One Step Enough Read online

  ALSO BY

  CARLA KELLY

  L

  FICTION

  Daughter of Fortune

  Summer Campaign

  Miss Chartley’s Guided Tour

  Marian’s Christmas Wish

  Mrs. McVinnie’s London Season

  Libby’s London Merchant

  Miss Grimsley’s Oxford Career

  Miss Billings Treads the Boards

  Mrs. Drew Plays Her Hand

  Reforming Lord Ragsdale

  Miss Whittier Makes a List

  The Lady’s Companion

  With This Ring

  Miss Milton Speaks Her Mind

  One Good Turn

  The Wedding Journey

  Here’s to the Ladies: Stories of the Frontier Army

  Beau Crusoe

  Marrying the Captain

  The Surgeon’s Lady

  Marrying the Royal Marine

  The Admiral’s Penniless Bride

  Borrowed Light

  Coming Home for Christmas: Three Holiday Stories

  Enduring Light

  Marriage of Mercy

  My Loving Vigil Keeping

  Her Hesitant Heart

  Safe Passage

  Marco and the Devil’s Bargain

  Paloma and the Horse Traders

  Season’s Regency Greetings

  Regency Christmas Gifts

  The Wedding Ring Quest

  Softly Falling

  Doing No Harm

  Courting Carrie in Wonderland

  The Star in the Meadow

  Season of Love

  The Unlikely Master Genius

  NONFICTION

  On the Upper Missouri:

  The Journal of Rudolph Friedrich Kurz

  Fort Buford: Sentinel at the Confluence

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  © 2018 Carla Kelly

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever, whether by graphic, visual, electronic, film, microfilm, tape recording, or any other means, without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. The opinions and views expressed herein belong solely to the author and do not necessarily represent the opinions or views of Cedar Fort, Inc. Permission for the use of sources, graphics, and photos is also solely the responsibility of the author.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4621-2864-8

  Published by Bonneville Books, an imprint of Cedar Fort, Inc.

  2373 W. 700 S., Springville, UT 84663

  Distributed by Cedar Fort, Inc., www.cedarfort.com

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Names: Kelly, Carla, author. | Sequel to: Kelly, Carla. My loving vigil keeping.

  Title: One step enough / Carla Kelly.

  Description: Springville, Utah : Sweetwater Books, An imprint of Cedar Fort, Inc., [2018]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018005506 (print) | LCCN 2018010948 (ebook) | ISBN 9781462128648 (epub, pdf, mobi) | ISBN 9781462121564 (perfect bound : alk. paper)

  Subjects: LCSH: Married people--Fiction. | Mormons--Fiction. | Winter Quarters (Utah), setting. | LCGFT: Historical fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3561.E3928 (ebook) | LCC PS3561.E3928 O64 2018 (print) | DDC 813/.54--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018005506

  Cover design by Katie Payne

  Back cover by Jeff Harvey

  Cover design © 2018 Cedar Fort, Inc.

  Edited and typeset by Nicole Terry and Kaitlin Barwick

  To Elam Jones (1985–2013)

  because the story isn’t over in coal mines.

  And also to my dear friends Darren and

  Verena Beazer of Cardston, Alberta,

  and their children.

  Lead, Kindly Light

  L

  Lead, kindly Light, amid th’encircling gloom;

  Lead thou me on!

  The night is dark, and I am far from home;

  Lead thou me on!

  Keep thou my feet; I do not ask to see

  The distant scene—one step enough for me.

  I was not ever thus, nor pray’d that thou

  Shouldst lead me on.

  I loved to choose and see my path; but now,

  Lead thou me on!

  I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,

  Pride ruled my will. Remember not past years.

  So long thy pow’r hath blest me, sure it still

  Will lead me on,

  O’er moor and fen, o’er crag and torrent, till

  The night is gone.

  And with the morn those angel faces smile,

  Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile!

  Cardinal John H. Newman (1801–1890)

  Chapter 1

  L

  The Number Four mine exploded on Tuesday, May 1, 1900, extinguishing the sun in Winter Quarters Canyon, Carbon County, Utah. On Wednesday, Owen Davis said goodbye to his daughter, Angharad, and Della Anders at the nearby Scofield Depot, his women in tears and reaching for him as he backed away. In a trance, Owen walked to his empty house and made a coffin for his dearest friend, Richard Evans: miner, husband, father, and choirmaster of the Pleasant Valley Ward.

  Owen knew that a pine box furnished by the Pleasant Valley Coal Company wasn’t good enough for Richard, the man who saved his life only yesterday. It had been Richard who had scolded him on the mantrip as they rode toward the Number Four, ready to begin a new coal contract with the U.S. Navy, and a new pay period.

  He richly deserved the scold. Della had turned down his proposal earlier, declaring she would never marry a miner. To resolve this thorny issue, he had fasted and prayed as Bishop Parmley had commanded them both. Della needed to come around to his way of thinking, and so Owen told his friend.

  Richard shook his finger at him as they sat hip to hip on the short ride to the mine that awful morning. Owen knew he would never forget his friend’s scathing words: “You’re wishing Della would change her mind? Is that any way to supplicate the Lord? I’m ashamed of you.”

  Even now, as he measured his intricately carved Welsh chest for a coffin, Owen felt the hot shame at Richard’s rebuke all over again. Thank God he had listened to his friend.

  At Richard’s sharp words, Owen bowed his head, prayed, “Thy will, Lord,” and received a succinct reply: “Quit.” Apparently the Lord didn’t waste words.

  When the mantrip reached the Number Four, Owen told Richard he’d see him that night at the dance in the Odd Fellows Hall, rode the mantrip down, found Bishop Parmley—also the mine superintendent—and resigned on the spot.

  Around 10:30, as he sat in his house alone, unemployed, and wondering what Della would say now if he proposed, the mine blew, spreading what every man who survived on the surface hoped was instantaneous death for those below. To compound the felony, carbon monoxide afterdamp raced through the levels and raises from Number Four to Number One and killed those miners silently.

  It could hardly have been worse. Two hundred friends died, from fifty-something-year-old husbands to fourteen-year-old sons and brothers. Scarcely any family in Winter Quarters Canyon and Scofield had not lost someone dear and immediate.


  Owen worked in silence. He had agreed with Della to save the top of Grandfather Davis’s carved box that ordinarily held his clothing and books, and mementos of his wife, Gwyna, who died when Angharad was born. He used the box’s mythic carved dragons as a headboard and footboard for Richard, as well as his own bed and Della’s too, because oak was better than pine.

  He had made Della a bed when she agreed to board with his sister-in-law, Mabli Reese, last August when she came to teach. Gadfreys, had he been smitten by Della’s striking Greek face on his first sight of her? Mayhap. He had liked what he saw, after years of looking away when friends, the Evanses among them, had suggested other replacements to fill the huge whole in his heart.

  Barely acquainted with her, something told him that Della was worth using his oak for her bed. Yesterday she gave it up without a murmur for Richard’s coffin, even though no one would ever see all that oak and glorious carving once it went into the ground, holding Richard’s remains until Resurrection Morning. Eventually, only God and Richard would know, and that was sufficient unto the day.

  The morning before his daughter left with Della, Angharad had rested her forehead against the unfinished coffin and dissolved in tears. Her whole body shook as she gasped for breath.

  Alarmed, he turned to Della. “You must take her out of the canyon.”

  He and Della had another matter to handle first, and it required Bishop Parmley, a man too busy and blasted by his own grief and work digging out the dead to see them, but the man they needed.

  Hand in hand—under protest, Angharad had agreed to stay with her Aunt Mabli Reese—he and Della had walked the canyon, searching for the bishop. They passed silent homes, empty boardinghouses, and tried not to flinch or cry out in sympathy at anguished screaming, or keening in that low, thoroughly disconcerting way that Celts mourned.

  Surprisingly, they found Bishop Parmley in his office, staring at and through the door when they opened it to his “Come.” Sister Parmley must have brought him a meal, but it congealed on his desk.

  “Bishop, the last thing you need is us bothering you,” Owen began.

  Their reason for being there, taking up his time when so many needed him, dawned on the bishop. He sat back and regarded them with a faint smile.

  “You need a temple recommendation to Manti,” Bishop Parmley said. “Della needs an endowment interview, and you two need wedding interviews.”

  “This is our only chance, Bishop,” Della said. “Owen wants me to take Angharad to Provo tomorrow.”

  “This afternoon,” Owen amended, and he braved a glance at his darling woman. “Angharad is shaking and having trouble breathing. I want her out of here today.”

  Della nodded, not happy with him, but willing enough.

  “I agree with Owen. The Knights will give you every assistance in Provo.” Bishop Parmley beckoned her closer.

  Owen nearly had to pry her from his side, but she went forward, holding out her hand to the bishop. He grasped it and she sobbed.

  “Sister Anders, thank you for all you have done,” he said. “Especially among my Finnish families.”

  “We sauna together and I know the women,” she said softly. “It wasn’t anything.”

  “It was everything. I told you once that the Lord was mindful of you.” He looked up at Owen. “Go out on the landing. I must interview your dear lady privately for her own endowment before your wedding interview.”

  Owen went onto the landing of the outside stairs, closed his eyes, and wished he could shut out the shrieks of the bereaved that seemed to carry on the wind.

  The interview was short. Bishop Parmley called him back in as Della folded a piece of paper.

  Bishop Parmley gestured to the chairs. “Sit down, Owen. Della, give that to the stake president in Provo, and he’ll provide your second interview.”

  The bishop took out a tablet with the Pleasant Valley Coal Company heading. “I have proper church forms in my office at the meetinghouse, but I am not going over there.” He passed his hand in front of his face. “There are too many bodies. I can’t. The stake president will understand.”

  “At the school, I put our paper flowers we made for the dance last night on each body.”

  Another ghost of a smile. “I applaud your courage, Della. Two schools are morgues, and so is the church.”

  Bishop Parmley uncapped his fountain pen and dated the page. “I’m going to interview you two together and include a note, so the stake president will understand when you go there for your wedding interview.” Again that fleeting smile. “I know this is irregular, but tell me what is regular about what we have experienced here?”

  Bishop. Superintendent. The two duties of his life seemed to struggle against each other, now more than ever. “Do you know Gomer Thomas, Owen?”

  “The state mine inspector? Aye. He arrived last night from Salt Lake.”

  “Gomer told me this is now the worst mine disaster in the United States. My mines. My men. My own brother. My friends. My congregation. Good God in heaven.”

  Their voices were hushed as Thomas Parmley, in his role as their bishop, questioned their church activity, their payment of tithes and offerings, their belief in the restored gospel of Jesus Christ, and their allegiance to President Lorenzo Snow. They assured him of their chastity and their willingness to be sealed for time and eternity.

  When the bishop finished his interview, he held out the paper for them to sign and added his own signature. “I have no doubt that you two will make an excellent marriage,” he assured them. “Would that matters were easier now.”

  Owen heard someone coming up the steps in a hurry. Bishop Parmley sighed, the sacred moment gone. “I wish I could be in Manti Temple with you next week.” Tears filled his eyes. “If only everyone who would have rejoiced with you could be there! God Almighty, how I wish it.”

  The three of them stood up. Bishop Parmley put the paperwork in an envelope and handed it to Della. He stared at Owen then, his exhausted eyes energized.

  “No more mines, Owen. No more.”

  Owen shook his head. He turned Della toward the door just as Frank Cameron, Castle Gate mine superintendent, opened it. He stepped back, apologizing, but the bishop ushered him inside, his business done with Owen and Della.

  If the walk back to Mabli Reese’s house next to the mortuary that the Edward’s Boardinghouse had become hadn’t strengthened Owen’s resolve sufficiently, it came when Angharad hurled herself into his arms the moment he opened the door to his sister-in-law’s house.

  “Owen, she is desperate,” Mabli said.

  “Da, I kept seeing you on a stretcher!” Angharad sobbed into his shoulder as he picked her up.

  “I was never on a stretcher, dearest,” he reminded her gently.

  When she had calmed down enough to relax her grip, he knelt on the floor with her in his arms. Better do this right now.

  “Angharad, you’re going out on the next train,” he told his daughter. “So is Miss Anders.”

  “I am not certain I can leave you here alone,” Della whispered. “Please no, Owen.”

  “I’ve been alone before,” he countered.

  “Not like this.”

  Trust Della to cut right to the heart of the matter. He knew he wanted Angharad away from this canyon of death, but Della was another matter. The last thing he wanted was to watch the train carrying the woman he loved grow smaller and smaller.

  “You must go,” he told her, hoping he sounded firm and husbandly, even though Della hadn’t said aye to anything yet over the altar in Manti Temple. “You must.”

  Della turned to Mabli. “Watch him carefully for me, please.”

  “You know I will,” was Mabli’s quiet response.

  He knew his sister-in-law was broken in half too, widowed several years ago by a mine bounce and now mourning for William Goode, a shy Englishman she had kept company with since Christmas. He also knew she would never fail him.

  Owen put them on the next train heading away
from Scofield. “The burials will probably begin on Friday,” he told her as she stood on the steps of the railcar, Angharad close to her side. “Andrew Hood said something about a funeral service on Saturday, with church leaders coming from Salt Lake. I’ll leave here Monday morning.”

  He kissed Della, supremely unwilling to let go. So much for brave words. The last thing he wanted was solitude.

  Della took Angharad firmly by the hand and entered the railcar. Owen stepped away as the train began to move.

  If only the train could have picked up amazing speed and shot from Pleasant Valley. Della, his calm, steely, brave woman, leaped to her feet and banged against the closed window. The last he saw of them was two people holding tight to each other, their mouths open in silent wailing.

  Owen backed away until he stumbled against an empty coffin brought from Denver, and he sat down on the lid. He leaped up, hoping no one had witnessed his stupidity, and returned to his empty house and Richard’s unfinished coffin.

  For the first time in his musical life, he had not a single song or even tune to hum. In silence, he measured and cut, planed and sanded, glued and nailed. It wasn’t warm, but he found himself sweating. The sawdust clung to him even tighter than Angharad and Della had.

  He worked in complete silence. When the work was done Thursday morning, he knelt and prayed in Welsh, as always, and steeled himself for his next ordeal.

  He walked to Martha Evans’s home, one of the many where he had carved the family name and installed it over the front door one year as a Christmas present. On the Evanses’ sign, he had also carved Richard himself, mouth open in song. He looked away, saddened nearly beyond his capacity to bear it.

  Andrew Hood, their Scottish Sunday School superintendent, was already there with Dr. Emil Isgreen, the man who had competed with Owen for Della’s affections. While Martha and her children went into the kitchen, the three of them removed the canvas bag covering Richard and dressed him for burial in his temple clothes.

  The task was grim beyond belief, considering that Richard must have been thrown against the roof of the mine. Owen had spared Martha the added horror of trying to identify her husband because he recognized Richard’s hand with its little ruby ring, still wrapped tightly around his pickaxe. In his dreams, Owen knew he would unwrap that stiff hand from the ax over and over.