As Mrs. Parson adjusts levers on her camera that Bethany knows so much more about than I do, I straighten my spine, peer straight at the black lens face, and tip my chin up. A few seconds pass. From the side of my vision, John is watching me. Bethany is at his side. So grown now, at six. Ribbons dangle from her long braids, and her nose is dusted in freckles from a childhood beneath the California sun.
“Alright, Juniper. Steady and still.” Mrs. Parson clicks the shutter, and I flinch. John grins, his eyes shining as he watches me.
“Was that it?” I ask.
“Lovely. I won’t be able to develop the images until I arrive in San Bernardino, so I will mail them back here.”
It’s a nice thought. I’ve never seen my photograph before, so I will be curious when the package arrives. Maybe we’ll get a boughten frame to hang it in. More likely, John will fashion one, and it will be even more lovely.
Some time back, Mrs. Parson brought over one of the photographs she developed here in Kenworthy. It was a shot of Bethany sitting on the hearth. It’s a perfect capture, except that Bethany’s head turned toward the door the moment the shutter clicked, which blurred her face. At first, I wondered why Mrs. Parson would have taken such care to bring me a photograph that most would view as flawed, then I realized what she had captured. It was the moment of her father’s arrival. When Bethany first witnessed his return, and all her focus went to the door where he was being carried through. Though blurred, it is a picture, a moment, that I treasure.
“How about the men now?” Mrs. Parson slides a plate from her camera, then replaces it with a fresh one. There’s a notepad in her hand, and on it, she writes the numbers that coincide with the plates, adding the names of those who are in the photograph as well as the date.
Santiago shakes his head. He’s been eyeing the camera warily all morning. At his side, Edie smiles at her husband.
John squeezes Santiago’s shoulder and grins. “Come on.”
Head down, the Cahuilla man follows. He casts the camera one more look of distrust. When they take their places, Santiago’s stony expression softens. John has turned them both to face the lens, arm draped across his friend’s shoulder. They are handsome men. So different and yet so alike.
“Would you like to take this one, Bethany?” Mrs. Parson waves her over.
Bethany dashes to the camera on its stand, and together they work through the steps needed to capture the image standing there. The hem of Bethany’s calico dress hits just below her knees where her stockings have been worn through from too much time spent playing in the fields with her papa, Santiago, and the spring colts.
With their heads bent together, Mrs. Parson reminds Bethany how to press the shutter switch, so it is my daughter who bids the camera to remember this moment so that we will as well.
“Oh, that will be fine,” Edie calls from where she stands in her shade. The baby in her arms stirs gently. She bounces the child. A boy. Her third born to this earth and the first to live. I prayed on my knees every day that he was inside her.
When we all suggest she pose next, Edie shakes her head, so Bethany offers to show Edie how to do it.
“It’s real easy.” Bethany perches on the steps of the porch. She sits straight and tall like a lady. Her eyes are a glorious type of happiness as she peers at the camera. Click. Her image is etched forever. In my heart, I want to remember it always as well.
The last two photographs are of Edie.
The first is of her posing with her son, Elias. The babe cries the entire time, his little arms flailing inside the woven blanket while Edie grins from ear to ear. It takes no effort for her to hold the smile. I don’t think it will be leaving her face until the day she dies. Her eyes have been aglow since Elias’s birth three months ago, and it’s a light that was hard wrought. A reminder of God’s faithfulness even through the darkest of valleys.
For the last photograph that Mrs. Parson captures, Edie makes a special request, and it’s a good one. Santiago carries the camera while John hoists the stand, and by the time we’ve all walked down to the mercantile, I see afresh the sign overhead that is so much a part of Edie’s life and heritage. Manchester Mercantile. I sense why this picture will mean so much to her. It’s the place where she grew into a young woman and spent years by her father’s side. It’s where she and Santiago have made their first home, and the place where all her babies were born.
Edie stands on her own in front of the mercantile and hoists her husband’s rifle over her shoulder. She stares at the camera, and when the shutter is pressed, I wonder if we will ever see these images. If the package will arrive safe and sound in Kenworthy once more. Mrs. Parson has promised them to us, a parting gift that we will remember always, just as we will never forget her kindness.
With all the plates packed away in her leather bag, Mrs. Parson and Bethany latch the camera back up like a turtle hiding inside its shell once more. John is taking Mrs. Parson by wagon to the train station in the valley tomorrow, so for this evening there are a few hours left to enjoy one another’s company.
We return to our cabin where the oak tree, while small still, stretches out an inviting shade beneath its late-summer leaves. At our bidding, the men set up makeshift tables, and Mrs. Parson and I drape cloths. Edie settles wildflowers into glass jars. Bethany bounces Elias on her knee beneath the oak, and the baby babbles to her all about it. This tree was meant to hold children in its shade, and I hope it always does.
Perhaps someday this land will be inhabited with more souls, but on this quieting evening it is wild and free, and it is us who are the voices that rise toward the first traces of starlight. There is laughter, and there have been many tears.
As sunset hearkens in, we serve up hot rolls with Edie’s sweet cactus jelly. Two roasted chickens grace the table, and Mrs. Parson’s chocolate pie is the crowning glory. We feast in stages, talking and sharing stories as the night stretches on. There is no hurry, and as John lights lanterns, we all seem to be in silent agreement to make the most of this night. Bethany stays up way too late for a girl her age, her shadow cast against the cabin wall as she listens to the tales that are swapped, chiming in with a few of her own. My brave, sweet girl.
I hold Elias by moonlight, and Edie sits beside me, touching his tiny hand as though not wanting to let him out of her sight. There is life here, and it is lovely. So much to thank the Lord for.
As laughter fills the air that still holds the kiss of warmth, I thank God for His goodness, His faithfulness, and for the mercy He has been showing to all of those in this yard. Mercies that are new each and every morning and that settle like dew each and every dawn. Life is a journey, and while our lives here in Kenworthy are unlike what we set out to accomplish, they are right and good all the same. This is the story that God has woven for us, and I am learning to trust that He knows the way.
A Note from the Author
In the spring of 2020, just one day after the state of California closed many businesses for COVID-19, I slipped out into what I think of as my greater backyard . . . heading to a remote place I had dreamt of for nearly two years: Kenworthy.
Tiptoeing around curfew this way felt a little bit like being an Old West outlaw, but fortunately, I wasn’t alone on the adventure. Meeting me at the trailhead was a local rock climber and friend who, armed with some hiking gear and his husky dog, was ready to explore with me into the dry San Jacinto Mountains in search of the notorious gold mine. He had digital maps and climbing apps and I had old history books and loads of notes, and combined, we pieced together a direction of where we thought Kenworthy might be, and set off on foot down the dusty trail.
We didn’t find a gold mine that day, and the Kenworthy site was all faded to dust and picked clean—nothing but meadows and rocks where buildings once stood. But what we did find was a mutual fondness for a place that we would return to time and time again. Ground that somehow became just a little bit sacred with each visit back. A place where conversation passed the miles an
d snacks and laughter kept morale high as we continued to explore.
Sometimes on our visits to Kenworthy, we got stuck in brambles, or had to find shade because of the heat. Other times, we put a new spin on social distancing while I sat against granite boulders, scribbling down story notes with a sleeping husky at my side, while her owner climbed some of Kenworthy’s countless rock faces. We even named several, which I’m pretty sure makes us pioneers!
Once, I was halfway through jotting down a new idea for the story when my cell phone rang from my hiking pack, and it was my friend, some sixty feet higher, showing me the incredible view at the top over live video. A sight I would have otherwise missed. But more on that in the acknowledgments!
Those were good days. Good adventures. The sunshine and comradery and even the rattle of ropes and carabiners wove their way into nearly every page of this novel. From the routes that Johnny climbed, to the trails that he and Sonoma explored, to the views that Juniper and John had the honor to look out upon, to the place where dozens of miners called home . . . Kenworthy wasn’t just a place in history books anymore. It was—and is—real and dusty and beautiful. And I am ever so thankful that I got to be a part of it.
Discussion Questions
Juniper found the land around her as captivating as it was challenging. Has there been a time in your life when you have lived in such a place? What was your experience? How did you find strength and endurance?
What contrasts did you find between Juniper and Edie? In what ways were they different? How were they similar? What ways did you find each woman growing over the course of the novel?
If you could share a Bible verse with one of the characters in the story, what verse would it be and who would you share it with? What scene or experience has you choosing that verse for them?
Little Bethany’s personality stems not only from who she is but from the place she was growing up. In what ways did Kenworthy mold her into the girl she is? In what ways did your childhood adventures shape who you are today?
Johnny made the big decision to buy the Cohens’ cabin on the spot, which brought some angst as he toiled with the idea. What is a big decision that you have made in your life that was worth the challenges surrounding it?
Sonoma’s heritage is rich with the different cultures that have shaped her. In what ways have your own cultures and heritages shaped you and your life? Are there any stories or traditions that you are especially proud of?
The Cahuilla are the native tribe of my homeland of Southern California. What native tribe is part of your local heritage and history? What intricacies have you learned about their culture? Is there more you would like to explore and discover?
The title The Gold in These Hills is meant to represent what truly matters: the people we come to care about, the lessons God teaches us, and the way a place shapes us. How do you think this title was reflected in the lives of the different characters?
If you arrived in Kenworthy during the late 1800s and early 1900s, where would you imagine yourself settling? What might have been your role or your family’s role in the community?
Acknowledgments
Oh, the gratitude that stems from all who were involved with this novel. It was an incredibly challenging story to write—the most difficult to date—which makes the support behind it all the more meaningful.
My thanks to agent Sandra Bishop for once again guiding me along this writing journey that feels less like a career at times and more like an adventure. Thank you for your wisdom and guidance along the road.
To my editors, Jocelyn Bailey, Leslie Peterson, and Laura Wheeler, for making this novel shine in ways I could have never done on my own. Your expertise and eagle eyes made this manuscript far and above what it was before it landed in your hands. It has once again been a joy and privilege to work with you.
To fellow writers and kindred spirits who surrounded me with encouragement during the writing of this novel: Amanda Dykes, Jody Evans, Savanna Kaiser, and Kara Swanson. Thank you for your steadfast friendship and your own beautiful words. And to non-writer friends that are just as deserving of praise: Robyn Mucelli, Jennifer Cervantez, and Katie Gehring for never letting a week go by without sending me your cheer and prayers.
Here’s to local librarians—Susan Righetti and Shannon NJ for always being so supportive of my stories, for gathering stacks of research books for me, and for going the extra mile during the writing of this story. (Shannon, our head librarian, even let me borrow research books from her own personal shelves!) Thanks also to neighbor and friend Susan Gray for immense help with all topics relating to genealogy research. Sonoma’s character took on even greater depth thanks to your wisdom. Lastly, loads of local thanks to the Idyllwild Historical Society who confirmed my understanding that historians have never known who in fact salted the Kenworthy mine with a shotgun. Because of this, I felt peace in crafting the fictitious tale that could have answered the question.
My appreciation to a number of books that aided in my research, including A Dried Coyote’s Tail, volume 1, by Katherine Siva Sauvel, from where I drew the Cahuilla language and phrases that Santiago voiced. Such history and preservation not only made those moments possible but are keeping a priceless piece of California heritage alive for decades to come.
To rock climber and friend Jeremiah Carlsen—there’s no one else I would have rather explored Kenworthy with. Thank you for making the adventures so much fun and for teaching me that life is kind of like climbing, and that by trusting in Christ, we can have peace and confidence that He’s the one who belays us.
To my parents for your endless support in everything I do. You are the best kid-watchers, late-night brainstormers, and all-around encouragers that I could ever have. I am so thankful to you. To my kids, Mabry, Caleb, and Levi, who have been endlessly patient while I slip away to write just a few more words, and who joined me on local research adventures like champs (including the historical society that appears in the book!). And to Aunt Laura, who this book is dedicated to, for your perseverance and courage through cancer that shine a light for so many of us to see. I signed this book contract the same day of your surgery, and as Mom and I both realized, this one was meant to be yours.
Through and for everything: all of my heart’s thanks to God for being the greatest leader, friend, and hope-giver this girl could ever have.
Bibliography
The following books were essential in researching the Cahuilla tribe, the history of the San Jacinto Mountains, the ghost town of Kenworthy, and gold mining in Southern California:
Hatheway, Roger G. Rim of the World Drive: Images of America. Charleston: Arcadia Publishing, 2007.
James, Harry C. The Cahuilla Indians. Banning, CA: Malki-Museum Press, 1969.
Robinson, John W. Mines of the San Bernardinos. Glendale, CA: La Siesta Press, 1977.
Robinson, John W., and Bruce D. Risher. The San Jacintos. Monrovia, CA: Big Santa Anita Historical Society, 1993.
Ryan, Marla Felkins, and Linda Schmittroth, eds. Tribes of Native America: Cahuilla. San Diego: Blackbirch Press, 2002.
Sauvel, Katherine Siva. Isill Heqwas Waxish: A Dried Coyote’s Tail. Vol. 1. Banning, CA: Malki-Museum Press, 2004.
Trafzer, Clifford E., and Jeffrey Smith. Native Americans of Riverside County: Images of America. Charleston: Arcadia Publishing, 2006.
About the Author
Mike Thezier Photography
Joanne Bischof is an ACFW Carol Award and ECPA Christy Award–winning author. She writes deeply layered fiction that tugs at the heartstrings. She was honored to receive the San Diego Christian Writers Guild Novel of the Year Award in 2014, and in 2015 was named Author of the Year by the Mount Hermon conference. Joanne’s 2016 novel, The Lady and the Lionheart, received an extraordinary 5 Star TOP PICK! from RT Book Reviews, among other critical acclaim. She lives in the mountains of Southern California with her three children.
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Visit her online at JoanneBischof.com
Facebook: @JoanneBischof
Instagram: @JoanneBischof
Acclaim for Joanne Bischof
The Gold in These Hills
“The Gold in These Hills by Joanne Bischof is a captivating story of hope and love. I sat down to read just a couple chapters and found myself completely caught up in the story until I was reading the very last page, and wishing there were more. I believe readers will be instantly caught up and drawn into the story. Joanne is a masterful storyteller giving the reader a great deal to think about and consider as they pour over her books.”
—Tracie Peterson, award-winning, bestselling author of over one hundred novels, including the Ladies of the Lake and Willamette Brides series
“Joanne Bischof is a master storyteller, weaving the past and present into a rich story bursting with hope and heart. The Gold in These Hills reminds us that just about anything can be restored with a little faith and a whole lot of love. Bischof never disappoints!”
—Liz Johnson, bestselling author of The Red Door Inn
“Anchored by Joanne Bischof’s exceptional prose, The Gold in These Hills is a gripping tale of hardship and healing woven brilliantly within the well-researched world of gold mining. And presented with characters which possessed not only depth but grace, this stirring dual timeline would not let me go. Not to be missed!”
—Abigail Wilson, author of The Vanishing at Loxby Manor
“Echoing with the ache and joy that come with the search for truth, home, and healing, The Gold in These Hills is courageous and captivating in its authenticity. Joanne Bischof, in her signature style luminous with heart and depth, explores Johnny and Juniper’s unique stories as they cross time to intertwine in a restorative journey not to be forgotten . . . and through this mystery-laced tale of gold, Bischof offers us a treasure even more priceless: that of hope.”
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