The Gold in These Hills

by Joanne Bischof

  Best regards,

  Daniel C. Hamilton

  Mountain Realty

  I shift on the hard plastic chair and start a reply.

  Daniel,

  I appreciate the updates. Yes, I’ll take a look for those lockboxes and can drop them off on my way by your office this week. I’m picking up a stove and fridge tomorrow, so will plan to drop the boxes off before I hit Home Depot. As for the student, I can send the picture. That’s no problem, either. I’ll try and take one soon.

  Johnny

  I check my spelling then hit Send. After logging out of my email, I do a quick internet search on a few architectural details from the 1800s that I’ve been meaning to figure out for the house. The first is on how to properly finish antique floors and which type of sealant is best. I’ve gone over almost every square inch with an industrial-sized sander the last few days, and nearly fifty years of various varnishes have been worn to the natural wood. The only thing remaining is a bad water stain in the middle of the upstairs bedroom. About two foot in diameter, so I’m wondering if it wasn’t the spot for an olden-day bathtub.

  Through several articles, I scrawl notes then take off to get the sealant at the hardware store. When they show me the two canisters in stock, I buy both.

  It’s about fifteen minutes from town to the house. The drive home is relaxing, so I enjoy the cool autumn air that gusts in the open window and soak in the sight of the trees lining the highway, tall pines that soar skyward. The openness of it all—the vastness—has me thinking of the kids. The bite of loneliness, of missing them, stings the back of my throat, so I quickly clear it. The last time I came unglued, I wrecked both this truck and its knuckleheaded driver and risked losing them entirely. I swallow the ache and focus on what’s ahead: the road, yes, but soon time with them. It’s what I’ll gain by signing the divorce papers.

  I nearly signed them last night but paced away instead.

  Why is this so hard?

  At the property, my sister’s minivan sits parked in front of the house. She’s perched on the porch steps with a huge smile. A tray of brownies is balanced in her lap. She clearly found the hidden key because the door is propped open. Rye sits beside her, the yellow Lab nearly as big as she is. He’s eyeing the brownies more than her. I ease to a stop and pull the brake as she stands. Kate jabbers a million miles a minute as I swing the truck door open.

  Suddenly I’m engulfed in a sister hug, brownies and all. “Johnny. This place is amazing.” She smells like chocolate and a sense of home.

  Rye clobbers into my side, and I scruff his head. “Need me to grab anything?”

  After strangling me a second longer, Kate pulls away. Swipes at her cheeks. “Nope. I moved my stuff to the porch already.”

  She’s crying? It hits me that we haven’t spent a lot of time together lately. As kids we were super close. As teens, we joined the same climbing gym where she met her husband and I met a love of heights. Things changed after that, both of us growing into adults and starting our own families. Now life has circled us back to a new and strange place. It will probably take me a few more years to call it good, but seeing her now, knowing that my sister has driven an hour with brownies to hang out for a few days, is something that triggers hope more than I can say.

  Rye leads the way as we climb the steps to where Kate’s suitcase and sleeping bag wait.

  “So, what’s first?” she asks. “I haven’t actually gone inside yet. I just let the dog out since he started whimpering. I am so excited to see this place.”

  “If you’re up to helping me finish the floors, we can arm you with a brush and tackle them together. I bought two jugs of sealant today, then you can put your feet up and give me tips while I rebuild the kitchen.” I wink and grab up her stuff. The magazine peeking out of her sleeping bag has a newborn baby on the cover, along with “10 Answers to Fertility Questions for Women.” She and her husband have been wanting kids for years and are now taking an all-new route. One that has her popping more vitamins than usual and visiting doctors on a regular basis. How I hope this works out for them. They deserve every happiness.

  “Put me on the job, boss.” She braces the door farther open as I work past with her gear. “Even better than popcorn and Netflix.”

  “That’s good because unless you have a streaming device and microwave in your purse, we’ve got cold Pop-Tarts and tic-tac-toe.”

  She laughs, and I bump the outlet switch with my elbow. Her gasp floods the room even as light does. “Oh, my word. This is incredible!”

  Kate moseys around the room for a minute, touching every nook and cranny and peeking into the alcove that might have been a pantry once. She’s upstairs in two minutes flat, calling down to me from the top landing, “Johnny, have you seen this?”

  “Yeah, I think I have,” I chuckle. No clue as to what she’s referring to, but the place isn’t huge, so I’ve seen it all. In fact, I’ve scrubbed or sanded it all. Which reminds me of the tubs of sealant. Not to mention checking on the lockboxes for the Realtor.

  I call up to her that I need to step out for a second. “I gotta check something in the barn real quick.”

  “I love that you just said ‘the barn’!” she hollers back.

  Chuckling again, I leave Rye to keep her company and jog across the yard. I fish keys from the pocket of my jeans and unlock the deadbolt on the barn door. The sun is lower in the sky, the afternoon air chilling. While there’s no snow in the forecast, it’s wanting to come. A week, maybe. Two, tops.

  Inside the barn, I climb over the load of new lumber now piled there, aiming toward the far back corner where an old popcorn machine stands forgotten along with boxes of colorful pennants. Beside all that rest lidded storage tubs of employee costumes from when this place packed a crowd for historical reenactments.

  It takes some effort to step over the tubs and not send anything sliding. In the far back rest the two metal boxes, each about the size of a large ice chest. They’re stacked neatly, and while the boxes look as old as everything else around here, they’re secured with modern code locks. These things are solid, so best to dolly them to the truck tomorrow while the floors dry. But at least now I can confirm with the Realtor that they’ve been found. Crossing the yard, I dart him a text along with a promise to drop them off at his office tomorrow.

  When I lug the sealant inside, Kate has already stashed her stuff and is throwing her blond hair up into a ponytail. Her gray sweatpants have streaks of old blue paint on them, and her T-shirt says Let’s Do This.

  She watches while I get the brushes in order and open every window; then the cabin comes to life with the whir of a small shop vac while we suction up every last bit of dust. Kate takes over and carefully gets all the corners and even the windowsills. This takes some time, and I appreciate her attention to detail while I shake up the cans of varnish.

  After a while, I call to her over the noise. “Hungry?” It’s in my nature to worry about her.

  “Not yet,” she hollers back. “I want to do something construction-y first.”

  “You are doing something construction-y!”

  She grins, and I’m never going to win this argument.

  “Okay.” I pull out the brushes and offer her one. “We can start on the sealant. And yes . . .” I toss her a cloth respirator mask. “You’re going to have to wear one of these.”

  She eyes it. “But not you?”

  I grin. “Joys of being big brother.”

  She rolls her eyes but puts the mask on while I work the lid off the top of the first tub of sealant. It’s a natural oil wax, and the brand is biodegradable. It’s safe enough for wooden toys, but I still want to be careful since Kate’s trying to have kids. A journey that’s been many years in the making, and so she doesn’t argue. Instead, she plugs in the old CD player and hits the Power button. Country radio buzzes from the banged-up speaker, and she starts grooving to the beat even as I demonstrate how to apply the sealant. Then, noticing the way Rye is watching us b
oth from the couch, I call for him to go out. He whimpers, but I urge him outside to avoid a mess of paw prints on the floor and varnish on the dog.

  Once the door’s closed, I start in the far corner where the fridge will go in this week. The rest of the kitchen, including cabinetry, is on custom order, so for now two sawhorses make a temporary countertop. It’s not glamorous, but it’s as good a spot as any to whip up PB&Js and macaroni and cheese for the kids. They’ll probably love it. Emily? Not so much.

  I try not to think of what my wife is going to say. I try not to think about the meals we used to prepare together. How she would dance barefoot through the kitchen, fixing a salad—nibbling on veggies while she hummed a tune. The sight of her fades away and in its place dwells a hole in my chest.

  Emily used to love helping me on renovation jobs. In fact, she’s one of the best trim painters on the planet. The girl can cut in a straight line like nobody’s business. She used to join me on jobs, crank up this very radio, and, with a handkerchief over her hair, paint anything that needed it. I’d finish cabinets, cut lumber, and install appliances, then together we’d celebrate with burgers and sweet tea from the local diner.

  I glance at my sister, who’s kneeling on a rolled-up towel again, this time applying sealant. The pair of them used to be the closest of friends. What would she say if she knew about Emily’s final divorce ultimatum? These few days will be a good chance to talk it over with someone, especially someone who I can trust. Someone who knows and has loved us both, because I still don’t know what I should make top priority: the time I desperately need with my children or making a stand for the woman I promised forever to.

  “This wood is in such amazing shape,” Kate says, having tipped the mask away from her mouth. “It’s hard to believe it’s so old. I mean, it looks old. But I imagined more of this place falling apart.”

  I grab a brush and start a few boards over from her. “They’ve taken great care of it over the years.”

  The mask is in place again, so her voice muffles. “What kind of wood is this?”

  “Redwood. It’s lasted well. Especially with this much foot traffic.” I run my thumb along a smooth, dark knot, amazed at the wonder of wood and how it has the ability to live more lifetimes than any of us.

  “And what are these marks here?” Despite my objection, Kate’s peeled off the mask. Leaning back, she points to a rectangle border where the wood is still a lighter shade than the rest of the floor.

  “There used to be display cases there. This downstairs area was a gift shop and museum for a few decades.” I point toward the bolt holes. “Glass cabinets were bracketed to the floor.”

  “We used to come here as kids. Remember the hayrides?”

  “Yep. And the potato-sack races.” I tap my mouth to indicate she put the mask back on.

  “Yes!” Her eyes sparkle with childhood memories as she slides the straps into place. Her voice is muffled again. “I always liked it when they did the gold-mining demonstration.” She lifts the mask, ignoring me again, and I smile. “I actually found an old picture of both of us standing next to one of the historians who was teaching about how laundry was done in the olden days.”

  I turn the radio down when it hits a commercial break. “I’m trying to imagine you bent over a washboard.”

  “And I’m trying to imagine you in suspenders. Wait.” She squeezes her eyes closed a second then laughs. “I can actually imagine it.”

  Her laughter brightens the time as it always does, and she hasn’t complained once. In her true fashion, she’s brought a joy to this project that’s contagious. Granted, I’ve placed my trust in a whole lot of unknowns here, but it’s been with a dose of trepidation at every turn. But right now? I’m seeing this house through all-new eyes. It somehow bolsters the dream—that this place could actually be a home.

  When my cell buzzes from my pocket, I ignore it for a while. Then again, it could be the kids, so I tug it out. A new email has come in. I tap on the icon to see that it’s a response from the Realtor.

  Turns out the sellers have been delayed due to Mr. Cohen being ill. They won’t be coming to California at this time after all. But there is an old nineteenth-century diary that they’re looking for. It sounds like it belonged to one of the family members who used to live in the house—a Mr. John Cohen. He was a gold miner in the area long ago. The sellers have requested that we simply ship the journal to Wyoming directly. I have a hunch it will help save everyone time and energy if we just send it along. The code for both boxes is 22–15–6. If you can bring the diary to my office, we’ll FedEx it same day. I’m sorry to have to ask this—but can you make sure the journal entries are signed from this John Cohen? It sounds like there might be a few diaries in the box. Thanks, Johnny.

  John Cohen

  July 1894

  This heaviness is too much to bear. I don’t want to put it into words tonight, but if I don’t, it will clamor out of me some other way, and I fear it will be worse.

  My cousins and I have ridden out here to the far West, high into these hills where we learned of another abandoned gold mine. Already, we have salted three of them, and each sale proved profitable. It’s almost too easy. Loading gold nuggets into a shotgun shell. Aiming the gun inside the mine. Firing it off. Even as the echo of the blast quiets, one can already see the glimmer of gold in the walls. Buyers are always impressed. Businessmen who run pristine hands along the walls, enamored with the wealth glinting before their eyes. Of the valuable ore they believe lies deeper still. Veins of gold that don’t even exist.

  Fools, all of them, and we are the bigger fools for deceiving them. We are the wolves in sheep’s clothing, leading the lambs to the slaughter. For what? To line our pockets with dollars and to leave a city man behind with nothing more than a tomb.

  This was to be the fourth mine we salted, the last man that we deceived. God, I wish we had stopped at three mines. I wish we had never begun at all, because now I lack the strength to sign my own name. No, I lack the backbone.

  Chapter 7

  Juniper

  October 1902

  The sight of Edie spooning gruel into her father’s slanted mouth is as tender as it is saddening. Such care, such domesticity, is a sharp contrast to the murmur of men’s voices out in the storefront where they are gathered for our town meeting. Amid the din of their chatter, someone curses. A stool is tipped over and righted. A man guffaws. None of it startles me, though I do worry after Bethany and her knack for picking up words.

  Standing there by barrels of flour and sugar, I silently count the men. Four . . . five . . . six . . . seven. Sweat-stained shirts, many of which I will launder this week, are braced with faded and worn suspenders. Hats have all been removed, showing pale brows above suntanned faces. Hands are rough, some stained, and one hand in particular is bound in John’s best handkerchief.

  My focus lifts to Oliver Conrad’s face as he stands near the polished counter, focus on a miner describing his recent sighting of a mountain lion. I listen, too, noting that the animal wasn’t far from my farm. The stray dog that Mr. Conrad claimed lies slumbering beside his boots, and the bandage on his hand is in desperate need of changing. I will tie a fresh bandage into place before he leaves tonight.

  From the porch of the mercantile comes the soft sound of a man plucking a banjo. The musician isn’t very good, and the instrument sorely needs tuning, but it’s pleasant all the same. We have so little here, it’s hard to be picky.

  The Cahuilla cowhand, Señor Tiago, stands in the corner smoking a pipe. The air is scented with its sweet, earthy aroma. He surveys the room but doesn’t move or speak to anyone. Previously, when Reverend Manchester was a strong man, I remember seeing him and Señor Tiago speaking at times outside the mercantile. It seemed they shared a mutual respect, and I wonder if Señor Tiago feels the decline in the reverend’s health as those closest to him have.

  Señor Tiago’s focus drifts to where Edie is feeding the last spoonfuls of gruel to her fat
her, and then his dark eyes slide to me. I look away before I’m able to make sense of what I see there.

  The banjo falls silent, and small footsteps sound across the porch before a woman enters, stepping into the light of the two lanterns Edie lit earlier. She is tall and lean. Her brown hair, threaded with gray, sweeps back from a severe part down the middle. The cut of her plain blouse is high, and her figure is as willowy as my own. But even so, all the voices fade to silence in the room. All eyes rest on her. Few of the men are her age or older, and it’s those that let their gaze linger longer than a passing glance. Even the man who had been serenading us all has leaned across his bench to gawk. There are too few women in this town.

  Like me, the woman has grown accustomed to such overt attention, so she pays them no heed as she pulls off a shawl. The knitted wool is as golden as the oak leaves that cling to the hem of her gray skirt. We’ve never met, but I sense she is Mrs. Parson, the schoolteacher who has chosen to remain behind.

  I meet her in the center of the mercantile, not caring that all the men are still silent. “Mrs. Parson, a pleasure.” The formality hardly fits the fact that my hands are calloused and there’s a pistol at my waist, but this is life as a woman of Kenworthy now.

  She shakes my outstretched hand, and her own tells a silent tale of survival. Of the lives we lead here scraping by without men at our sides. More telling still is looking into the face of a stranger, and there’s a shared understanding there in her smiling eyes. An outward dignity that doesn’t reveal the span of hopes we as women feel within. It is one thing to have the determination to attend a meeting formed by men, then to do so with the sensibilities and compassion that define our gender. Making it as remarkable as it is difficult. Around here, the complexities of a woman’s heart are best worn in secret, and I have no doubt that this woman has experienced her share of that raw hardship.