At the cabin, I’m scarcely inside its warmth when Bethany’s laughter rings out. She’s kneeling beside the washtub, as is her father, and they are both scrubbing laundry. I halt. John looks up, and his face does not hold the carefreeness of his daughter’s. His hands are red with what can only be the heat and too much lye. Bethany uses my wooden paddle to push a billow of white beneath the foamy surface. They look like bedsheets. Why would John bother?
And then it dawns on me. The scent of him. The filth. He is tending to it so that no one else does. This is shame he’s pushing beneath the surface, and it makes my heart ache worse for him.
“What a good helper you’re being, Bethany.” I say it for her benefit. I cannot address John, and silence would leave our daughter unsettled. I fetch a turnip from the bottom of the barrel in the pantry. “Would you mind pausing a moment to bring this to Mr. Santiago’s mare? She’ll be needing some company for a spell.” I wink and hope it’s cheery.
“Are we finished, Papa?” It’s clear she doesn’t want to go, but John must sense what I’m about.
“You’ve done well. Do your mama’s bidding now, and we’ll look through your books when you get back.” He speaks clear and kind. His beard is neatly trimmed again, and he’s growing more robust with each passing day. “Take good care of that horse. Your company will do her good.”
Bethany nods, accepts the round turnip, and dashes off without a coat. I nearly call out to her to come back, but she will be warm in the barn, and her dress is spun of thick wool.
John silently watches her depart, as though her presence here is as much a lifeline for him as for me. She is made from pieces of our souls, so it is no wonder we both watch her go. I feel her absence instantly. The room seems colder. Smaller. Despite the chill, our aloneness sweeps in. I step closer to my husband and kneel across from him. The washtub steams between us. His brow, damp with sweat, has taken on a healthier color in these few days.
It has been the same stretch of days that he has waited on me. He is being a gentleman, not pushing words. Not pushing anything. So it is I who must begin. “We only have a moment.” As we both know. “So I’ll speak plainly.”
He wipes damp hands on the sides of his pants.
“You have come from Yuma prison?”
He lifts his chin, answering with the readiness of a man who recently stood trial. “Yes.”
“How long were you there?”
“Four months.”
I try to let that make sense. The last dozen letters I wrote—letters of doubt and fear and longing—he was in a prison. If only I could have known. I speak slowly to this man who has been a convict. That he may still be makes the next question difficult to voice. “You were set free?”
Something shifts through his eyes—regret and despair. That I asked such a question? Or that I have cause to? “I was released. My sentence has been served in full.”
My mouth is too parched to swallow. “And what was your crime?”
Now it is his turn to swallow hard. “I was tried alongside four other men. There were several accounts of mining fraud, punishable as a felony in Arizona, which was why we were taken to Yuma. In addition, there were three accounts of murder.”
He says it so matter-of-factly.
The cold of the room seeps into my bones. My fingers feel numb, this man too close. Traces of truth, of knowing him, rise in my spirit even as he presses on.
“I was not a part of the killings, June. I wasn’t even in the same territory when they happened. I need you to know that. I was young and foolish when I met up with them. My cousins, that is.” His wrists rest on the edge of the washtub, and it’s impossible not to imagine those same wrists clapped in irons. “Among the five of us, the mines were salted, but please know that it was long before you.” Years of pain dwell in his eyes. Eyes that linger on my own even as the crease in his forehead bows beneath the weight of it all. “Please believe that I had no part in those killings. It’s why they didn’t hang me. It took a fair deal of trial for the jury to concur.”
The cold is replaced with heat, and a lightness sweeps over me. “Are you the one who salted the Kenworthy mine?” I don’t realize until now that my hands have slipped into the water, where his own have returned to the sharp heat. It’s as though he cannot be rid of his filth. And as though my hands long to help him. That longing is ingrained within me, serving as master over even my sensibilities. It is a master I will serve no longer.
“Juniper.”
“It’s a simple yes-or-no answer.” I pull away, drying my fingers on the hem of my apron. The man either fired that gold-loaded shotgun inside the Kenworthy mineshaft or he didn’t.
His eyes—and all that lies behind them—consider mine. Moments that bleed into the spaces between our words, a telling that there is more to this than a yes or a no. Yet he does as I wish, speaking only a single word. “Yes.”
Chapter 26
Johnny
March
I was never much of a runner until I moved here. I much prefer the slow trek down through a desert canyon. But here there’s a hundred miles of open land from one end of this mountain range to the other. A few houses speckle the landscape, and white fencing lattices the fields where horses roam. Beyond that in this high-mountain valley is just me and air and sky.
Keeping a steady pace, Rye lopes along just in front of me. There are endless places to run here, but today we chose a nearly abandoned mountain-biking trail that heads into the woods. It means being creative with my footwork over fallen limbs and gopher mounds, but for the most part, the narrow path is smooth. There isn’t a pine-scented product on the market that can even touch the clearness I’m heaving into my lungs. By the time we finish the mile and a half to the end of the bike loop, it’s time to turn and start back down.
There’s more of a rise this time. Breaths come hard. This is tough. It’s a kind of tough I like because even if it beats me, I can try again tomorrow. But maybe a lot of toughs are like that. Maybe we just don’t have the courage to say we failed—for now, but with the willingness to strap up the next morning.
Despite the crisp spring weather, sweat draws my T-shirt against my shoulders. It clings to my torso. I tug at the fabric, aching for water by the time I reach the farmhouse. Perspiration drips down my forehead, hitting the dirt when I bend forward to stretch. Rye ambles up to his water bowl and wolfs down huge gulps. Finished, he flops across the porch and nuzzles his face into one of my slippers. I reach him, move the slippers, and push inside. I’d give anything for a shower right now, and the new one is slated to arrive any day now. Finally.
A moderate stand-in has been a camping shower, which takes just three gallons of warm tap water to fill the rubber bladder. With soap and a towel, I head outside to where I rigged up a temporary partition, and it’s another handy reason neighbors are sparse. And since three gallons flies by, I’m upstairs dressing in no time. I’m just pulling a sweatshirt down to the waistband of my jeans when my phone beeps with a new email. I’ve learned to keep a close eye on emails since the logistics of homeowner renovations can change by the hour, so even though it’s a Saturday, I tap the icon.
But the message is not from one of my clients. It’s from Sonoma Del Sol.
Our past encounter was relatively formal. This message also holds the warmth of character I have come to see in her. She’s inquiring about the letters I mentioned. I type a quick response, letting her know that I’m still on the lookout for details but the offer still stands for me to get them to her at any point. I don’t have to finish them first. Technically, I could have copies made of every page, but I don’t know when I’ll be going down to the city next, and I don’t mind bookmarking my spot and sending them to Sonoma. Her use with them is more pressing, and since the history around here is so pertinent to her research, I send an invitation for her to stop by at any point if that would help.
Her response comes an hour later.
That’s a really nice offer, thank you. But
I would just want to make sure your wife would be okay with it. I haven’t met her, though I’d like to. I just don’t want to show up unannounced.
I stare at the message. My wife?
My thumb hovers over the keyboard. How to respond to that? Then it hits me. The one time Sonoma and I met in person—I wore a wedding ring. I was still a husband. A few weeks of massive change isn’t something she’d have been aware of.
Oh, man. She must think I’m such a jerk.
Mortified, I’m practically sweating again as I type back. It takes about ninety-two attempts before I’ve pieced together a response that feels right.
That’s really good of you to check. Actually, I’m recently divorced. It was finalized just a few weeks ago. Forgive me for not thinking that through and for putting you in a weird position. It’s just me here, and if you’re okay with that, please feel free to stop by anytime and I can show you some of the historical sites, especially the one you’re looking for. If you’d like, Mrs. Hollister could come along. I’m sure she’d be thrilled. Whatever works best for you. And either way, I’m happy to get those letters your way! I could even drop them off at the historical society with Mrs. Hollister for you to pick up sometime.
After hitting Send, I tap Play on the radio. Country music fills the house as I start a pot of water for spaghetti tonight. It’s really one of the few dinners I’ve gotten good at cooking, and while I am totally over spaghetti, it’s what’s on hand. I find a package of pepperoni in the back of the fridge as well as some garlic and zucchini and, after some slicing and dicing, manage to jazz up the jarred sauce. Back on the porch, plate in hand, I take a bite as the sun goes down. Rye hasn’t moved from his napping spot since our run a few hours earlier.
The sky starts to burn a brilliant pink. Phone still handy, I snap a picture of it and am just saving it to a special folder for my sister when I realize the email icon is lit up again.
It’s Sonoma, and for a split second I feel like I’m still married and this is wrong. Like I shouldn’t just be emailing a lady. But I’m not married. It’s not wrong. And somehow, stuff like this will become a new normal. Won’t it? I both dread and welcome it.
For now, I barely know this gal, but I like that she’s nice, easy to get along with, and cares about the history of this place. These mountains. The people whom she calls ancestors. It has me eager to read her message, and as warm a feeling is the response that’s come through. That yes, she’s glad to come by and check out those spots. And that if tomorrow works for me, it would be great for her.
* * *
It’s by the glow of another campfire—this one in the yard and with just one canvas chair pulled close—that I open the binder of photocopied letters again. I’ve read nearly every one, but half a dozen at the back lay waiting.
Maybe they’re not waiting. Maybe it’s me who has been waiting.
I kind of don’t want them to end. There’s something about not knowing the end of the story yet that gives me hope that perhaps, in some crazy, wild way, things worked out okay for this woman and the man who vanished from her life. I want to know if he returned. If he came back to her. And if he did . . . what did he say?
Even though the letters are duplicates, it’s a habit to turn them carefully. They’re the only copies I have. More could be made, of course, but I’d rather take care of these. These are the ones with my address on them, given to me by those who have the authority to do so. This album is more than just a duality of what once was. This one is different somehow. It’s mine, and now I have the honor of sharing it with someone it might help even more than me.
I turn to the first of the last letters.
Dearest John,
You have been gone one hundred and fourteen days. Each and every one of those days has been wrapped in silence. How I long to begin each letter with “This is the last one I will write,” but my heart still moves in my chest, my hand still knows how to hold a pen, and the dwindling pile of stationery is not yet exhausted.
So, I pen your name. The name that lives in my heart—a beating that is pain. A pulsing that is longing. And a hope that will not die.
There is so much to say. To ask you, to share. But tonight, as Bethany sleeps burrowed beneath the blankets on our bed, I cannot recall the happenings of the day or even the week. I can only recall your face, and it is such a rare remembrance that I will do all I can to hold the sight clearly until sleep forces me to forget. This is what you have done to me. This is how much I miss you, and for this night, even if only for a handful more hours, I will not be ashamed to do so.
You were worth this heartache. I need to believe tonight that you were worth it.
Yours . . . still,
Juniper
Chapter 27
Juniper
March 1903
John slides his knife down the center of the hatbox lid that once hailed from San Francisco. The floral box busted out on the bottom some time ago, and now Bethany watches, spellbound. Over and over he does this, adjusting the size and curve of each shape of the cardboard cuttings until each floral piece is resting in a pile between the pair. It’s a puzzle he’s made for her. When he begins to reassemble it, Bethany moves in to help. Their hands work in unison as though they were never apart.
What would it be like to forgive so easily? To forgive like a child? One who keeps no record of wrongs?
I’ve stopped mixing cake batter to watch them. John’s focused solely on his daughter. Bethany has longed for him—has prayed for him—through months of silence. This reunion is a gift to the girl like no other. I can only pray it will last. But will I, too, make peace with him? Otherwise this marriage will continue on as a strained existence. One where we speak little and touch even less.
Will this be our lives from here on? John would never force anything else upon me. And for there to be change? Hurt has left its mark, and I do not know how to smooth over the gullies in my soul that his actions have left.
How is there a way out? A way forward?
I pour in butter and the golden swirls fade as I whip it in. Edie gave me a tin of candied ginger, and so I slice that into fine pieces and sprinkle them in to flavor the cakes. I’ll dust them with sugar come morning so that they’re good and ready for Bethany’s birthday dinner. A thick stew bubbles on the stove, and there seems little else to do but to get through another night. Ever since John washed and dried the sheets, he has claimed a spot by the fire. Without a word between us, I have returned to the upstairs bedroom with Bethany. Mrs. Parson still boards with us but spends most of her time at the schoolhouse, in her room, or out in the barn where she’s continued Bethany’s photography lessons. When she is downstairs, it is in times when her presence is a welcome distraction for us all. She is a wise and gracious woman, and based on recent ideas she’s voiced to me, she will be looking for somewhere else to board soon so that our family home can go back to its natural balance. I see the wisdom in her choice but can’t help but worry what it will be like without her presence here.
A printed rose takes shape as Bethany turns a piece to nestle into another. John braces it to the floor with his thumb as she slides another into place. She searches for the next, and though it sits right before her father, he waits, watching not the piece but his daughter. He is waiting to see if she will solve the riddle. Waiting so that her determination will grow.
Is that how God is with us, His children? There to guide and direct us, but in a way that gives us the space to grow in patience? I believe so, and as I watch John challenge and even delight his daughter, it makes me long to be wrapped in the same kind of care. One that comes from the Lord on high. But these thoughts? Why do they betray me so? I should not be watching John and thinking of God. The two do not go hand in hand.
The stew is bubbling more than it should. A glance in the pot says it’s about to burn. Reaching across the stove for the wooden spoon, my nervous hand grazes the side of the pot on accident. The spoon clatters back to the stove louder than my cry
. I turn for a way to cool my skin, and John is already at the door, rushing down into the yard and back. He’s at my side before I can think to use the water pitcher. His hand folds a mound of snow against my skin. He braces it there. The sting, his hold on my wrist, is enough that fidgeting flees from mind. Instead, I stand still as granite while pain pulses through my skin and up my arm.
The burn is numbed by the snow as my fingers become warmed by his touch. His hold is gentle but steady.
I pull away. “It’s fine. Thank you.” Snow melts down my wrist, tracing in a coil across his forearm.
At the washbasin, John brushes his hands clean and dries them. He says nothing as he returns to the half-finished puzzle, but the magic of their game has ended. Bethany kneels upon the seat of a chair now, watching me.
“Mama’s just fine, sweet girl,” I say, drying my reddened skin on my apron.
John gathers up the pieces of cardboard. Worse than the sting of the burn is seeing that they didn’t finish their puzzle. The pieces remain unsolved. For another day, I hope.
With supper ready, I serve up steaming bowls. In another life, John would have blessed the food, but I do so before he can. The meal would be silent if it weren’t for Bethany, who chatters away to her papa. Her sweetness softens the night, and by the time dishes are stacked and I’ve filled both cake tins and slid them in the oven, she’s dressed for bed. Bethany sits upon John’s lap, and he reads her a story from the Bible, this one of Adam naming all the animals in the Garden.
Bethany is nearly asleep by the time they finish, and he carries her up to the bed she and I now share. When he returns, his steps are slow.
The Gold in These Hills Page 18
