there’s a photograph of you two in his Spanish house? It appears to have been taken years ago. Right there, near his desk, among other family pictures. That’s how I knew to approach you. A man doesn’t keep a picture like that around without a reason.”
No, a man doesn’t.
Especially one who’d been married and lost his wife.
Then last week Stephanie asked if she could accelerate her contact.
So she’d arranged for the trip to Denmark.
She’d once thought she loved Josepe. He’d clearly loved her, and seemed to still harbor some feelings. His hand on hers at dinner, which lingered longer than necessary, provided a hint of that. She’d continued the charade to prove to both Stephanie and herself that all of the allegations were wrong. She owed that to Josepe. He seemed utterly at ease with her, and she hoped that she wasn’t making a mistake leading him along. When they were younger, he’d been nothing but kind. Their relationship had ended because she refused to accept what he, his parents, and her own all believed to be true. Thankfully, he’d found someone to share his life with. But that person was now gone.
Too late to turn back. She was in.
This had to be played out.
“I sit here, or out on the terrace, most evenings,” he said to her. “Maybe we could enjoy the breeze in a little while. But first, I have something to show you.”
M ALONE ROSE FROM THE GROUND .
At the sight and sound of the man with Cassiopeia—whom he assumed was Salazar—opening the French doors, he’d flattened himself behind a thick hedge. Luke, on the far side, had likewise disappeared downward. Thankfully, no one had stepped outside.
Luke stood.
Malone came close and whispered, “Did you know she was here?”
The younger man nodded.
Stephanie had failed to say a word to him, which surely was intentional. He brushed away damp mulch that covered the bed.
The French doors remained open.
He motioned for them to enter.
S ALAZAR LED C ASSIOPEIA THROUGH THE GROUND FLOOR TO A library that had once been his grandfather’s. It was from his mother’s father that he’d learned to appreciate the way things had existed in the church’s beginning—when heaven ruled absolute—before everything was changed to accommodate conformity .
He hated that word.
America professed a freedom of religion, where beliefs were personal and the government stayed out of churches. But nothing could have been farther from the truth. Saints had been persecuted from the beginning. First in New York, where the church was founded, which led to an exodus to Ohio, but the attacks continued. Then the congregation moved to Missouri, and a series of prolonged riots resulted in death and destruction. So they fled to Illinois, but more violence followed, ultimately resulting in a tragedy at the hands of a mob.
Every time he thought of that day his gut churned.
June 27, 1844.
Joseph Smith and his brother were murdered in Carthage, Illinois. The idea had been to destroy the church with the death of its leader. But the opposite had happened. Smith’s martyrdom became a rallying point, and Saints flourished. Which he took as nothing short of divine intervention.
He opened the library door and allowed his guest to enter. He’d purposefully left the lights on earlier, hoping he might have an opportunity to bring her here. He could not have done so any sooner since his prisoner had been jailed nearby. That man’s soul was surely, by now, on its way to Heavenly Father, the blood atonement assuring admittance. He felt content knowing that he’d bestowed his enemy that favor.
“Do not kill a man unless he be killed to save him,” the angel had many times said.
“I brought you here to see a rare artifact,” he said. “Since we were last together I have become an acquirer of all things related to Saints’history. I have a large collection, which I keep in Spain. Of late, though, I’ve been privileged to be a part of a special
No, a man doesn’t.
Especially one who’d been married and lost his wife.
Then last week Stephanie asked if she could accelerate her contact.
So she’d arranged for the trip to Denmark.
She’d once thought she loved Josepe. He’d clearly loved her, and seemed to still harbor some feelings. His hand on hers at dinner, which lingered longer than necessary, provided a hint of that. She’d continued the charade to prove to both Stephanie and herself that all of the allegations were wrong. She owed that to Josepe. He seemed utterly at ease with her, and she hoped that she wasn’t making a mistake leading him along. When they were younger, he’d been nothing but kind. Their relationship had ended because she refused to accept what he, his parents, and her own all believed to be true. Thankfully, he’d found someone to share his life with. But that person was now gone.
Too late to turn back. She was in.
This had to be played out.
“I sit here, or out on the terrace, most evenings,” he said to her. “Maybe we could enjoy the breeze in a little while. But first, I have something to show you.”
M ALONE ROSE FROM THE GROUND .
At the sight and sound of the man with Cassiopeia—whom he assumed was Salazar—opening the French doors, he’d flattened himself behind a thick hedge. Luke, on the far side, had likewise disappeared downward. Thankfully, no one had stepped outside.
Luke stood.
Malone came close and whispered, “Did you know she was here?”
The younger man nodded.
Stephanie had failed to say a word to him, which surely was intentional. He brushed away damp mulch that covered the bed.
The French doors remained open.
He motioned for them to enter.
S ALAZAR LED C ASSIOPEIA THROUGH THE GROUND FLOOR TO A library that had once been his grandfather’s. It was from his mother’s father that he’d learned to appreciate the way things had existed in the church’s beginning—when heaven ruled absolute—before everything was changed to accommodate conformity .
He hated that word.
America professed a freedom of religion, where beliefs were personal and the government stayed out of churches. But nothing could have been farther from the truth. Saints had been persecuted from the beginning. First in New York, where the church was founded, which led to an exodus to Ohio, but the attacks continued. Then the congregation moved to Missouri, and a series of prolonged riots resulted in death and destruction. So they fled to Illinois, but more violence followed, ultimately resulting in a tragedy at the hands of a mob.
Every time he thought of that day his gut churned.
June 27, 1844.
Joseph Smith and his brother were murdered in Carthage, Illinois. The idea had been to destroy the church with the death of its leader. But the opposite had happened. Smith’s martyrdom became a rallying point, and Saints flourished. Which he took as nothing short of divine intervention.
He opened the library door and allowed his guest to enter. He’d purposefully left the lights on earlier, hoping he might have an opportunity to bring her here. He could not have done so any sooner since his prisoner had been jailed nearby. That man’s soul was surely, by now, on its way to Heavenly Father, the blood atonement assuring admittance. He felt content knowing that he’d bestowed his enemy that favor.
“Do not kill a man unless he be killed to save him,” the angel had many times said.
“I brought you here to see a rare artifact,” he said. “Since we were last together I have become an acquirer of all things related to Saints’history. I have a large collection, which I keep in Spain. Of late, though, I’ve been privileged to be a part of a special
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