“Got it?” I ask.
He nods and tries to lift it up onto the makeshift counter—still just a slab of plywood laid across two sawhorses. Somewhere between trying to cut open the dough and preheating the oven is when I realize that I don’t have cookie sheets.
Classic.
“Alright.” I turn to Micaela since she’s as bright as any bulb in the basket. “What should we do?”
She puts on her thinking face then hunts through the boxes of supplies on hand. After some digging and discussion, we decide to bake one giant cookie in the bottom of the pan the noodles cooked in. We spread the dough out with our fingers, and Micaela obliges us by poking eyes and dotting in a smile to make a happy face. Cameron eats enough dough that his mom would go ballistic, but I decide to just pour him a glass of milk and, after another “Cheers,” eat my own piece of dough.
We slide the pan into the oven, set the timer, and then wipe sticky hands on a damp towel. It’s getting close to bedtime now, so I lead the kids upstairs to dig pajamas out of their backpacks. If anyone is going to come unglued tonight, he’s going to do it after the kids are in bed.
For Cameron, I tug on that extra T-shirt then get him set up with nighttime pull-ups. Micaela drags the hair ties out of her braids and unravels them. The timer buzzes then, and once we’ve downed nearly half of the ginormous cookie, we polish off our cups of milk.
“Toothbrushes?” I ask.
Micaela unzips her glittery backpack and holds up a plastic baggie housing bubblegum toothpaste and two toothbrushes.
“Perfect.”
The Realtor had emphasized that the bathroom was rough, and while he wasn’t lying, the kids get a kick out of the aged pine paneling, the two skinny stalls, and the fact that they get to stand on an old orange crate to reach the vintage sink and wall-mounted dispenser that serves up powdered soap. I refilled it the other day.
“I can’t believe the bathroom has stalls!” Micaela cries. “It’s just like at school!” Her voice filters from the stall on the left while Cameron is attempting to use the other.
“Awesome, right?” I lean against the wall and fold my arms.
“It is the coolest!” she squeals, dancing her slippered feet beneath the door. “None of my friends have stalls in their bathrooms!” She swings the door open. “Can I have a sleepover?”
Uh . . . “We’ll see what we can do.” I don’t know if she’s noticed that there’s no shower yet. That’s on my to-do list, stat. This house wasn’t exactly plumbed to be domesticated. Instead, the bathroom was added against the downstairs exterior in the seventies to accommodate the crowds who visited during the reenactment days. In fact, I’m actually pretty sure that I used this restroom a couple of decades ago. There’s even a retro hand dryer that packs as much punch as a leaf blower. Micaela hits the metal button. Cameron covers his ears in terror, but his sister dries her hands like she’s died and gone to summer camp.
Tomorrow we’ll drive to my buddy’s house and take showers—something I’ve been doing throughout the week while simultaneously clearing my stuff out of his garage. I’ve got a corner shower stall on order at the hardware store and will have it in place by month’s end. For now, we’ll stick with glorified camping. The kids don’t seem to mind.
Micaela finally notices the lack of tub. “How did people take a bath in the olden days?”
“Um, I think they heated water on the stove and used washtubs.” I shape the size of one with my hands. “It was a tight squeeze, but I think you’d do alright.”
“Can we do that?”
“We might have to.” I wink.
With teeth brushed, the kids hurry back upstairs, climbing the steps without a care in the world. As though this place is becoming home already. Their bare feet pad on the newly refinished steps, and their small hands glide along the one-hundred-year-old handrail that’s now up to modern height codes. In the spare bedroom, we roll out sleeping bags, toss pillows into place, and I set the battery lantern to low. Rye stretches out beside Cameron’s sleeping bag and sighs.
“Do you guys want me to sleep in here with you?” I ask.
“Yes!” Micaela calls out.
Cameron nods, still looking traumatized by the encounter with the air dryer. He’s already holding on to a portion of Rye’s golden fur for continued protection.
“You got it.” I grab my own gear and spread it out between them. I’ve spent nearly half my life bunking down in a sleeping bag, so it feels natural. Already in sweats and a T-shirt, I lay back, fold my hands behind my head, and peer up at the ceiling. “I’m really glad you two are here.”
“I like being here with you, Daddy. I like it no matter where we are.”
I angle my head to see Micaela. “Thank you, sweet girl.” She and I talk softly, going over our plans for the following day as a way for us to all settle in and for them to get sleepy. Within a few minutes, Cameron is out like a light. His round cheeks are soft and slack.
I lean that way to kiss his forehead. “Good night, bud.”
When I turn back to Micaela, she’s drifting off. I tuck her little arm better into her sleeping bag, rise, and dim the lantern. Settling back quietly is easy, but now that it’s silent, thoughts of Emily come tromping in, and the ache in the pit of my stomach returns. Part of me wants to shove it aside, but instead, I face it for a while. There’s really nothing else to do but stand boot to boot with grief.
In most slot canyons, there are spots that are so tight they only get a few minutes of sunlight each day. We call these narrows.
Is this what I’m facing now? The narrows?
It’s hard to see the sun here. Nearly impossible to feel the light. But one thing I’ve learned in all my years of canyoneering is that you have to keep moving . . . and the scenery will change. It’s the narrows that make you braver. Stronger. It’s the narrows that change you.
By the time I’m swiping at my eyes and am just about ready to drift off, I say one more prayer, adding it to the one that Micaela said over dinner.
“Help us get through this, Lord.” After brushing aside my daughter’s crazy hair, I kiss her cheek as well, then angle onto my side, close my eyes, and take hold of Cameron’s tiny, sleeping hand. Hoping that somehow, someway, He will.
Chapter 13
Juniper
October 1902
“They’ve suggested I do what?” Bent over the woodpile, I adjust two gnarled chunks of oak.
Wrapped in an embroidered shawl of red and brown, Mrs. Parson speaks beside me. “Cook for the crewmen when they arrive. It should be by spring. The Fresno Mining Company wired into the general store this morning, offering to pay a cook to keep the crew fed.”
I straighten to make sure I’ve heard her right when she declares the amount. It’s not something to balk over when I need income so badly right now. I shouldn’t have missed the town meeting this afternoon but haven’t left the farm in over a week. I’ve managed to rise again, not because I am strong, but because I must be strong for Bethany. In truth, I feel like a paper doll, somehow able to keep shape and yet about to crumple. I’ve hardly left the cabin walls. Mrs. Parson has been more than understanding, which is why I’m so surprised by this piece of news she’s brought back. “I don’t know how equipped I would be—”
“You would be perfect for the job.” She bends to help me move more firewood beneath the eaves of the wood crib where it will stay dry. A cobweb catches on her tight bun, and she swipes it clear. “It seems weighty right now, but the job is still a few months off. If you step out in faith? Who knows? Maybe it will even give you something to look forward to.”
It’s hard to imagine such. It’s hard to imagine anything these days.
“I’ll think about it.” Inside, all I can think of is that those men will not be John. So what would I want to do with them? God hasn’t heeded my prayers all that much this past year. They rose, turning to vapor upon reaching His ears. I’m not in the mood for doing much for anyone else either.
> “They’ll need to know soon. Edie will be laying in supplies, and we both know she’ll need help with that.” Mrs. Parson smiles, and despite the storm inside me, I know she is trying to draw me forward through it. Forward from these shadows where she’s trying to lend me courage.
“Then I’ll walk over in just a bit.” The words are stiff, but she’s right. I have to keep going even if I don’t feel it inside. I move another wedge of wood onto the pile. “And I’ll tell Edie . . .” I glance at my mud-splattered boots and soiled hem then to the schoolteacher. “I’ll tell her that I’ll do it.” Somehow I need to keep hands and heart busy. As for the income? It’s sorely needed.
We return to the house together and enter quietly since Bethany is napping. She has begun going to school three times a week, and on the days she remains home with me, she often falls asleep in the late afternoon. Dear girl. Growing so fast and yet such a wee thing still. It’s hard to believe that she will be four this spring. Too young to attend school in most districts, but the Kenworthy structure is now being run by Mrs. Parson’s rules, and so Bethany has been more than welcomed to join the other four students.
After washing up, I start on biscuit dough—the fresh mound of flour in the barrel is from Mrs. Parson. One of her contributions for lodging, and it is a gesture we are thankful for. Mrs. Parson preps the kettle for our usual round of thin tea. We don’t have any sugar for it, but sugar’s a luxury I hardly recall.
Bethany joins us for tea, and I have yet to speak about her father. Not of the crime or the trial. Least of all that he could be dead. Not yet, and Lord willing, more will be made clear soon.
For now, when sorrow overwhelms me, I retreat to the barn, returning with stinging eyes and a fresh smile just for her. It is not that I mean to deceive my daughter, but there is no sense in terrifying such a young heart until answers become certain. To unearth them is as unsettling as the lingering silence. While all I can think to do at this time is pen a letter to Yuma prison directly, inquiring about John, it’s a step that I pray will bring those answers.
Bethany helps me with the biscuits, slicing out rounds that I move to the greased cast-iron skillet. Standing beside me on a chair, she sprinkles down more flour and wiggles the cutter into the pressed dough that’s as white and clean as her pinafore. With two small hands she guides a cut round into the skillet, and I kiss the top of her head. Her sweetness brings me life. Even though my heart is broken, God is showing me how to bind it up tight in grace and press onward. Hope remains fractured. That which I held on to for John is like ash, and I do not know how to revive it. I do not believe I should try. But for Bethany and me? Hope must bloom and blossom.
It must.
We finish our task, and I carry the pan to the oven. “Will you two be alright pulling these out? I’ll pay Edie a quick visit.”
Mrs. Parson swipes flour from the board with a wet cloth. “Most certainly.”
Bethany asks to come along, but I should do this alone. I need to check on Edie and the growing baby, and it will be easier if Bethany stays behind.
“Won’t you help me grade papers, Bethany? You can help me hunt for all the right answers.” Mrs. Parson dries the table with a clean towel. In the corner rests a small stack of exams in a basket. Bethany settles on a chair, distracted by the challenge.
I whisper a thank-you for the teacher and drape a shawl around my shoulders. The day is frosty, so I button up John’s thick coat on top of it. After pulling my braid free of its stiff leather collar, I head out. A cold chill seeps against my neck, biting at my cheeks. The air smells of coming snow, and the collar still holds the scent of the man I have loved. Walking has been my salvation of late. A way to move forward in body even if all else lingers at a standstill. A gentle nudge within reminds me that God is always moving, always working, but I’m sorry to tell Him that I cannot see it.
The cow is in her pasture but soon will need to be boarded in the barn. In all of my spare time, I’ve been cutting hay in the far fields but do not have the time or strength to put in the day of a man, so what has been gleaned will not last long. By taking the cooking job, I will be able to pay off the grain Edie helped me purchase for the heifer. An extra food supply for the cow when her pastureland is between thaws. As the burdens of all to come weigh my shoulders, I square them back and lift my chin toward the horizon.
I have always enjoyed the walk from the cabin to town but, with a darkening sky overhead, keep my pace quick. Thoughts of John plague me, as does the wondering of what others in town know. Dare I ask Oliver Conrad if he has any news or information? It doesn’t seem as though others in Kenworthy have heard yet of the trial and its convicts, and too much of me wants to keep it that way. Edie has carefully checked all other papers as they arrive for any word before she splays them on the counter for others. No other news has appeared.
I know well enough to hurry so as to beat the storm, and I’m breathless by the time I cross the borders of my farm. It’s strange, the way autumn leaves linger, blending with dew. The way the dark, gray sky hails in promise of a frost-laden land while oaks still bend beneath the weight of leaves of red and gold. The leaves are soft now, spent. They make no sound underfoot as I peer up at the sky to gauge its darkening mood.
I’ve heard of the blizzards that strike other parts of the country, but here, winter snow will fall gentle. The Pacific Ocean is only eighty miles to the west, so the climate is milder, even in these mountains. Snowfall here begins softly and often remains that way. I take comfort in this when the first flakes begin. They dust the path in front of me, and by the time I reach town, a soft haze of white tumbles from the California sky.
Yet despite such a gentle dusting, on the wind spins a woman’s angry voice. At first, I imagine the storm is taking a turn, but that voice is . . . familiar. It does not swing in from the woods or sky. It’s Edie. I hasten onward until the store appears in the distance. Light glows through the windows. The door rests wide open despite the cold.
Edie is on the porch, and to my surprise, Señor Tiago stands just below, facing her from the road. This is the cause of her row? A brown horse lingers just paces away from the man, loaded with saddle and supplies. Though dusted in snow now, the creature is neither tethered nor anxious. Not even when Edie throws a box of salt at the man standing across from her. It slams him square in the chest. The native doesn’t move. Edie swears and grabs another box of salt. This time it sails past him, and while he still doesn’t budge, his hat flies off. Señor Tiago seems reluctant to retrieve it. As though the woman before him would win if he were to lift it from the ground. He finally does, his eyes on her all the while as he brushes it clean of snow. Señor Tiago places it over his long black hair that lays past the collar of a leather coat.
Having halted, I take several steps back. Why do I feel as though this is a private moment? Somehow . . . personal to these two. This is not the row of a shopkeeper with a customer. This is different. Edie would not be so heated if it was business. She tromps down the stairs and rams both of her fists into the man’s chest. She is a tall woman, nearly as tall as the native who stands solid and proud as the son of a shaman. But her frame is much narrower than his strength. He angles away, picks up a pack made of rabbit fur, and throws it over one shoulder. She screams at him again, slewing curses I wouldn’t say to my darkest enemy.
And that’s when it hits me. These two aren’t enemies. They’re lovers.
Nothing else would draw such passion from Edie. It is not fear in Edie’s face. It’s anguish. A grief that I have been walking in every moment of every day.
“You don’t know his name.” It’s what Edie told me when I asked of the baby’s father. I never envisioned it could be Señor Tiago since he is no stranger. Perhaps she meant his given name, for no one in this place knows it. It would be just like Edie to have meandered the truth so.
Her coat has fallen open now, revealing her belly. The small curve of it is arresting and stark beneath a thin, white blouse. Señor Tia
go must see it, too, because he returns to her, clutches the tiny mound between his bare hands, and brushes his forehead to the unborn child. Straightening, he slides a hand behind Edie’s head. Her long braid drapes the length of his forearm, and the brown of his hand, his wrist, is like a different season entirely. So strange against the pale neck cradled by his palm. Caring neither for the contrast, nor the public avenue, he kisses her.
Though they are shrouded in snowfall, shock has me looking away. His passion must have thawed her own because it’s a stately stretch of time before loud thumps ring through the clearing. I lift my gaze only to ensure that my friend is safe, and once again it is not Edie under fire, it is the man whose nearness prevailed over her wits. Edie smacks another fist against Señor Tiago’s chest.
The horse, impatient now, paws at the ground. With a shake of her majestic head, the mare rids her mane of snow.
Edie picks up a tuft of ice that fell from the store eaves. She flings it at the Cahuilla man then, when he turns away, lands another into his back. He makes no sign of pain. Does nothing to indicate he even felt the blow. Never once has he raised a hand to her, and it has nothing to do with chivalry due to passersby. He has yet to see me here. The snow is thickening, blurring between us, but I am not hard to see. This man only has eyes for Edith Manchester.
Then, just like that, he takes up the lead rope and trudges away. His horse follows. Edie plops herself down on the porch steps, folds her arms across her chest, and pouts. Her emotions are not so unlike what this storm may yet yield. Soft once, angry the next, and then melancholy . . . finally reaching a welcome thaw. But this? I cannot yet grasp the gravity of what is happening.
Not only is Edie carrying a man’s child, but that child will be half Cahuilla. There are other mixed-race people in the region. Those who are as native as they are white from the way some settler men have, at times, sought Cahuilla women. Never have I met one, as they are rare to see. I cannot fathom what this will mean for Edie. This is why she’s so urgently kept her pregnancy a secret.
The Gold in These Hills Page 10
