The Gold in These Hills

by Joanne Bischof

  Santiago has scarcely left her side, and it is good that way, but this day he and John hiked over the ridge to hunt. They will return by dark, and with Bethany at the schoolhouse and the workers gone with all the lumber and equipment they could haul away, I keep a close eye on Edie, who is a striking contrast to the men in this town who have moved on from the death of Little Bit easier than the rest of us ever will. We hear news of tragedy in newspapers or on the wind, and rarely does it affect us until it reaches inside our homes. I learned this the moment I held the newspaper clipping of John’s arrest, and Edie knows it in her own way as she sits upon a grassy knoll now, a handwoven blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

  Edie doesn’t move. Only the breeze that blows stirs her hair. It is a craving she has now for the quiet. What we can do in these weeks and even months to come is be a strength around her in any ways that will help. Much like the way the Cahuilla tribe stood around the day of the burial in song, we can summon up a type of music that she desperately needs.

  In the distance, the school bell rings. Bethany will be along any moment.

  Finished at the laundry line, I carry a basket of fresh sheets inside and set it on the bed in the back bedroom. Edie has insisted that while I do the laundering for her these days, she wants to iron and fold, so I leave the basket on the floor beside the nightstand where a clay jar sits. One shaped from the mud, dried by the sun, and charred by fire so that it can sit here, glazed in red ochre from the mountains. It holds a salve that the Cahuilla midwife made for Edie especially, which she used in the weeks after the difficult birth. I fold her nightgown and drape it over the metal bedstead, then tidy the blankets. It is evidence now of the way she and Santiago have lived in secret these past two years. It is a secret that I will continue to keep for them so long as they desire. But something is in the air—that secret drawing to an end by way of the funeral. A bittersweet end in that it has been loss that sparked their steps toward freedom.

  Finished tidying, I fill a fresh glass with water and mean to carry it up to the hillside where Edie sits, but she has returned, and now she and Bethany sit in the center of the porch. Though she’s only been here moments, Bethany has already unraveled her blue ribbon from her birthday shoot-out and has it pinned to the front of her dress. She has hardly been parted from the prize in the months since, and while I make her take it off for school, she often returns it to the front of her dress the moment she’s home.

  Legs folded in, Edie’s back is straight and still. Eyes closed. Kneeling behind her, Bethany braids her hair. She’s weaving the long amber locks in rough fashion, but it is beautiful all the same, as is this afternoon. On the wind, autumn storm clouds blow over the land. The gray of them dance over the fields. It charges the air around us that smells heavy like coming rain.

  My daughter’s hands move gently, and in Edie’s still, quiet face I cannot begin to fathom what she is thinking or feeling as a little girl twines her hair round small fingers. Edie draws in a shuddering breath, and it’s heartbreak here, in every twist of Bethany’s girlish hands, and yet an aliveness of soul that Edie is welcoming regardless. To feel is as much a blessing as it is a curse, and Edie is caught in its incomprehensible dance.

  “Tell me more about the colt.” Sitting, I lift a bowl of milk onto my lap. In it is soaking one of Edie’s blouses so as to work loose an ink stain.

  There is a soft smile at the edges of Edie’s mouth. The gentle, subtle curve is a beautiful sight.

  With a rag, I scrub at the stain that has begun to soften.

  Edie’s eyes remain closed. “She’s somethin’ else, June. Black as night and ever so soft. Santiago said she’s nearly a year. She pranced around like a dream as he led her over yesterday.”

  Thank God for Santiago’s ability to nurture this woman’s spirit. Over the last months he’s searched for ways to coax her toward another dawn.

  John has begun joining Santiago in his work with the horses. He’s on payroll now at the ranch, and the work is welcome for him with the mine closed. Welcome for us all. I see the way the gentle mares and majestic stallions have given John a renewed sense of purpose here. A way to press forward now that the mine is boarded up and sealed.

  “Have you thought of a name yet?” I gently swish the front of the blouse around in the milk.

  “You know I’m no good at naming things.” As Edie says this, the softness in her voice clips to silence. Moments later, there’s a quiver to her chin.

  My rocking chair squeaks as I reach over to touch her knee, clad as always in rawhide britches. “You are wonderful at naming things.”

  When her brown eyes angle my way, they’re wet now. Her mouth, though, while still holding the bittersweet, is more softly set than it was months back. “Thank you.”

  Bethany ties a yellow ribbon roughly around the end of the braid. “So pretty!”

  Edie reaches back to stroke my daughter’s handiwork. “Bethany, you spoil me.” She smiles over her shoulder at the girl, who’s beaming.

  “Can I do your hair next, Mama?”

  “How about you do mine tomorrow?”

  She nods, then Edie bids her to pick a taffy from the jar on the counter. Bethany rises and darts inside.

  The sound of the glass lid being lifted is eclipsed when Edie softly speaks. “You’ve a beautiful family, June.”

  How to respond to that? I set the bowl aside to settle on the steps beside her. The ribbon that Bethany tied at the end of Edie’s braid falls loose. I reach over to tighten it.

  “Edie . . .”

  “I mean it.” The fringe edging Edie’s britches sways as she shifts her boots out, crossing her ankles. “We all . . . we all have something different, don’t we? We all lose and gain in different ways. There’s really no telling the how or the why. It just comes, doesn’t it?”

  Slowly, I nod.

  “For the better part of a year you didn’t know of John’s whereabouts, and for all that while, I watched you be nothing but strong.”

  “I wasn’t strong,” I admit. If she really knew how I felt inside, or the ways I wept on my bedroom floor when another night fell with silence . . . And now? Now it is the same bedroom where John and I settle in at night, knit together once more. How I savor the warmth of his hand as he presses it to my back, to my shoulder. Or the way he always finds a hidden curl at the nape of my neck, coils it around his finger. The way he often lowers a kiss to that spot before saying good night, or tips my face toward his own as we remember, together, what we once had, and the newness we have gained.

  Some nights I wake to a lone candle beside him as he reads through the letters I wrote to him in his absence. Words I penned at the desk of our cabin while he sat in a cell in Yuma. There are times, there in the glow of the lone flame, that I sense him swipe at his eyes. And whenever he snuffs out the light, he lowers a kiss to my head. Weaves his arms back around me and holds on a little tighter.

  Why is it that I have been given the gift of my heart when Edie has lost her own?

  “You were strong. Because you bore an unforeseen pain with grace,” Edie says. “That’s strength, Juniper.”

  Reaching over, I squeeze her hand. “If I had half your strength.”

  Her eyes grow moist again. “We gain it when we have to, don’t we?”

  I nod again. “I believe so.”

  “But it’s possible.” Her long lashes are wet with unshed tears. “It’s possible to put one foot in front of the other. Sometimes I want to give up. To just lie down and not rise again, and do you know what I think of? I think of you. Of all the days and nights that I had Santiago by my side, looking after me, and you were alone. And yet it didn’t break you.”

  “It broke me inside.”

  “But you pressed on all the same. That’s what makes it all the more meaningful. Thank you.”

  I can hardly understand the grace of this. It is I who am amazed by Edie. That she has the ability to press on in the most broken of valleys.

  “‘Lead,
kindly light,’” Edie whispers, and it’s the hymn that Santiago sang skyward the day of Little Bit’s funeral.

  And I remember what comes next—“Keep my feet, Lord. I do not ask to see”—even as I recall John’s account of the lightless room. Of the minutes being agony.

  Edie walks in an agony all her own, and yet words of hope are rising from her heart. It is a heart that has been forged in gold. It is the gold that dwells here in Kenworthy. Perhaps the mine has always been empty, but we have a fortune that cannot be dug from the soil. Instead, it is in the lessons we have learned, the people we’ve come to love, and the way our faith grows in the desert and deep in the mountains. That is the gold that dwells in these hills, and it is an honor to have witnessed its glory.

  Chapter 42

  Johnny

  September

  The canyon rises on both sides, curving skyward in walls of rippling stone. My pack is loaded with climbing gear. Ropes, carabiners, and ascent shoes that I’ll change out of once I get to the waterfall. It’s a spot I’ve rappelled from a half dozen times, which is why I chose this place to bring my sister to on her first expedition to this canyon that’s hewn in shades of orange and gold, set deep within the San Bernardino Mountains. Just one range away from home. I had to leave Rye behind since it’s not the kind of terrain a dog can navigate.

  Kate and I have climbed together in the past, but this is different. It’s more exciting, but there’s also more at stake. Because of that, I triple-checked weather reports for any kind of flash flood warning. Since we’re about to rappel down a waterfall, then descend farther into the wet depths, we can’t be too careful about the risk of rainfall. Not in a place as dry and arid as this canyon that would collect rainwater like a bathtub. Skies are clear overhead and scheduled to stay that way, so we’re proceeding as planned.

  Kate talks as we walk, and it’s a sound I don’t tire of. She slides her hand along the canyon wall of rough stone that has been shaped and curved by time and water. “This is incredible.”

  “Pretty cool, huh?”

  She adjusts her backpack. “It’s amazing. I’m so glad we came here today. I’ve been wanting to see this place ever since you first showed me those pictures last year.”

  “It’s a good spot.”

  Her head tilts skyward. “Look at how blue the sky is. The colors here are unreal.”

  She’s right. Being in a canyon somehow makes the world more vivid. Sound is different down here, and so is texture. But most of all, it’s the light. The sun only hits you at high noon, and beyond that, you’re wrapped in a strange dance of shadows and the fragments of sunglow that fight their way in. A dappled existence where the rest of the world fades away, voices echo softly, and the narrow passages force you to angle just right at times. Like half the risk is in just not getting stuck.

  Gosh, that’s like life.

  A slot canyon is not the best for people who are claustrophobic, which is why I never brought Emily down here. She hated it the one time we ventured out, and so I stuck to this part of the adventure alone. It makes having Kate here with me all the more meaningful.

  When I pull out my phone to check the time, I notice an unexpected text from Sonoma. There hadn’t been a ding, so the text must have come through a while ago when Kate and I were busy unloading our gear from my truck. That’s the only place I can think of that would have had service around here.

  The surprise and pleasure of it all is spliced by Kate, who leans around my shoulder with a “Who’s So-no-ma?”

  She says it like we’re twelve.

  I smile and slide the screen away. “It’s someone I know.” The message was to let me know she’s finished with the letters now. I’ll text her back as soon as I’m out of the canyon to respond. I’ve also got something for her now that I’ve unraveled one more piece of the mystery within John Cohen’s journal.

  “Johnny—oof!” Judging by the squeak in Kate’s voice, she just got stuck. I glance back as she pushes past a narrow spot. “Be more specific!”

  Now I chuckle. How to explain? “She’s someone who was interested in the history near the cabin, so we got to talking about it. That’s all.” I’ve already pulled my phone out to glimpse the sight of her text again.

  Kate rolls her eyes. “Yeah.” She lowers her voice an octave to impersonate me. “It’s totally nothing.”

  “Oh, shut up.” As the canyon path angles left, I decide to just fess up. “No, she’s really interesting. Nice to spend time with. I heard her speak a while back at an event in Palm Springs, and it was really cool. I think she’s the youngest member on the council with the tribe down at the Cahuilla reservation. Has some family ties, too, which we’ve been trying to unearth the last few months.”

  Kate’s gaping at me.

  “What?!”

  “Johnny, that’s super cool. And you went to an event where she was at, huh?” Her eyebrows wag. “Is she pretty?”

  I’m not going to answer that.

  “Ooh, she is pretty! And you drove like an hour just to hear her speak!”

  “Will you stop?”

  “I want to see a picture.”

  “I don’t have a picture. We just hang out now and again. Why would I have a picture?”

  “Why are you getting so defensive about it?” she teases.

  “We’re dropping this subject.” I take a right around a sharp curve with a twinge of satisfaction when Kate trips a little.

  “Fine.” She laughs, shoving my shoulder from behind. “But just until the ride home, and then I’m going to hound you again.”

  “Fine.” I slam to a halt so she crashes into me, then start walking again.

  She throws a pebble at my pack, which dings off one of the helmets hanging there.

  As we walk, the canyon opens up enough for us to hike side by side. Kate pulls out two granola bars from her stash and offers one over. Judging by the change in sound, the waterfall isn’t far away. There’s a faint hum in the air now, and as we get closer, it turns into an unmistakable pulsing.

  Kate’s face lights up. “I can hear it!”

  “Almost there.”

  “Mind if I get a couple of pictures of this spot first?”

  “Take your time.” This is a good place for a break anyway. The hard work is ahead of us, and we’ve been hiking for over an hour. I unstrap my pack and lean it on the ground against the canyon wall. Sinking down into the sandy dirt, I polish off the granola bar and wash it down with a swig of water.

  Yeah, Kate stopped teasing me about Sonoma, but in truth, her name has entered the new journal my sister gave me for my birthday. The kids are in there, penned on dozens of pages now. Their laughter and energy. From swinging beneath the oak tree to finding another creek out behind some of my favorite bouldering spots. Cameron and Micaela splashed and played while Rye dove in right after them. All of this in the wake of a divorce. No, the sun isn’t exactly right overhead, but if I search for the dark, that’s what I’m going to find. If we search for the light? We’ll realize it’s glowing more than we first noticed. But that’s what it takes—the noticing.

  Noticing.

  Such a simple concept, but I think, as I’m sitting here, that it’s just faith in form.

  Camera out, Kate angles the lens down the stony corridor we’ve been traversing. The shutter clicks, she shifts the camera, and clicks it again. “This light is incredible.”

  It really is. Tipping my head back, I gauge the sky again. It’s nearly noon, so the sun will be overhead in less than an hour. Right now the air is simply warm and bright. There’s something about sitting here in the shadows that reminds me of life. The sun is up there—but just out of sight. Why is it that the things we desire are often as near . . . and yet as out of reach? We wait in the shadows, seeing the possibility and the promise of what could come, and when it arrives are so stunned by its glory that we forget it could pass on again.

  Maybe life has made me pessimistic these days, but maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe
it’s making me into an optimist. Knowing that while, yes, hard times come, there’s good too. We just have to wait and watch for it and, as important, even in the shadows realize there’s still light all around. I can see my hands, my hiking boots. See the navy-and-orange weave of my neoprene pack. The way my sister turns my way and scrunches her nose in delight before snapping a picture of me sitting here. All of this without the sun overhead. It’s all still good, and it’s all still in view. I guess the secret to life just might boil down to counting our blessings one moment at a time. And that maybe as we do, we realize that even though the sun isn’t right overhead, it’s been light all along.

  Chapter 43

  Juniper

  September 1903

  Sitting on the porch steps with Bethany at my side, we go over the alphabet on the slate. She’s been doing marvelously in school and can now shape all of the uppercase and some of the lowercase. With her finger, she erases a crooked r and tries again. Since it’s a Saturday, there was no school, but the cabin is empty of Mrs. Parson’s company now that she rents the spare bedroom in the mercantile. A blessing to all now that John is home, and Edie can use the helping hand and motherly presence.

  In the yard, John and Santiago seem to be discussing their guns. They’ve each unholstered their firearms and are examining them. I have no idea why, but the pair of them have been working so hard at the ranch, the diversion must be a welcome break.

  In the distance, I spot Edie striding this way in her rawhide pants and neat blouse. Her loveliness beneath the evening sun is only made more so by the dried flowers she carries at her side. The flowers were likely laid on Little Bit’s grave only days ago. Edie visits the grave every day, and rarely does she travel out to the site without a fresh bouquet of goldenrod. I used to wonder what she did with the dried flowers she brought back home, but I’ve since noticed jars of them appearing all over the mercantile. Dried blooms that she saves and cherishes not only for their raw, golden beauty but for the hours they spent keeping watch over her daughter.