“I’m Mrs. Cohen. Juniper Cohen.”
“A pleasure.” Her smile is warm, and I introduce Bethany next, who is quickly as enamored with the schoolteacher as the woman is with her. It seems these two have a mutual love of learning, and I am grateful.
Bethany tugs at my striped skirt and whispers in her young voice that few can understand but me. Yet somehow Mrs. Parson navigates the words. “Is it the books she’s hoping to look at?”
I nod. “The picture ones are her favorites.”
The teacher holds a hand down to my daughter. “May we go and explore them?”
“I think they’re waiting for that very thing.” I give a little salute to my daughter, who grins up at her new friend. Bethany reaches for Mrs. Parson’s outstretched hand, and together they move to the shelf of books near the back of the mercantile.
With only a few minutes to spare before the start of the meeting, I return to the far side of the counter to where a utility room and the two back bedrooms reside—one for Edie and one for her father. By lantern light, Edie is tucking a blanket up around his still, sleepy form. I gather the bowl from her abandoned chair and step out as she does.
Edie closes the door softly behind her. “He’ll rest. He sleeps so often, June, I don’t know that it will be long now.”
She looks bone weary. A store to run, a father to care for, and a child growing inside her. Not to mention meals to prepare and dishes yet to scrub in the utility room that doubles as a place Edie hangs her coats and ammo and tends to dishes and meat. Even as I note the tired lines around her eyes, she tugs her coat snugly over her middle. The baby isn’t showing much, but it’s clear that Edie won’t be too careful. I don’t blame her.
It’s difficult to return to the center of the mercantile. So hard not to survey these men again and contemplate who, if any of them, might be the father of this unborn babe. As the men gather around, some pulling close chairs or barrels to sit on, it’s hard not to analyze if any pay Edie a special kind of attention. They all do, really, these lonely miners, so the effort on my part is futile.
These meetings have been held once a month in Kenworthy for as long as I can recall. Before, it was men who attended, but now I come in place of John. In truth, I wish I had always been bold enough to attend. Back then, the meetings were held outside in fine weather, or in the saloon during winter nights. Now, we have moved into the mercantile since the grand Hotel Corona is boarded up and empty. These men attend now to swap the latest news of safety and sanity. That Edie and I take turns providing a tray of sweets usually ushers in the most reluctant of attendees and keeps the naysayers at bay. As of now, all are gathered around the cream griddle scones I made today, and the plate is nearly empty.
As is customary since the relocating of the meeting, Edie speaks first, welcoming the men to all the hot coffee they want and reminding them not to spit tobacco on the floor. One of the miners swipes his boot across a board that’s already soiled.
With that, Edie leaves it to those who have an order of business to share. Bethany and Mrs. Parson return from their perusal, and my daughter settles in beside me with a book on animal husbandry.
The man who had cautioned us all about the mountain lion addresses the issue for the room’s benefit now. “Cougar’s likely a male,” he continues in a smoke-roughened voice. “Spotted just east of the shanties, heading back into the hills.”
“When was he spotted?” I ask, and as the man answers that it was just yesterday, I feel Señor Tiago watching me from the corner of the room.
There have been mountain lions in the area before, and while they keep to themselves, it’s hard not to be alarmed. I am just about to inquire further when I realize that Señor Tiago speaks English.
“Female. Not male. Four years old,” he says in a cool, calm voice. “Walked north. Far from farm.” His gaze finds me again, and after overcoming my shock at the sound of his voice, I nod my gratitude for the information. Though I know this man very little, strangely, I believe him. Still, I will keep a careful watch of our land and of Bethany’s nearness.
Mr. Conrad speaks next, and while his speech is delayed, stumbling along like a twig in a brook, he manages to explain to the gathering that he is nearly finished unloading the mine of carts and equipment for the Fresno Mining Company, who will be sending out a crew to collect it in the spring.
When that discussion draws to an end, two more men speak, and then Mrs. Parson offers reading lessons in the mercantile on Monday and Friday evenings to anyone interested. Last to speak is Edie.
She swings her feet down from the shop counter where her boots were hitched up and crossed. “Fresh supplies are coming in from San Bernardino this Friday. We’ll be restocked on most of the staples, and I put in for the saddle soap Mr. Hudson ordered as well as the gin ya heathens stripped the shelves of. With any luck, there will be a newspaper as well.” She braces her coat closed as she speaks. “I’ll keep it here on the counter for any who want to put those reading lessons to the test.”
The men chuckle, and I smile as well. It feels good.
We are life. All of us together, and separate. But somehow, gathered this way, there is something in the blood that resembles a type of hope that’s hard to conjure when alone.
“Any news of the mining gang that was arrested?” a man calls out.
This is the second time I’ve heard tale of these crimes, but I do not know the details.
“Perhaps we’ll have some on Friday,” Edie says with ease.
Señor Tiago shifts his weight, and the men disperse into soft murmurs.
I slide from beneath the weight of a dozing Bethany and rise to tend to Mr. Conrad’s hand. When I close Bethany’s book, Mrs. Parson offers to return it to the shelf. I thank her. Whatever it is about this mining gang and the arrests for their crimes, I’m curious, but as Edie said, we will have to wait until Friday to find out. Perhaps longer if no newspaper arrives. How refreshing it will be to have news from the world around us.
“Mrs. Parson,” I begin to the woman seated on the other side of my daughter. “You’ve made a friend in my little girl.”
“She’s a gem. Smart as can be for one so young. How old is she?”
“Nearly three and a half.” I smile proudly.
“She’ll be ready for school soon.”
“I hope so.”
“Mrs. Cohen, may I speak boldly with you? This seems to be a time and place that calls for such.” Her voice is kind.
“Of course.”
“The school board has chosen to close Kenworthy school now that so few students attend. There are four children who come in from the nearby ranches, but no others. I may return home to Portland in the spring, or perhaps find a way to stay on longer. I would like to see them through this term at the very least.”
Without pay? “That’s more than generous.”
“It’s selfish, really. I don’t much fancy the Oregon rain.”
There is nothing easy about life here where rattlesnakes and ruffians are as common as drought. No one likes the weather here. It makes her choice all the more selfless—no matter how she is trying to color it.
“I no longer have lodging available, as I’m now on my own. I could take over one of the shanties, of course, but those all belong to the mining company still. Edie mentioned you might have a room for rent. I don’t have much, but I can pay a little or would gladly help tutor your daughter. I know that’s a poor offering for what I’m asking.”
Here this woman is giving what little she has to others. Can I not do the same? We have a room we can spare, as Bethany and I can easily share together.
From my side vision, I glimpse the various men each tipping their hats to Edie before departing. Part of me longs to observe the exchanges, longs for some indication that might live there between her and the father she keeps a mystery, but I need to focus on what I have the power to change. For Mrs. Parson’s existence—as well as Bethany’s and mine—we all need the same things. Safety,
and since the Lord is clearly granting it, some company to help push back the shadows of our quiet days here.
“Yes. We have a spare room,” I say, lifting Bethany into my arms. “And we would be honored to welcome you to our farm.”
Chapter 8
Johnny
October
“So get this.” Kate turns back a page in the history book on her lap then sips from a sports drink.
She’s seated in a camp chair with her feet balanced across my own chair that’s empty. The mesh cupholder is her spot of choice for a pack of red licorice. From the top of the stairs where I’ve been staining, I shift the pail of varnish aside and dip the brush. The floors below have had twenty-four hours to dry, so now we’ll have to keep off of the stairs for a while. Thanks to the type I grabbed, the varnish has put off little to no fumes, but just to be safe, we’ve kept the windows open.
Before smoothing the brush over the wood, I call down. “Are you going to send up this fun fact, or do I need to say something commemorative first?”
“Oh, shush! I was looking for the paragraph. This area used to be that mining town. I forgot what it was called . . .” She flips back another page. “Kenworthy. There was a store, a big hotel, and even a schoolhouse. But that’s not the most interesting part.” She taps the open page with a piece of licorice. “It was a gold-mining town that this rich guy built, and he paid a ton of money to do so. Like fifty grand. Johnny. Fifty thousand dollars. And that’s all the way back in the 1890s. And you know what it says?” She bites off the end of the red twist. “That the mine profited absolutely nothing. Wait.” She double-checks a fact. “It made ten dollars. Ten dollars. Can you believe that?” She waggles the licorice even as her foot bounces with the same energy. “The owner built this entire town with his own money, then walked away from it after only a few years. Soon, everyone else left as well. There wasn’t any gold. Imagine that. This whole place was built around the mine for nothing. It was all a ghost town before it hardly began.”
“Wow.” I hadn’t known that. “I wonder if that mine is still around. I wonder if it’s possible to find it.”
“Gonna do some panning?” she calls up to me.
“It’d just be cool to see, I guess. It’s probably caved in. At the very least boarded up. It has to be because there’s nothing around. Not even a stick of wood left.” This side of the story was probably explained during the historical reenactments, but we must have been too busy munching on cotton candy.
“Except this house is remaining,” Kate adds.
True.
When I hold out a hand for a piece of licorice, she tosses one up to me. Next she sneaks a tiny piece to Rye, who is lying beside her, eyeing the snack. “And get this. They say that the fraud with the mine was that it was salted.”
“What does that mean?”
Balancing the library book closer, she reads. “‘The Kenworthy mine is said to have been salted. In this instance, salting occurred when a prospector loaded gold into a shotgun then fired it off inside the shaft.’”
The scene plays out in my mind, but it’s hard to fathom. “Seriously?”
“Gosh, that would have been loud.” She continues reading from the text. “‘This was done so that a worthless mine would appear to be valuable.’”
So, it embedded gold dust into the walls. Crazy.
“‘If the selling party found a gullible buyer, then that seller would walk away with a hearty profit. This is believed to have happened in Kenworthy due to its lack of gold and short life span in contrast to its high purchase price.’”
Setting the brush aside, I stand. Every muscle in my body hurts, but this shotgun story is more distracting. It’s sad to imagine. “That’s really something.” I start down the stairs. “You’ve found some interesting stuff in there.”
“It’s been neat to read about this place. It makes it come alive, you know?” She uncaps her Gatorade again. “I can hardly believe that you own it all now.”
“Well, I don’t own the town.” But now that she mentions it, the buildings that are no more would have been relatively close to the farm. It’s tempting to head off on a hike right now, but I’ll do that soon . . . maybe scope things out. I’m ready to do some climbing as well. It’s amazing what you can see of an area after cresting a forty-foot boulder.
Thirsty, I grab a water bottle from the case in the makeshift kitchen. “I gotta head off in a bit to pick up those appliances. It’ll take me a couple hours, so we can grab a bite to eat, or I can bring something back if you want to stay here.”
“Hmm . . .” Kate’s sweatpants are covered in streaks of varnish, but thanks to her help, these floors look amazing. “I might lie down and take a nap.”
“Good idea. I’ll bring back dinner.” While I move my tools out of the way, she unrolls her sleeping bag and plops two pillows into place. Rye immediately assumes they’re for his own comfort. While I call him off, Kate laughs that she doesn’t mind.
I shake sawdust from my baseball cap, then slide it on backward before pocketing the truck keys. “I’ll be back with the appliances before dark. You said you need to head back mid-morning tomorrow?” She’s got to be missing her husband and home.
“Yep. We’ve got a doctor’s appointment with a fertility specialist that I’ve been waiting two months for. Your kids are coming about the same time, right?”
“Yeah. Emily will bring them by in the afternoon.” Eager, I resist the urge to check my watch and instead reach for my wallet. My sister and I have been snacking on carrot sticks and licorice this afternoon, so it’s time I get her something heartier.
“I’m excited to see this new fridge!” she calls as I head out the door.
Me too. The thought makes this place feel even more real. Even more like home.
Outside, I aim for the barn, where the door is already open. Unlike the solidity of the house, the barn is sinuous. Standing here, it’s different from the cabin. Here the boards are so old they’re nearly black and bear cracks where light spills in. More pools in from original glass windows, and the whole building creaks even with just a hint of breeze.
The steeply angled roof is a good twenty feet overhead, and while the loft is still being used as storage, it looks fragile enough that it’s time for it to be taken down. Now the barn is an open cavern. A storage house for the past. The earthy scent makes me wonder just how much hay and livestock it held over the decades.
Time somehow managed to stand still within the house, but it’s moved twice as quickly out here. If the house has a story or two in the woodgrain, what of this place?
Picking a path around the lumber, I aim for the lockboxes again. The popcorn machine is kind of in the way, so I shimmy it aside. Taking a knee in front of the boxes, I twist through the code on one and the lock pops loose easily. There’s nothing ceremonious about lifting the lid. I’m thinking only about making it to Home Depot before closing. But once the lid is raised, it’s suddenly hard to move. The past has stepped forward in full force.
A brown cowboy hat rests on top of the pile, rustic, well worn, and safe inside a clear plastic bag. There’s also a lacy shawl that would have belonged to a woman. That, too, is neatly packaged inside a bag. Bar codes declare the thick plastic as museum grade and offer ID numbers for the items inside. It’s a little terrifying to touch all this, but I’ve got to find the journal. I lift out the wrapped hat that would have belonged to a man over a hundred years ago. The settler who lived here? John Cohen?
Wild.
I set the antiques aside, and next comes a stack of books. Three of them fill one bag. Maybe the journal is among them. I study the spines, but the titles and authors indicate the books are from a printing press, not a gold miner. I search deeper.
The following artifacts consist of silver spoons, a small glass pitcher with a chip in the base, and a pair of child’s boots. The shoes are black and just above ankle height. Delicate buttons go up the sides. The boots look cut for a girl. They’re much too sma
ll even to fit Micaela, so this girl would have been quite young. Old enough to walk, but not much beyond that.
Every heirloom is wrapped and labeled with great care, so I move them with equal respect.
Near the bottom of the lockbox rests a smaller box, this one of cardboard. I slide off the lid to find what I’m pretty sure is the object of the hour. The dark leather book has a blank spine. Am I supposed to open the bag? It seems that the only way to ensure the pages are signed by this John Cohen is to look. As carefully as possible, I slide the book out and lift the front cover.
Slanted writing pounds across the first page. Same with those beyond. Dates are scrawled at the top of many of the entries, all going back to what looks like 1894. The writing is the kind of cursive people used in the olden days, but it’s rough enough that a man held the pen. The nearest entry is signed by John, so it has to be him. I can scarcely read any of the lines and am not trying to, but as I close the cover, I notice that a single word is repeated several times. Leaving the journal open, I angle it.
Juniper.
The word is capitalized, so it must be a name. Not wanting to probe, I close the book and carefully return it to its plastic bag. After sealing the bag tight, I set it aside to drop off at the Realtor’s office this afternoon. Right where the journal had rested is a pile of antique letters, each one glinting from inside protective plastic. The top letter is signed Juniper and the heading above reads Beloved John. These aren’t mine to probe into so I don’t so much as reach the top letter. Needing to replace the lid on the cardboard box, I retrieve it but can’t bring myself to press the lid down. Not with the black-and-white photograph resting in the open box—and the woman peering back at me.
My hands still.
She’s young, maybe late twenties. Her hair is a few shades darker than her skin and must be brown since it’s not as opaque as her black dress. Her eyes are quiet but confident. Almost questioning. There’s a crease to her brow, as if she’s wondering why the photographer is taking so long. Or wondering why I’m sitting here staring at her over a hundred years later.
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