Neither of us move until I brave more steps. Even with a window propped ajar, the air smells of his lingering odor, and I pity him for it.
He won’t have the strength to stand, but his eyes are clear and fixed on my face.
“You’re awake.” It’s all I can think to say.
“Juniper.” The word holds hundreds of miles and as many days.
“John.” A thousand questions.
When he tries to rise, I move nearer. “Please don’t.” Whether it’s the plea or the way I reach out to insist, he sits again.
His body is thinner than it once was. Frame masculine, but in a modest way—one that speaks louder than a striking appearance. It’s resilience. He’s made up of the same angles and lines as most men, but while his presence fills this room somehow, there’s a leanness to him that speaks of hunger and hardship. It speaks of the will to survive. His scraggly beard brushes his open shirt collar, mustache fringing his mouth in wiry strands.
“I have hot broth on the stove if you’re ready to eat.” I settle the pitcher on its stand and notice that his journal rests on my desk where I placed it the night before. I have not opened the cover and do not plan to. “And here is hot water. Perhaps . . . perhaps you would like a bath now that you’re awake?” The question is such a simple one, but it’s all that comes in this moment.
His eyes follow me. “Both would be . . .” His voice is weary as it trails off. All he can do is nod, and for a moment I fear he is going to topple.
“I’ll fetch you something to eat then fill the washtub.”
Hand to the side of his head, he nods slowly. “Would you like me to move?” He lowers a glance to my feet. To the place I stand here in this bedroom. Our bedroom. “I don’t have to be here.” His hand curves around to his neck. “I’m not even sure how—”
How he got here? “I don’t mind staying downstairs tonight.”
I don’t see his reaction, but his response lifts my gaze. “Bethany?”
“She’s at school for the morning, but she’s eager to see you awake. I’ll get her very soon. The schoolteacher, Mrs. Parson, boards here now, so she will be returning this evening.”
He nods. “How is she? Bethany?”
“She is well. She’s strong.”
“And you?”
I lay the rag beside the pitcher, having no answer to that. “I’ll get the broth.” Retreating, I make my way down the stairs and take plenty of time filling a bowl with rich stock. I dip a spoon into place and fold a small napkin beneath the rim of the bowl. It would have been easier if the meal were harder to prepare, more taxing to finish, but I need only carry it back up the stairs and deposit it into his hands. When I return, John has moved to the chair beside the window. I lower the bowl for him to grasp, making sure he has a good grip on it before letting go. It’s all too easy to keep our skin from touching.
“Take your time. And there’s plenty more. I’ll prep the bath.”
“Much obliged.” His gentle tone says more still.
Downstairs, I heft my two largest pots to the pump and fill them to the brims. There’s just enough room on the stove for them both to heat. The washtub hangs on a wooden peg on the side of the house, and it’s a relief to have an excuse to escape outdoors. Thoughts pummel me regardless.
John is alive.
Awake.
Eating broth from a bowl.
There is so much to say. So many questions to ask. But I can only focus on basic comforts—on nursing. I will give him this care but no more. There will be time for thinking beyond, and even then, I do not want it.
My strength fails me today because it takes many trips to lug all the hot water up the stairs, and that’s with shaking hands still unsteady from the shock of it all. The tub is half full and steaming at the end. John watches it with a base need, the soul-deep hunger he displayed when accepting the broth. He braces the empty bowl now as I sprinkle dry soap into the round washtub. The water fogs. This soap is meant for laundering, so I use it sparingly. It is sharp and what he will need to become fully clean. With a sturdy rag and a bar of lye soap at the ready, he has all he’ll need.
“I’ll leave you now.”
Nearing the door, my skirt snags on a sliver in the knotty-pine bed frame. This he built by hand before I first arrived here. I shake the tattered hem loose, harder than necessary. Angry. Angry at God for answering my prayers—for bringing my husband home to me—but in a way that is outside how I imagined it could be. God has answered my prayers, yes, but it feels as though He is mocking me. It’s a childish thought. Worse, heretical. Who am I to dictate how God wills our lives? Did He not ask His servant Job upon being questioned, “Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth?” Still, I’m angry . . . and I can only hope that one day God can forgive me for it. I will need to make peace with it first—and do not know that I will ever be able to.
John watches the way I right my tattered hem before that same considering of his reaches to my face. He has yet to rise still. Whether it is shame or longing or something in between that tints his voice, it has not changed from its soft tone. As though his words are reaching for me in a way that only they would be allowed to. “Thank you.”
Chapter 24
Johnny
March
Emily picked up the kids early this morning, and they aren’t gone but half an hour—the house sighing with their absence—when my guys show up. José’s driving the work truck, and a couple more of them are on hand to help tear down the old barn loft, salvage what wood we can, and rebuild an all-new loft from fresh, new lumber.
José is barely out of the truck when he’s got a radio cued up, Spanish music blasting from the speakers. Antonio, who is a genius with tile and grout, has brought a case of bottled water, and Raúl, my strongest guy who can heave just about anything into place, tosses two bags of lime-flavored tortilla chips onto the folded-down tailgate. These guys are good for the soul.
Emily told me while she was here that she and Austin are getting married in a week.
That with the divorce final, and their baby due soon, it was time.
I just stood there and listened. Nodded. Then watched her drive away.
Raúl claps me on the shoulder with, “We doin’ this, man, or not?” and it jars me back to the moment.
I squeeze his shoulder back. “Let’s get started. Thanks for coming.” I’ve already arranged to pay for their time, but it still feels like a sacrifice on their part. They don’t have to help me on a weekend when they have other things to do with their families. But they enter the barn with me, and all three of them peer up at the soaring space.
“Dude.” Antonio drags out the word. “This place is old. Like super old.”
We all chuckle.
With the volume cranked on the radio, we grab gloves, sledgehammers, and skill saws and set to work on the remaining loft fragments. It takes the rest of the morning to get the rotted wood down and stacked in the yard. The air is filled with sawdust and a smell that whispers of time. The dust lingers in José and Antonio’s black hair as they drag a massive beam out into the yard. It’s rough around the edges, but it holds unspeakable value as an accent beam for a farmhouse.
Near noon, José’s wife, Marta, arrives with a crockpot of homemade refried beans and a tray of hot enchiladas covered in foil. Two plastic tubs hold homemade salsa while extra tortillas steam from inside a striped towel. She takes the spread inside, and we feast on the porch, washing it all down with ice-cold Coke from glass bottles. Rye lies on the porch, watching Marta the most as though knowing she is the bringer of the food. When she pinches off a piece of meat and lowers it to the floor beside him, he laps it up and watches her with even more adoration.
“So, hey, man,” José begins after a swig of soda. He swipes a loving hand across his wife’s back, who is seated beside him. “We all talked and just want to let you know that we don’t want this to be on the clock.”
I shake my head. “It’s on the clock. I
asked you all to come, and you’ve been working your tails off. There’s no way I’m not paying you.”
“No, man,” Raúl counters in his thick accent. His English is patchy, so the two words are enough.
Seated beside me on the steps, Antonio balances his meal on his lap. “It’s already done, boss. We won’t take it.”
I hang my head, overwhelmed and trying to think of a way to counter them, when Marta rises, gives me a tight hug, and places another enchilada onto my plate. “Eat up.” There’s a warm smile in her brown eyes. She winks at me and then kisses the top of her husband’s head. These people . . . They’re the salt of the earth.
After we eat, Marta asks for a tour, so we head inside, and I show them all around. The guys admire the historic details and wood finishings while Marta gives me tips on how to better organize my kitchen.
Having wandered upstairs with the guys, Antonio calls down. “Hey, boss, what about finishing off this floor? I thought you said you did it already? Looks kind of awful still.”
After climbing the stairs, I reach the bedroom doorway and see the circular water stain that he’s eyeing. “Yeah. I could have probably gotten it out, but didn’t want to sand down too far.”
Kneeling, Antonio touches the wood that is slightly warped and uneven from the damage. The circle, about two and a half feet in diameter, is a perfect round.
“I think it might have been from an old bathtub,” I add. “It might have sat here too often. Or too long, perhaps.”
“These are some steep stairs to haul water up,” Antonio says. He’s a genius with flooring, can cut trim on a dime, and so it doesn’t surprise me that the roughness of these floorboards stumps him. Especially since I could have renovated it all to a more pristine shine.
I crouch beside him and touch a portion of the warped flooring. “I guess I liked the idea of leaving some of the history intact.”
Antonio nods slowly. “Yeah, I can see that. Is all good, man. This place is really something.”
“Thank you. And hey,” I add as we rise. “Let me know when you want to help install a shower downstairs.”
“No way.” He grins. “I’ve seen that bathroom. Too scary to touch.”
“It’s not scary. It’s . . . vintage.”
“It’s scary!” Marta calls from the kitchen. “But I like this place all the same, Johnny. It’s a good home.” Her cheery voice continues up the stairs. “A really good home.”
Chapter 25
Juniper
March 1903
Snow blankets the land, cocooning my every step as I tromp toward the mercantile. The bag of laundry I had draped over my shoulder has lost any sense of balance as I now drag it behind me, trailing a rut through the white drifts from my cabin to the town. Up ahead, smoke curls from the chimney of Manchester Mercantile where Edie will be holed up and cozy.
With nary a sound to be heard, business will be slow today. I doubt even the ranchers or their families will have cause to venture out in this deep of snow. Yet when I arrive, stomping my boots outside of the open doorway, a plethora of activity buzzes within. Two men stand at the long wooden counter in threadbare coats. Supplies drape the counter before them. Their faces are chapped—the skin worn raw with cold as though they blew in with it. They’ve a rough look, but I feel no uneasiness at the sight of Santiago lingering in the corner of the shop. He’s feigning interest with the display of tobacco but will likely choose the kind he always purchases from the wife he comes here every day to see.
Glimpsing him again, it is impossible not to recall encounters of late. Of the way he dragged John’s body into the cabin only nights ago. Of him standing with me in the barn, forcing me to see the pain and anguish of an innocent mare. Of the way he helped get John upstairs and into bed. There’s much I need to say to this man—so many ways I need to thank him—but this won’t be the time.
The oversized coat that Edie wears is buttoned up the front, and a thick, knitted scarf is tucked beneath the collar. The padding is sufficient to distract from the fact that she’s eight months along. Her height works to her advantage, allowing her stomach to nestle more closely within her slim torso. The scarf wound around her neck was once a favorite of the reverend’s and now serves as warmth for his daughter . . . a shield for her unborn child.
One of the men is eyeing her manner of dress so seriously Edie’s cheeks are flushed. Does he sense her secret? His eyes skim down the length of her, and Edie’s jaw clenches.
“Say, miss, that jacket’s too big for you.” He shrugs broad shoulders beneath his own coat that has seen one too many winters.
Edie yanks the lever that opens the cash register. “That’s ’cause I took it off a man I shot.”
The man’s eyes widen. At the display of tobacco and cigars, Santiago observes the conversation with a spark of amusement.
“I have something that may suit,” I say, announcing my presence for the first time. I haul the laundry bag nearer. Inside linger several garments from miners who are no longer here. After digging to the bottom, I pull out an offering. The outerwear is tailored differently than this man’s bush coat, but the wool is thick and warm and the seams still plenty sound. I shake it out and hold it up. Since the man I laundered it for never paid me, I decide to try my luck with tossing out a price. A way to pay off a few more dollars of my tab here at the mercantile.
The stranger pulls several bills from his pocket and places them in my hand. He takes the coat with a nod of gratitude and then a glance of apprehension Edie’s way. “Much obliged, ma’am. Ladies.” He touches the brim of his hat then introduces himself and his comrade to me as scouts for the Fresno Mining Company. The same company leading the charge for the stamp mill and hotel to be disassembled. “We’ll be seein’ ya next month. About six wagons and twenty men altogether. Laborers, drivers, and two foremen.”
“We’ll be ready.” Edie swipes her own payment into the register, and a bell dings as she closes the drawer.
How I hope she’s right. There is much to do in the cookhouse still. Work that ground to a standstill with John’s return. Somehow I must divide my time.
Slipping behind the counter, I deposit the rest of the laundry. “These are Mr. Conrad’s things. He’ll collect them soon as usual.” I have no idea what to do with the other items, but maybe Edie can look through to see if anything will fit Santiago.
Through the shop widow, we watch the travelers mount their horses. Santiago comes to the register, pays for his tobacco, and considers Edie and then me before politely giving us a moment to speak.
“Oh!” She turns and pulls two paper bundles from the shelves behind her. “Your order came.”
“My order?”
“The sugar and flour. You were gonna put together a cake for Bethany. I’ve been fixin’ her up a little gift.”
How did I forget? Her birthday is only days away. With all that’s happened, it slipped my mind entirely. “Thank you, Edie.”
She pencils the total onto my running tab, and I slide her the fresh bills to put a dent in the sum.
“She’ll be so pleased.” Edie comes around the counter, giving me a comforting squeeze. Does she know what thoughts circle my mind? That this return of the men is so much harder on me than it is on her? Tears well in my eyes, and when her own grow misty, I sense she understands.
So much has passed in the last months and now days. Both of our husbands gone. Both of them returned. The mystery surrounding them both yet unsolved. I long to whisper to Edie further . . . to glean what she knows, but if I am honest with myself, I want it from John’s lips first. I’ve waited so long, it is only right. The chance to speak plainly and unearth answers has come. I need to begin with the man resting beneath my roof.
“I’ll be off.” I squeeze her hand.
Santiago stands on the porch now, watching the snow, giving us time.
“I’m so glad he’s home,” Edie whispers.
“I knew he would come back to you. It’s apparent how much he
loves you.”
Edie shakes her head. “Thank you, but I was speaking of John.”
I offer a weak smile that won’t fool this woman.
“June. Talk to him.”
A nod is all I can muster.
“Please.” She hesitates then says more. “If I could speak to my pa just once more, I would.” Her eyes glisten. “We never know how much time we have with someone.”
Her sentiment humbles me. “I will.” Where I ventured off into the unknown to marry John, leaving behind the only home and family I had, Edie has been planted like a tree here in this place. Rooted in the very mountains, she grew from under the care of a loving father. What different paths we have walked as daughters and women. Her counsel is one I would be a fool to ignore. “And you are well? The baby?”
“Wiggling like a ground squirrel in the brush. Darting this way and that.” She presses a hand to her middle that’s still buried beneath layers of leather and wool. Nestling past the folds, I press my hand to the same place atop her blouse, feeling the blessing there. This child who was knit from two different heritages. While no man could ever tame Edie Manchester, it is clear that a man has learned how to love her and to garner her love in return. That is no small thing, nor is the blessing of this coming child. This unborn baby is a testimony to the wonders that the Lord can weave in the unlikeliest of places. It is the same God who chose that the glory of gold should be harvested from the grit of the earth and that I should face what I am avoiding.
“Speak to John,” Edie whispers again as I take my leave.
I give her a small wave of assurance before returning to the winter’s day. Shawl wrapped snug, I head for home quicker than I left, not because I am eager to cross the threshold, but because I have nothing to carry except a small sack of flour and another of sugar. It’s another working of the Lord. To strip us of what we mean to cling to. Of what weighs us down—or, in my case, keeps us from facing what we fear most.
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