foot rub before we join the breakfast mob.”
“Did they buy it?”
She grabbed his shirt and dragged him back to the bedroom. “I don’t really care. Get your clothes off, mister. We’re on the clock.”
It wasn’t easy making love to a woman with what felt like an overinflated beach ball between them. The situation called for a little creativity. Thankfully, human imagination proved greater than the obstacle in question.
Later, walking out to breakfast, Jacob felt a larger number of eyes than usual watching them.
“How are your feet?” David asked when the couple sat at the table where David and Miriam were feeding Jacob and Fernie’s children.
“Hmm?” Fernie said. “Oh, they’re better, thanks. Water retention, it’s one of the worst things about pregnancy.”
“A massage would help the swelling go down, I imagine,” Miriam said.
Jacob had busied himself cleaning up the mess Nephi had made of his hash browns and scrambled eggs. He looked up to see David and Miriam giving perfectly innocent smiles and Fernie blushing as she picked at a loose thread on the sleeve of her dress.
* * *
Elder Kimball broke down and cried when he entered Blister Creek. He stopped the car, got out, and hunched over for several minutes, letting the pent-up emotions of the past five years spill out. When it ended, he leaned against the car, wiped his eyes on his sleeve, and then stopped to listen to the breeze and the quiet tick of the engine.
He’d driven in from the east, felt a burning, almost painful sensation the first time he’d looked over the Ghost Cliffs and into the valley. Irrigated fields gleamed in a patchwork of sage and emerald. Red rock stood like castle walls to protect east and south. The temple, its white spire gleaming in the sunlight. And now, down in the valley, he couldn’t hold it in any longer.
“This is my home.” He leaned against the car for support. “This is where I belong. Nowhere else.” There was nobody else with him, and his words hung in the air, then died.
But it took most of the afternoon before he dared enter the town itself. He drove around the edges, sticking to ranch roads, and twice turning the car around and driving for the hills when he saw a woman standing on a porch, watching him. There were several abandoned houses on this side of the valley, and he pulledup to one, thought about hiding the car in the barn and waiting in the house while he built his courage. But no, it wouldn’t be any easier to face Abraham Christianson tomorrow.
Kimball took a deep breath, turned the car around, and made for the house. A surreal feeling washed over him as he drove up to his old home, with its many wings and outbuildings. The front room dated to the nineteenth century, when a group of polygamist wives fled into the wilderness with their children, just ahead of the federal authorities. The house had expanded again in the 1920s, then in the ’50s, the ’70s, and again in the last twenty years as Kimball’s own family and wealth had grown.
But the building and land had always belonged to the church, not to the family. Kimball was barely in handcuffs in the back of an FBI car before Abraham Christianson had organized the boys of the Aaronic Priesthood to haul the Kimball possessions to the curb.
The farmhouse showed a fresh coat of paint on the white clapboards and some new plantings in the flowerbeds around the house, but otherwise looked the same. Even the front door was still a burnt orange, like a sunset after a dust storm. Why wouldn’t Abraham make the house his own, add his own
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