Rachel looked at the return address on the envelope that came in the mail. “Box B” in Salt Lake City could mean only one thing. She sighed and closed her eyes for a moment, then swallowed down the anxiety and lifted her head toward heaven and nodded. Her 34-year-old husband, Orson Oriel had two families to support. Sadie, Orson’s third wife, lived in town with a little store while Rachel lived on the dairy ranch two and a half miles from town.
When Orson walked into the house that evening, Rachel directed him to the unopened mail. Orson fingered the envelope and shared a glance with Rachel.
“Dated October 1896. Dear Brother Richins. You are hereby called to serve a mission to labor in the Northern States Mission for a period of twenty-seven months.” Orson looked up and caught Rachel’s eye. It was an honor to be called upon to labor as a missionary, but Orson knew it would be difficult to leave two wives and eleven children behind. Sadie could manage the little store in town and Rachel … well Rachel would need to manage the dairy ranch.
With both excitement and dread, Orson made the necessary preparations to set off on his mission. With one last look around the ranch house, Orson spied the almost empty flour barrel and sighed heavily. How could he leave his family with barely enough flour to make a batch of bread?
Rachel sensed his concern and crossed the room toward him, placing her hands on his shoulders. “Don’t worry, dear. The Lord will provide.” Tears came unbidden to his eyes – Rachel was a woman of faith. Her words comforted him. Surely the Lord would bless her faith and his service. Orson was ordained a Seventy by the hand of Apostle George Teasdale on October 30, 1896, and headed to the Northern States with headquarters in Chicago, Illinois.
Orson was often gone from home when he went freighting, so Rachel was used to being alone on the ranch with the children, but that didn’t make it any easier. After all this time on the ranch, she still hadn’t gotten used to the wild animals or the roving Mexicans and they frightened her. Rachel shook her head and her fears and set to work. Evening was drawing near. “Judith, round up the children and bring in the cows, dear. It’s time for the milking.”
Judith and the other children trudged out onto the range to round up the cows. It wasn’t a favorite job, but had to be done. The brush caught at the hem of her skirts, but she pulled it free. The cows didn’t like to be rounded up either, but once you got one or two of them going in the right direction, usually the rest followed. “Hey there, Bessie, let’s get a move on.” Judith slapped one of the cows in the rear and got her headed toward the corral. “Parley, I saw a few cows run off in that direction, can you go after them?”
Seven-year-old Parley nodded and grabbed a piece of long grass to chew on. He headed in the direction Judith had pointed and started walking.
“Did you get all the cows, Judith?” Rachel asked.
“Parley went after the last three. They were headed toward the river.”
Rachel nodded and tucked some stray hair behind her ear. While the children separated the calves from their mothers, Rachel started the long process of milking. The older children would step in to help as well.
Rebecca carried the last steaming jug of milk into the cellar to store. Rachel stood and stretched. Milking twenty-eight cows wasn’t an easy task. Tomorrow she and the girls would churn the milk and make cheese and butter that they could sell in town.
It was dark before Parley returned with the cows, but he had a story to tell. “I was down by the river, rounding up the cows. Some Indians walked by, some men, women and a few small children, one right after the other. So I hid in the brush.” Rachel stilled. The river was five miles away.
Parley continued, “One of the women broke off from the group on the opposite side of the brush from where I was, right where there were hundreds of morning glory growing. She squatted down right there and pretty soon I heard a baby cry. She came out of the brush with her baby and hurried to catch up with the rest of them. I stayed quiet the whole time so they didn’t see me.” Rachel shuddered. This was hard country to live in. She praised God for keeping her babies safe. Even though Parley was Caroline’s, Orson’s second wife who died four years earlier, Rachel loved Parley and his two siblings as though they were her very own.
In the morning, the children and Rachel milked the cows once more, before turning them out of the pen to pasture with their calves. “Mary, go gather the eggs.” Mary grumbled, but did as she was asked.
When the cheese and butter were churned, Rachel took stock. They had enough food to last a few more days. She would have cheese aged by then to take in to sell. Her devoted chickens were good layers and they could sell the eggs, too.
When the cheese, butter, milk and eggs were sold in town, Rachel had money to buy flour and other food and clothes.
A few months later, the evening milking had been done and all the children were in bed asleep. Rachel lay in bed, the covers clenched tightly in her hands. She could hear the roving Mexicans shooting their pistols not far from their ranch. She had heard them for a while now and had seen them earlier in the day. Finally, she threw off the covers and got dressed, calling for the children to do the same and be ready to get in the wagon.
“Mother, where are we going?” the children asked.
“To Grandfather’s.” The grim line on Rachel’s face told the children all they needed to know. Quickly, they dressed and were ready to get in the wagon.
Charles Richins, Orson’s father, opened the door at Rachel’s knock. “Come in, come in. What is it?” But one look at Rachel’s face and he understood. His farm was only a half mile away from her home, so he must have heard the ruckus from the Mexicans as well. It was comforting to have him so close and she knew that he would protect them.
The years passed. Orson’s mission was a success. He had made many friends and converts and was an honorable missionary. While in the area, Orson visited the Carthage Jail where the Prophet Joseph had been martyred by the angry mob. The stains of the Prophet’s blood were still on the floor, though they tried to cover it with a carpet. “They have tried to remove these stains,” thought Orson, “but it cannot be done.”
When Orson finally returned home on 29 January 1899, there was a happy reunion in Colonia Diaz, Mexico with his two wives and children. He surveyed his happy, healthy family and found that Rachel had purchased and contracted for enough bricks to build a new brick home and two full barrels of flour inside. Orson shook his head in amazement. “We prospered and we are all in good health, although I probably wouldn’t have made it through the difficult times if it weren’t for Grandfather,” Rachel said quietly. “The Lord indeed blessed us while you were on your mission.”
