Favorite Wife

Copyright © 2006 by Susan Ray Schmidt

First Lyons Press edition, 2009

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, except as may be expressly permitted in writing from the publisher. Requests for permission should be addressed to The Globe Pequot Press, Attn: Rights and Permissions Department, P.O. Box 480, Guilford, CT 06437.

The Lyons Press is an imprint of The Globe Pequot Press.

Text design by Sheryl P. Kober

All photographs courtesy of the author

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

ISBN 978-0-7627-9607-6

“And it shall come to pass that I, the Lord God will send one mighty and strong, whose mouth shall utter words, eternal words; while his bowels shall be a fountain of truth, to set in order the house of God.”

D
OCTRINE AND
C
OVENANTS

S
ECTION
85:7

A
UTHOR'S
N
OTE

In telling this story, my wish was not to offend. Although I've chosen to no longer live the lifestyle depicted in
Favorite Wife,
I do understand and in some instances respect the reasons why the fundamentalist Mormon people cling to the practices of early Mormonism.

While the events related here are factual, for brevity's sake and for story flow I've taken the liberty of compiling, on rare occasions, two separate events into one. In a couple of minor instances, I've placed myself as present during an incident when in reality I heard the details from eyewitnesses. My reason for this was to present my readers with a “bird's-eye view” of something I deemed important to the story.

The conversations I've recorded are not verbatim, but are as close as my memory allows. I've endeavored to relate the facts as best I can.

A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS

I wish to extend my heartfelt gratitude to the following people, who in various ways had a hand in the successful completion of this book. First of all, thank you, Pat Kaes, for your initial belief in my story and for your tutorship and patience with my inept efforts when I began this book so many years ago. To my friends and fellow authors, Dean Shapiro and Dean Pettinger, thank you for the amazing faith you displayed in my story and for patiently coaching me in my search for a publisher. To fellow author Cliff Johnson, bless you for your cheerful guidance and for your altruistic assistance in seeing that the publishing of my book became a reality. I couldn't have done it without you.

To my Aunt Susanne Morley, a talented writer and poet, to Connie Woebke, to fellow author, Lowell Gard, and his wife Mary Carol, and to my friends Barbara Kelly and Daryl Hunt, words are not adequate thanks for the many hours you selflessly gave in editing the manuscript. God love you all! I'll never forget your goodness to me.

My appreciation goes to the following people for reading
Favorite Wife
and for cheering me on. First of all, to Darren Belin and his wife, Leslie, for challenging me to blow the dust off the pages sitting so long on the shelf and get the darn thing finished; then for reading the completed manuscript and assuring me it was wonderful. To Ellenore Burkhart, retired English teacher, who after reading several chapters called to assure me I had an innate writing talent. She would have laughed to see my frantic scrambling through the dictionary to look up the word,
innate.
Thank you, Ellenore, for spurring me on.

Many thanks to my friends Kathy Nielsen, Victoria Ray, Stuart Bearup, Bill Studebaker, Flo Harper, Cindi Schmidt, Kay Wilson, Shirley White, Betty Veeh, Jody Wright, Bob Erickson, Marlene DeWiese, and Lisa Gauger, for giving me rave reviews. But most of all, to my daughter, Melanie, who upon completing chapter 28, dashed out to purchase and send me a beautiful new guitar. I love you, honey.

Lastly to my darling, late husband, Dennis, who for many years put up with my hours in front of the computer, who brought me food and drink night after night, and who selflessly allowed me to tell the story of my “other life.” During the twenty-nine years I was blessed to be his only wife, I considered myself to be the luckiest woman in the world.

Fading Footsteps

By Verlan M. LeBaron

You inspire a glow within me that sets my heart aflame

In the lonely hours of darkness, I softly call your name.

In dreams I feel you hold me in your sweet and tender way,

Sweetheart, I am so lonely as your footsteps fade away.

You say that if I love you I will somehow let you go,

If to love you is to lose you and if what you say is so—

I want you to be happy, don't mind the tears I shed,

You're free to go my darling, and forget the vows we said.

In dreams please always hold me in your sweet and tender way,

Awake I am so lonely, as your footsteps fade away,

As your footsteps fade away…

P
ROLOGUE

“Run! Run!” I gasped, pushing at Melanie's back. I clutched James's hand and half-dragged his small body across the uneven ground. At the back of Dad's lot I pulled the barbwire fence apart, shoved the kids through and dropped the bundle I carried over the fence. Then Mona and I climbed through after them. We dashed into the orchard—they wouldn't find us deep in the trees. Mona raced next to me, my baby bouncing up and down in her arms.

Our rushing steps through the frozen underbrush crashed in my ears, and I cringed and darted a quick look behind us. The hazy, early morning silence around Colonia LeBaron seemed ominous. Not even a dog barked. Halfway through the orchard, I found a large tree with a deep ditch bank around it. We spread one blanket and hunkered down under the low, frost-covered branches, then covered up with the heavy quilt.

“What's happening, Mama?”

The terror in my eldest daughter's eyes mirrored my own fear. She was so innocent, so helpless. How could she ever comprehend that her uncle, her own daddy's brother, desired to murder us?

Mona's gaze met mine for an instant. With a shudder, she buried her chalk-white face against the baby's blanket-wrapped body and slumped against the tree trunk. I pulled James closer to me and zipped up his coat. My voice quivering, I whispered, “All of you be very, very quiet. We have to stay here for a while, so let's just get comfortable and take a little rest . . .”

Anguished thoughts of the Los Molinos colony, of my husband's families, and the others there—bloody and dying—God, please, let them be okay, just let them be okay, my heart chanted. Please Lord, please! Don't let them be dead or hurt!

I couldn't begin to imagine the terror all those poor people had gone through . . . just last night . . . while we, here in their sister colony of Colonia LeBaron, had been sleeping snug and warm in our beds. There were so many children in Los Molinos, women and little children . . . What would happen to us? Were we truly next, were the Ervilites actually headed here, to our beautiful Chihuahua colony?

Thank God I had decided to leave Los Molinos . . . And, oh! Thank God that Verlan and some of his wives were safe in Nicaragua! Verlan would have been the Ervilites' prime target . . .

Los Molinos was burned! My house, with its rose-colored windowsills that I'd painted so carefully, was it was still standing? Well, it didn't matter. Who of Ervil LeBaron's people had done this dastardly act? Ervil himself wouldn't dirty his hands . . .