Dedication
For Aunt Laura
Epigraph
Look, I go forward, but He is not there,
And backward, but I cannot perceive Him;
When He works on the left hand, I cannot behold Him;
When He turns to the right hand, I cannot see Him.
But He knows the way that I take;
When He has tested me, I shall come forth as gold.
Job 23:8–10 NKJV
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Historical Note
Part 1 Chapter 1: Juniper
Chapter 2: Johnny
Chapter 3: Juniper
Chapter 4: Johnny
Chapter 5: Juniper
Chapter 6: Johnny
John Cohen
Chapter 7: Juniper
Chapter 8: Johnny
Chapter 9: Juniper
Chapter 10: Johnny
John Cohen
Chapter 11: Juniper
Chapter 12: Johnny
Chapter 13: Juniper
John Cohen
Part 2 Chapter 14: Johnny
Chapter 15: Juniper
Chapter 16: Johnny
John Cohen
Chapter 17: Juniper
Chapter 18: Johnny
Chapter 19: Juniper
Chapter 20: Johnny
Chapter 21: Juniper
Chapter 22: Johnny
John Cohen
Chapter 23: Juniper
Chapter 24: Johnny
Chapter 25: Juniper
Chapter 26: Johnny
Chapter 27: Juniper
Chapter 28: Johnny
Chapter 29: Juniper
Chapter 30: Johnny
Chapter 31: Juniper
Chapter 32: Johnny
John Cohen
Chapter 33: Juniper
Chapter 34: Johnny
Chapter 35: Juniper
Chapter 36: Johnny
Chapter 37: Juniper
Chapter 38: Johnny
Chapter 39: Juniper
Chapter 40: Johnny
Part 3 Chapter 41: Juniper
Chapter 42: Johnny
Chapter 43: Juniper
Chapter 44: Johnny
Epilogue
A Note from the Author
Discussion Questions
Acknowledgments
Bibliography
About the Author
Acclaim for Joanne Bischof
Also by Joanne Bischof
Copyright
Historical Note
While most of the characters in the coming pages are fictitious, the mysterious rise and fall of the gold mine town of Kenworthy, California, was a true historic event. Many of the buildings mentioned within the story once stood. While the town has now vanished and tales of the lackluster mine faded into legend, I’ve had the honor of exploring the territory myself—searching for clues to the past. I’ve also had the pleasure of exploring some of the historic Cahuilla landmarks around my mountain homeland. Since different regions have different dialects, for those curious about the pronunciation of the tribal name Cahuilla, it is spoken [kuh-wee-uh] and rhymes with Spanish words such as tortilla.
At the back of the novel, I’ve shared an inside look at these local explorations, including some of the history-hunting adventures that reached into every scene of this story. It is my hope that each page you hold will paint a picture of this land that I hold dear and, most of all, of the people who have shaped it—then and now.
Part 1
Chapter 1
Juniper
September 1902
It’s paramount that my daughter and I survive the coming winter, yet ghost towns are not for the living. Still, this desolate place with its remaining miners and abandoned buildings is home. If only I could count my husband among their dwindling numbers. But no soul has seen him since the gold mine was boarded up months ago.
Now over a dozen shirts flap on the laundry line—all belonging to the men who bring me their washing each week. The hems and tatters are more recognizable than their names, but I know each man’s voice and who scrubs his neck or not. They pay coins for the service, and while it’s tedious work on top of managing this farm alone, I’ll do what’s needed to keep food in front of my little girl.
Tilting my face to the sky, I breathe in deeply. There’s a sound this land makes when it rises with the sun. The hens raise Cain from their coop, and the louder they get, the more likely my daughter and I will have eggs for breakfast. At the ruckus they’re stirring up, it’s going to be a good day. At least a good start to it. There’s nothing worse than pulling a chair up beside three-and-a-half-year-old Bethany only to have so little to spoon onto her plate. Last night there was only rabbit stew enough left for one, and that was after I’d watered it down.
I went to bed on an empty stomach so that my daughter wouldn’t have to.
Probably why I’m listening to the chickens just now, weighing the odds.
The morning is crisp today but not frosty. Five thousand feet above sea level, this mountain is only a few days’ ride from the Mexico border. It’s hotter than blazes from June to September. This summer was especially dry, so autumn is tiptoeing in gently. As I work, the linens stretch like soldiers in a line, and they represent souls. Lives. Pasts. Futures. Plucking free the next set of wooden pins sends another miner’s shirt tumbling into the basket.
When the stamp mill was in operation, the whole town of Kenworthy was astir. Noise rang from one end of town to the other from the clackety steam engine and its massive, churning belt and the steel stamps that the engine powered up and down. Daily the heavy feet pounded atop ore carved from the mine, pulverizing the chunks of rock—proving their worthlessness year after year. Up and down the stamps crushed as miners unloaded carts of ore. The hungry beast ground anything it was fed, including our futures, and families were just as hungry for a sign of gold. Some sign of hope.
Now the mine is quiet, and hope is as dusty as everything else. All we hear is come nightfall when all the abandoned dogs that have turned wild howl at the moon. That is Kenworthy now.
“Pardon me, ma’am. I don’t wish to startle you.”
I turn. A man stands only a dozen paces away. My heart threatens to still at the sight of broad shoulders lit by the morning glow. Hope dies as quickly. It is not John—my husband.
This man grips a hat in his hands. He’s pale. Not sickly so, just nervous. At least he’s not holding a bucket as the others did, feigning the need for milk when they’ve come instead for a wife. I steel my features so apprehension won’t show. “Washing’s turned out on Fridays,” I say even though he isn’t one of the regulars.
“Apologies, ma’am. I didn’t come for wash work.” He surveys the open landscape as though to steel his nerves. To his credit, his eyes don’t graze my form as other men’s have done.
Another shirt comes down. I fold it swiftly. Chores need doing, yet as eager as I am for the breakfast eggs, I’m more enticed to have this conversation away from the confines of the barn.
The stranger steps closer. In the haze of dawn I can just see that his features—while plainly laid out—are clean. He’s freshly shaved. Built strong, if not lean, from hard work. His hands know the grit of wood and earth, and that is just what any woman in this land longs to see.
“I’m afraid my answer must be no.” I state it loud enough to be heard. Clear enough that he’ll believe.
He halts. Lowers the wilted hat to his side. “I haven’t asked anything yet, ma’am.”
Warmth tinges the back of my neck. Before it spreads into true embarrassment, he continues.
&
nbsp; “I don’t have much to offer, Mrs. Cohen. If you seek passage away from here for you and your child, I have it at the ready. There’s a group of us leaving for Arizona at week’s end.”
“There is no parson in town, sir.” No means of marrying. I fold a threadbare coat.
“No, but there will be one along the drive. I mean that honorably, Mrs. Cohen.”
There are so few people left here in Kenworthy that I can’t help but wonder—will this be the last batch of settlers to escape a darkening fate? Is this the end, then? The final bridge to freedom before winter has us cornered? This miner knows as well as I do that women will be as scarce in the next stretch of gold country as they are here. I am one of few, and while I still wear a ring, he must believe as others do that my husband is no more.
Mr. Cohen’s widow. When did that become my name? John has been gone so long that the locals have written him off for dead. Have I? The distant answer keeps me awake night after night.
“I’ve got a good sturdy wagon, ma’am. Healthy team of mares. Our group leaves in three days for a claim on a homestead north of Phoenix. There’s talk of gold—”
I want no more talk of gold. No more promises from strangers. “A kind gesture, sir, to extend such a living to my daughter and me.” The words nearly tremble on my lips. Is it wise to surrender this opportunity? It will be the last. This man is young and strong. Close in age to my twenty-seven. He seems to have a good head on his shoulders. How glad I’d be to wash laundry for just one miner again. I could step away with him and forget all about John Cohen. Be scrubbed clean of this abandonment.
I married a stranger once. It could be done again.
Reaching out, I snatch a bandana that’s bending over itself in the grass, tossed and folded by the breeze. The way this man watches me with gentlemanly interest suggests he’s mulled on this offer for some time in his bachelor’s shanty. A pursuit that, while unwelcome, is no less romantic. However, there is no room in my heart for romance. Not even in the light of a rising sun. Nor with another miner placing hope on myths. Now there is only room for practicality and, if I’m honest with myself, devotion to another.
How will I forget the warmth of John’s skin or the light in his eyes? The way his voice used to lower to my ear? Or all the ways he kept us safe and well? It might be a lost love that I hold to, but it is a love that I could not begin to describe to this stranger. “I must decline, sir. I am not free for marriage.”
“But—”
Having hoisted up the heavy basket, I’m already starting for the house. My hair, in its long braid, bumps against my back as I regard him again. “Good day to you, Mr. . . .” I regret not knowing his name after all he just offered. His very life. “Mr. . . . ?” Raising a hand, it shields the sun.
A scar on his cheekbone deepens as his eyes squint. Does he sense a seedling of chance? Wiser would it have been not to inquire, but I don’t wish to be callous to these men who have no other women to pursue. There are dozens of miners and millers for every maid.
At the sound of his name, I wish him well on his travels.
I start away, hoping he won’t follow. This one seems kind. Though most of the others were as well. Men tend to be kind when asking for a woman’s hand.
I deposit the basket on the porch, and he’s striding across the meadow. It’s likely not shame that slumps his shoulders but loneliness. A lump of regret fills my throat. I am sorry that it must be this way. I am sorry to injure this man who is perhaps more isolated than even I. It’s likely he’s never married or known a woman’s affection. Only the most brazen of miners frequented the saloon with its female occupants. The structure no longer stands. The torn-down lumber built the wagons that carried the painted women away.
By the time the sun crests the nearest trees, there’s only the wind on the grass. I clear my throat to fight the sadness. Tonight I will pen his name inside my Bible where three other names now reside. Each man—each offer—is one that I remember. Although they are all gone from Kenworthy, as this man soon will be, I recall them in my prayers. It is there on my knees that I offer up a petition to the Lord for their safety and guidance.
Drawing in a deep breath, I listen to the land. Being the sixth child to a poor family was hardly restful, but now, with those days past, it’s a sweet comfort to recall the ocean breezes of San Francisco where I was raised. Even memories are something to be thankful for, aren’t they? As for the here and now, there’s plenty to be glad about.
I aim for the barn, and in passing its many windows, my reflection peers back. This frail shadow of a woman wears my flannel dress with rounded buttons up the front. Her waist is also my own because it looks like a broomstick despite the skirt pleats. My hips are narrow, making John’s old pistol holstered there even more noticeable.
In the barn, I milk the cow with practiced hands, garnering a sparse return. She’ll need to be bred again soon, which will require a careful trade.
Back outside, I balance the pail of milk and a basket of eggs. The trek across the yard brings me past the young oak tree that grows wild between the house and the barn. The sapling is the same height as me and as old as Bethany. It is our tree. I like to imagine that one day it will watch over us.
For now, it is thin and fragile, bending against coming winds. Rather like myself. Whenever I look upon this young tree, I remember to dig my roots in deep and strong, drawing up the water of life so that I can remain unwavering in my faith and this existence here. It is far from easy, and so I look upon the tree nearly every day. Watch the way it bends with grace in the wind.
The house is warm when I push past the door. Upstairs, little Bethany is likely nestled under the covers like a cat’s nose in a mound of yarn.
At the stove, my empty stomach cramps as I crack eggs into a bowl. Feeling faint, I whisk in the fresh milk and a pinch of sugar. The custard warms and thickens. The last of this week’s bread is hid away, so I slice the final crust into two wedges and press them into the mixture to soak up the rich nourishment. Into the oven the pot goes to finish baking.
The clattering of breakfast and the fresh crackle of the fire must have woken Bethany. She comes down in her nightgown, tiny hand sliding along the railing that her father shaped a few years back. This house is the grandest in Kenworthy and was built by John himself upon the founding of the town. The mine owner who once lived here vacated the premises last year, and John purchased the house from a third party for only eight dollars. The first-floor windows alone cost that much. With other buildings abandoned, including the post office and two-story hotel, those of us still here make the most of what’s been left behind.
I grab the railing to scoop Bethany up in a morning hug. John’s handiwork on the railing is like silk. I would say the same for the head of hair on the daughter he gave me.
“Breakfast is just about ready. How about you set the table?” I say.
Her small slippered feet pad around the kitchen, the sound warming my heart as she fetches two bowls from the low cupboard, one at a time in her tiny hands as I have taught her. She used to want to lay a third setting for her father, but no longer does. If she misses him, it shows only at bedtime when she beseeches the Lord through closed eyes to keep her papa safe.
We always say “Amen” together.
It’s after those prayers that I always return to my room alone again. The window across from my bed overlooks the most beautiful ranges of timberland I’ve ever seen. The forest hems in this high valley. It’s as though God built up this mountain from dust then decided to press His thumb against the top, leaving behind the wonder of a valley that dwells up here with the clouds, shaped and shadowed by the mountain peaks that rise higher still.
On the desk surface beneath the window rests a pile of new paper. Plenty of chances to continue writing to John. He’ll want to know how his daughter is faring. He’ll want word from me, his wife. Surely he will.
I tell myself this every day despite the fact that he hasn’t written in months a
nd there’s nowhere to send my own correspondence. Perhaps he’s chasing gold again now. Perhaps he has found a new love and that is why he never returned. Still, I hold on to hope, beginning every letter with Dearest John. It’s human nature that if you believe something long enough and deep enough, it’s hard to quit. Did he wake up hungry too? A practical wife might wonder if he’s still alive, but his silence isn’t due to death.
It never was.
Bethany is chatty between spoonfuls of the thin custard, and while her vocabulary is still hard to understand at times, her voice has grown clearer over the last months. The chair—too big for her—becomes just right as she shifts onto her knees to better reach her bowl. We talk of our plans for the day, and while it will look much like all the days before, we try to conjure up something to stir in newness and possibility. We agree upon a picnic behind the house for her dolls. Acorn caps and leaves shall be the fare. She plans a concoction of sun-warmed pine bark for the pretend tea. Oh, how her voice fills the day with possibility. It’s there in the thoughtful tilt to her head that I see her father. I hope she knows it, but reminding her of him might dampen the moment.
I was twenty-two when I found his advertisement in the newspaper in San Francisco. I’d only stumbled across the month-old periodical while wadding it up to light the stove. There I had knelt, the spinster daughter of a lower-class laborer, holding the petition of an unmarried miner in Southern California. A John Cohen willing to pay a woman’s passage to the wild south. With seven of us already living in a cramped apartment that almost never caught the sun, and with several of my siblings already married, including the spouses that boarded with us, I secretly longed for a taste of adventure. For freedom. I wrote to John not only for this but for the warmth in his newsprinted lines. Words describing not himself but the land he called home, which was as telling of his spirt as anything else could have been. I thought of fate then, and decided to believe that if he was yet awaiting his bride, then I would be the one he was meant to find.
The Gold in These Hills Page 1