She’s a tame soul, and her gentleness bleeds an ache into me.
Strips of thin cloth are speckled with some kind of leaves where they drape her back. With a slow hand, Santiago lifts one of the cloths. The horse shifts for the first time. One hoof, and then another. He whispers in what can only be Cahuilla, for it sounds a thousand years older and a world apart from all that I have ever heard. “Pé’ish pé’ chém pé’ áchakwe’ pichemtéewwe.” Then he beseeches me in English, “Lantern.”
I lift it from its hook and step nearer. There I see that the mare’s flesh is torn across her back. Where there should be soft brown hide, there is only raw meat where horsehair has been worked away beneath weeks of John’s weight. Over two hundred miles it is from here to Yuma. A saddle blanket and pad would have protected her, but her blanket went to keep John’s fingers from turning black. Her saddle pad kept Santiago warm so that John could have a coat for the journey. This creature stands here, worn raw and uncomplaining for it. By her sacrifice two men have come home.
“Say no more to me. Tell her.” Santiago takes my free hand, presses it gently to her warm neck. Her heartbeat pulses soft as a hymn beneath my palm. “Tell her that you will not make John clean.”
The horse blinks long, straight lashes. Her innocent face blurs as my vision does. I blink quickly, seeing now that her dark eyes are like jewels. They do not quite meet mine, as though she feels unworthy. My hand slides away. It is I who am unworthy. My throat has swelled, and it hurts to swallow, let alone speak.
Turning, I start for the house, aiming not for the kitchen but for the water pump. The ache lingers as I fill a bucket, and then another. It stands beside me as I heat water, fetch soap. It lingers, hovering, as I kneel beside John and peel back his blankets. With Bethany near yet, I won’t sponge him properly until she and Mrs. Parson are at school in a few hours’ time, but by the soft glow of the cookstove, I dip a rag and begin on his hands. The creases and lines that I have always known. The coarse planes of his knuckles and palms that once dug for gold and spent countless hours loading ore and rock into wooden carts.
These hands hold scars and the remnants of splinters that have calloused over. They held me with tenderness throughout summer nights and on snowy mornings. They brought Bethany into this world. They have been to the fortress of Yuma and back, and as I clean them in the dim light, I realize that all the months of writing to John on pen and paper did very little to prepare my heart for the reality that he very well could return. And that in the return the greatest testing of our courage would begin.
Chapter 22
Johnny
March
A windchime rattles softly from the porch eaves. Micaela made it from treasures she found around the farm. On a thick paper plate, she drew the silhouette of a black horse, then tied on strings of sticks, creek stones, and feathers. The feathers—blue, charcoal, and sunset orange—are from the birds that inhabit the pines above our farm. When the breeze hits it, the rustic chime is as much a part of this place as the wind itself.
Bottle of water in hand, I cross the porch and claim one of two chairs I put there. Rye settles at my feet, watching, as I do, the two hawks soaring overhead. One cool thing about California is that spring comes quickly. Not that snow doesn’t still appear in the early months, but today the air is a mellow sixty-eight degrees. The sky is blue, white clouds shift by, and sun dapples the land. It’s perfect weather.
It’s my birthday today, and so far I watched a game and read a few texts from my sister and some close friends. The kids are coming early this evening, so I’ve got some fun plans for us. It’s still a surprise, but we’ll hike into the hills, a little farther than the day Micaela learned to rappel. It’s sandier back there, nearer to the creek. More tall boulders and open skies. I already lugged up some wood and a few camping chairs and now have a backpack loaded with s’mores supplies and matches. It’s hard to think of a better way to celebrate another turn around the sun than to see their faces lit by the glow of a campfire beneath a star-studded sky.
The kids are due within the hour, but a cloud of dust is rising from the top of the drive. I strain to see better. Emily wouldn’t be early . . . The thought dies as soon as I see a FedEx truck rounding the bend. I didn’t order any packages.
I stand when the driver parks and climbs out with a large envelope. He offers it over then asks me to scribble my name on a screen. I don’t open the envelope until I’m seated again on the porch. It’s addressed from the lawyer’s office. My heart is racing.
My fingers move of their own accord. Not because they want to, but because whatever fate this envelope holds, it’s already signed, sealed, and delivered. Stalling won’t win my wife back. I slit the top and slide out the official document. My heart knocks harder as the printed text sinks a rock in my gut. The divorce is finalized. Emily and I are no longer married. The news comes with a hollow feeling. Nine years of life—of marriage—unraveled. Just like that.
Breaths come slow now. Don’t cry, man. The gnawing in my chest is a peeling back of all that was whole or somehow still steady. Clearing my throat, I head inside and stuff the papers into my briefcase. I’ll file them away better another time. Right now, I rub my thumb against my wedding ring. It needs to come off now, but I can’t seem to tug it from my finger. The warm golden band is coated with scratches. Scuffs and dents from lumber and brick. This band also brushed against Emily’s fingers from a decade of holding her hand. It cradled the downy heads of two precious newborns.
I read in the Kenworthy history book that it takes nearly two thousand degrees to melt gold. Strange to think that the heart can withstand even more heat. It has to or we would never make it through this life. Right now, that searing heat is trying to knock me flat, so I pull the ring from my finger, press it into the pouch of my briefcase, and slide the zipper. The kids are going to be here soon. Time to keep it together.
Normalcy takes over in picking up my work boots to settle them by the fireplace. I crack a window, letting in fresh breeze, and finish the last of the dishes in the sink. My empty finger feels weird in the soapy water.
Hands dried off, I fill three aluminum bottles from the tap with cold mountain water then stash trail mix, beef jerky, and dried fruit into my hiking pack. I also grab a box of packaged cupcakes, which are the closest thing to a birthday cake that can be carted out there. There’s no candles on hand, but the campfire will more than make up for it.
If the kids insist, I’ll try to make a wish. But it’s hard to think of what it would be for.
When they arrive just shy of dusk, I hang back from the porch, letting Emily send them up the steps, backpacks and smiles on. I just don’t have the courage to face her today, and it might be a while before that courage comes knocking. The kids have known the divorce was coming, but they’re so little, and have been adjusting well, that it’s best not to bring it up afresh. If they have questions, I’ll answer them. If I sense they’re confused, or hurting, I’ll speak into their hearts as best as I can. But for right now, they’re jumping back and forth on the beanbags, and despite the fact that I am a fractured man inside—and probably will be for some time to come—it looks like it’s time to party.
If there’s one thing this process has taught me, it’s to keep moving forward.
Looking down at their smiles makes it easier to find my own. “So, what do you guys think about an adventure?”
* * *
The kids run ahead with Rye as soon as we hit the trail. After months of snow and rain, the gritty earth beneath my boots is soft. Perfect time to be out here without worry of rattlesnakes, but with cactus scattered around, I urge the kids to be careful all the same. Cameron finds a stick and swings it as he toddles forward.
Micaela runs up to a boulder, pressing her hands flat to it. “Look how big this rock is, Daddy! Can I rappel down this one too?”
Her enthusiasm for the sport I love means more than I can say. “This one doesn’t have bolts, but maybe we’ll
find another one that does.” I wink, and she immediately begins scrutinizing all the boulders we pass, searching their craggy surfaces for those subtle glints that mean someone has already created a climbing route—fastening bolts into the rock with a drill.
“None of them have bolts,” she assesses at last. “Can we put some in by ourselves?”
“It’s doable.” While I’m neither equipped nor trained, I like the idea of speaking into the possibility. “We just need a drill and some courage.”
Now it’s her turn to grin.
Up ahead, we spot the pile of firewood and the three lawn chairs already in place. Rye chases a lizard then halts to lap up water from the narrow creek. Cameron gathers up two craggy rocks that shimmer under the setting sun. Micaela is instantly convinced they’re gold.
These two are good medicine for my soul. Warmed by the short hike, I unzip my jacket and lay it over the back of a chair.
Cameron tugs it onto his lap as a blanket. “Mash-mawwos!” he hollers.
“S’mores and cupcakes.” I tousle his hair. “But first we’ll need a fire.”
At this news, the kids freak out, which is nothing compared to what they’ll be doing once the sugar rush kicks in. Three points to Dad for packing beef jerky to balance things out. Not wanting to alarm the locals with smoke or the worry of a brush fire, I wait until it’s nearly dark to strike the match. Within moments, paper and kindling catch, the earthy scent of smoke rises, and the warmth hits us instantly.
Overhead, the first stars wink down.
We pierce marshmallows with sticks, and Cameron climbs into my lap as I help him balance everything over low flames. Micaela’s marshmallow catches, blackening, and we blow it out together. I was one of those kids who intentionally burned marshmallows, so when she wrinkles her nose in disgust, I gobble it down and reload her stick with a fresh one. This one she toasts gently, perfectly, because she’s so much more like her mother than me.
But maybe that’s not true. Maybe the kids will be a perfect mixture of us both—all the while bringing their own unique traits to the table. Micaela has her mother’s blond hair and small ears, but she has my brown eyes and long fuse. Cameron is passionate like his mother, but his baby pictures look just like mine. It’s a blend that eases the ache this night.
As the three of us settle in watching the stars come out, there’s no hurry to get back. We’ve got flashlights, and the trail home is a cinch. Leaning back into the folding chair, I peer up at the sky. Cameron is keeping me warm, and I’m probably doing the same for him. Micaela hums the birthday song as she licks white goo from her fingers.
When Cameron shifts, something crinkles in my jacket pocket. Checking what it is, I find a folded paper and tilt it to the light. Oh, right. It’s the event flyer that Mrs. Hollister gave me. I’d forgotten all about it. It’s a struggle with just one hand, but I manage to get it unfolded and, in the glow of the campfire, can just make out the large text.
Grand Opening of the New Cahuilla Heritage Museum
32344 Yucca Drive, Palm Springs, California
The flyer advertises food, festivities, and cultural demonstrations. It also emphasizes the opening of the exhibits that will showcase historical Cahuilla artifacts that have never been on display before. Reading further, the museum is proud to become the most extensive representation of our local tribal history ever compiled for the public. I think of Sonoma and her connections to the past. Her desire to unearth more of her family’s heritage.
Last of all, the flyer lists the speakers who will present on the tribe’s history and how it pertains to society today. Everyone is invited, which makes sense of why Mrs. Hollister gave me this. Struggling to read the bottom, I pull out my phone and tap on the flashlight for a better look at the list of speakers and their pictures.
11:00 a.m.—Glimpses of the Past Presenter: Alana Alvarez, Director of the Southern California Tribal Institute
1:45 p.m.—An Ancient Purpose in a Modern Era Presenter: Diego Cortez, PhD, Regional Anthropologist
The first two sessions pique my interest, but it’s the final name and photo that’s newly familiar. One that doesn’t have a doctorate or fancy title, which makes her presence all the more noteworthy.
3:15 p.m.—Blended Origins: A Guide to Genealogy Research for Partial Cahuilla Presenter: Sonoma Del Sol
Though we only met once, I feel pleased for her. This is a big deal. A testimony of hard work, especially since her own questions are still out there to be answered. I wonder, then, if I could have helped her more . . .
Micaela screeches, and I nearly drop the flyer, certain she’s been burned. But she’s rummaging through her coat pocket, complaining that she forgot my birthday present.
Hand to my heart, I try to calm my breathing. “We put it in my backpack, remember?”
She hops down and unzips the pouch. Wrapping paper crinkles. I open my arm to draw her closer, and she leans into my shoulder, handing it over.
I give the small package a shake and kiss the top of her hair. “Can I guess what it is?”
She leans back and nods.
“Is it a shower?” Turns out the one I picked months ago is still on back order.
“No!” she giggles.
“But I really want a shower.”
“A shower’s too expensive, Daddy!”
“Naw. You just need to open a line of credit.” I shake the package again.
She giggles and clambers into my lap next to her brother. Rye lies at our feet, leaning his massive head against my boot. This is a good birthday.
“Okay,” I whisper between the kids. “If it’s not a shower, what is it?”
“Auntie Kate took us to the store and helped us pick it out.”
Now I’m really curious.
“Open it!”
I do, and the first thing that falls out is a chocolate bar. My favorite. I sniff the plastic wrapper and make a show of how awesome it is. Micaela urges me to dig farther, and I feel a book. The paper falls away to a leather-bound journal. Opening it up, I tilt it toward the fire and see that the pages are blank and new. Nestled in the paper is also a pen that’s nicer than any I’ve ever owned. My sister is a good shopper.
“You guys. This is really neat. Thank you.”
“The candy bar was my idea,” Micaela says.
“Uh-uh.” Cameron jabs her with his elbow. “Me!”
I squeeze them tight so they stop arguing. “You guys are the best. It’s all perfect.”
We settle back in the camp chair, the kids leaning against each side of my chest, the opened package still in hand. The kids grow limp and sleepy, which means I just might be carrying them home. As the fire crackles and the night deepens, Rye sighs and I do too. Finally, I shift to the beginning of the book, and there inside the cover are words that have to be written by my sister.
For your own Kenworthy story. It’s going to be a good one.
John Cohen
John Cohen
December 1899
June’s in the rocking chair with Bethany. Over half a year, and she’s like a brush of heaven. I swear I see glory every time I peer into her face.
I want to hold on to them for every moment that I can.
I don’t know how long that will be, and it scares me more now than it ever has. They know where I am, my cousins. They know I’ve returned to this mountain to try to work off a debt of guilt and regret. I don’t know where on this earth they are, but I’ve heard whispers that the law is after them. Which means it will ultimately be after me as well.
God, if I could stay hidden just a while longer, I’d thank You. I know I don’t have the right to ask, but I’m asking all the same. You’ve seen them, both of my girls, and so You know why I have to try.
John
Chapter 23
Juniper
March 1903
“No school, Mama.” Bethany, who has adored visiting the schoolhouse ever since Mrs. Parson first took her there, clings to my skirt.
I kneel so as to take those two small hands in my own. “Oh, sweet girl.”
“I wanna stay with Papa!” Her eyes lift toward the stairs where John is now resting thanks to the help and strength of Santiago. Edie’s husband has returned to the mercantile to be with her, which is for the best since John still hasn’t woken. John’s color is fuller now, pulse stronger, so it could be any moment.
I smooth Bethany’s braid. “And your company is helping him to mend.” Her cheek is too close to not give a soft kiss. “But Papa needs to rest a little longer. I promise you. He is going to be here when you return.”
Her lip quivers.
“How about this? You go to school with Mrs. Parson so that I can give lots of good care to Papa, and I’ll fetch you on the break. You can help me fix supper. I’m sure it will be fine for you to attend only half the day.”
Thankfulness sparks in her eyes. “Promise?”
“With all my heart.”
Mrs. Parson waits in the doorway with a smile, then, hand in hand, they start off. I wonder in that moment—as the both of them are lit by the morning sun—if my child’s father will ever look upon a sight such as this. If he will see and know how brave and good and lovely his daughter is becoming.
From where I had already set a pot of water to boil, bubbles spill over the side, hissing on the hot iron. Filling the enamel pitcher, it waits steaming on the table as I fetch more rags and a new bar of soap. All in hand now, it’s time. I softly tread up the stairs, and what I see at the top is a world away and a lifetime ago.
John sits on the edge of the bed, facing the window. His posture is neither squared nor slumped—he simply is. With his back to me, it is almost as though nothing has ever changed. As though he will turn to me, smile, and rise. When I step back, the boards beneath me creak. He shifts, glancing back. There is confusion in his face. He blinks, and the dip between his brows is as much shock as it is puzzlement.
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