She always sat quiet and unmoving at these times, also taking refuge in the warmth of this small room and the heady steam rising from the tub of soapy water Negro George had prepared for them. Twice a week Jubilee ordered a bath drawn, filling this large cedar tub that was itself long enough for even a man of Usher’s height to stretch out and fully immerse himself. It was Lee’s old baptismal pool, relegated to a stall of a little-used barn years ago when a new and larger one had been constructed for the polygamist by Usher’s winter soldiers. It was then that Jubilee adopted the tub and discovered its most savory use.
While other Saints might not practice the healthful properties of regular bathing, Jubilee Usher was a man who believed in the periodic, methodical cleansing of the body as much as he believed in that periodic and seasonal cleansing of his soul: the release of pent-up lusts and furies on the heathen populations with which this land was so cursed.
“If Lee ever discovers what delicious, what randy use I have made of his old baptismal,” he murmured to her as he drew the soapy cloth across the woman’s shoulders, “I’m afraid even he would raise his hand against me. To think—the blasphemy, he would cry!”
Seated outside the tub behind the woman, Jubilee gently pulled her head back and kissed her, hard and moist and long. She did not resist when he forced open her mouth. But neither did she kiss him back. He let the back of the woman’s head rest against the gunwale of the cedar tub. His cheek lying against hers, strands of her soppy hair dripped over his shoulder as he murmured warmly into the dampness of her ear. Jubilee brushed the coarse cloth up and down the round softness of her breasts, enjoying the reddening, rigid response of her nipples as he excited them. Lightly he kissed them, sucking on her breasts, as sweet as scorched honey.
Outside his bathhouse each spring arose the tremulous squeals of baby frogs in the marsh, reminding him it was time for another season of renewal. Soon would come his appointed hour to march south. Killing savages and Mexicans alike, wiping them off the face of God’s kingdom, was nothing less than ripping good fun.
He raked his teeth down the side of her neck, shifted himself, and came round to settle where he could bring one of her breasts to his mouth. How he liked this too—the way her breath caught in her throat when his hand plunged into the water and dallied between her thighs. Still, each time she composed herself after that initial surprise. Nonetheless, after so many years, he still waited for her to lose herself in him.
But he would be patient with her. The same way he had become patient with the pace of events in Deseret. Five years ago he had returned in what he then hoped would be triumph, only to find that his loyalty had been discarded, torn asunder and thrown aside by the powers of the Church. But he would be patient a little longer.
Usher rose at the side of the tub, laid aside the washing cloth, and began to push the pearl buttons through their holes in his shirt, then hung it on the back of a chair.
His faithful soldiers always left their victims sprawled in blackened pools of their own crimson and excrement, each man, woman, and child lying in their horrific wig of dried blood where the flies and beetles and winged creatures began to gather moments after his gunmen ripped the hair off the gaping skulls and stood to hang their trophies red-raw at their belts like profane pendants above the warm bodies the men would then take their pleasure on.
Jubilee took one button at a time from its buttonhole in his britches, savoring his growing desire for her, the delicious way his flesh anticipated hers.
Indeed, the cracks in Young’s defense were widening. Through them one day soon he would ride at the head of a mighty army to wrest power from that pretender to the throne.
Laying his wool britches over the back of another chair, Jubilee stepped out of his temple garments. He straightened them on a hanger. They were all he wore for underwear. Like the other faithful, Usher believed no clothing was to touch his body—nothing but these ordained and sacred garments, which served as a shield, much as the strength of his soul shielded him from the harm of evil so rife and rampant in the Church itself.
Outside he heard the rise of some laughter, a snippet of a song, and knew the men enjoyed themselves here, as they regained their spiritual strength for spring’s coming sojourn into the land of the heathen. From time to time each winter, he regaled his soldiers with flip made with imported rum and John Doyle Lee’s own home-brewed potato beer, the heady concoction flavored with cinnamon and blended with a hot poker.
