It was less than a month later that I came here to this boomtown.
Despite finding myself beholden to a stranger, I saw that John had kind eyes and an even kinder patience. Our exchanges were quiet, and in those first few hours of knowing him, I sensed that I was safe. A man of few words, he’d bunked down on the floor beside the fire in the one-room shanty he called home back then. He rose the following day for the backbreaking work alongside other miners. That evening, I fixed us oats with honey, and he placed wildflowers inside a jar for me. The earth drew him in for days on end as he picked for gold, returning home dusty and spent. Some evenings I found him asleep outside the cabin where he’d been trying to take off his boots. As the weeks melded into months, I gladly awoke on quiet mornings with the taste of his kiss on my lips.
As the mine proved empty of any gold—whispers of it having once been salted rising among the townsfolk who’d risked all on a hope and a promise—he began to take on extra shifts, passing his every waking moment within the mine. It became a lonely time, his quest for gold. I saw it as an obsession. He claimed it was an even deeper need.
The longest he’d stayed by my side was just before Bethany’s birth. I’d never been so grateful for anything as I was for the life growing inside me. Not because I was going to be a mother, nor him a father, but because I wasn’t alone. On the night our tiny daughter made her entrance into this world, it had been his hands, confident and steady, to help ease her body from my own and lay her in my arms.
He’d smiled at me with those gentle eyes, and I had known then and there that I loved him. Now, these years later, the town is all but empty of life, and I no longer hear the sound of his voice.
So have passed nearly six months of his absence. Now, on the cusp of watching the trees turn from green to amber again, my soul bends with the ache for assurance. Bethany and I have a home, and for that I am thankful, but the rooms and surrounding land lean empty without his presence. I feel ashamed to love him. I feel more ashamed to hate him. And so it is upon the closing of each day that I settle at the upstairs desk beneath the window and write the two words that somehow keep me from coming apart at the seams. The two words that are the very reason I say no to each and every man who offers us a new life.
Dearest John.
Chapter 2
Johnny
September, Modern Day
I squint up at the four-paned window of the cabin where a squirrel perches on the windowsill, gnawing on a pine cone. The overgrown rodent chucks the tattered remains of his supper onto the hood of my ’06 Ford just as I turn to the Realtor. “I’ll take it.”
“Mr. Sutherland. May I call you John?”
“It’s just Johnny.” I pull a flannel shirt from the truck bed and tug it on over a work-stained T-shirt. The rogue squirrel drops another chunk of pine cone, but I’m not worried about the truck. The frame is already bent from rolling over on the highway some months back. It’s still plenty drivable after the accident and sturdy enough that my kids are safe whenever I buckle them in.
The Realtor’s polished loafers crunch on autumn leaves as he steps around the vehicle. The stats on this property light the screen of the tablet in his hand. I’m surprised there’s internet all the way out here. Telephone wires stretch across the far skyline, but they seem dismal when compared to the wide-open range where pine trees are kings and hawks soar for miles without seeing so much as a gas station. It’s so remote and distant that simply standing here feels like another world.
“Johnny.” The Realtor angles his screen so I can see it. “I have three other locations to show you today. I think you’re going to want to keep looking.”
This home has all the right specs, though. Two stories, off the beaten track, and it looks about as put through the wringer as I am. Plus, the yard has direct access to some of the best hiking and bouldering around. I smooth my hands together, as calloused from construction as from gripping granite handholds. “I like this one.” It would give me a place to stay that wasn’t the back half of my buddy’s garage, and if I can fix it up enough to flip it in the next year, I’ll end up with enough income to secure a good lawyer. Or if the next custody round goes well . . .
It’s impossible not to grip the back of my neck and close my eyes. It’s impossible not to try to imagine the sounds of their voices here. If a judge grants me shared custody of the kids, I could instead hold on to this place and have somewhere to bring them. That makes it hard to swallow. Only time will tell, but I need to do all I can for every day of the unknown. “Tell me more about the inspection.” It was done after the last prospective buyers were interested in the place a few months earlier. The property passed, but I don’t know details.
“Well,” the Realtor says with a pause. “It came through surprisingly well for a structure of this age.” He leads me around the eastern wall. “The house is believed to have been built just prior to the turn of the last century.”
Over a hundred years ago.
“In the 1930s the exterior was papered over and shingled. That was all removed in the late seventies when the original log siding was exposed once more and resealed.”
I run a hand along the wood. It’s rough and grayed with age, but it’s solid.
No longer consulting his tablet, the Realtor continues. “This was done so the city could use the cabin for historical reenactments.”
“I remember those.” My parents used to take my younger sister and me when we were kids. Employees of the estate would dress up in olden-day costumes, and we kids gobbled down two-dollar hot dogs and cups of lemonade then tried to pan for gold. My mom used to pack me an extra T-shirt because of how wet I’d get. My sister somehow always managed to stay dry.
“The reenactments are what generated funding for the upkeep and conservation of the property,” the Realtor’s saying. “As you know, a bathroom has been installed on the ground floor. It’s nothing to write home about but it is functional.”
“No plumbing upstairs, though?”
“None.” The Realtor bends to inspect a piece of wood sticking out of the dirt. A broken sign announcing the hours of the old gift shop. He pitches the piece of wood toward a pile of rubbish that needs to be hauled away. “And there’s also no central heating. There’s a wood-burning stove, but it will have to be replaced eventually. Electrical is up to date, though it only services two of the three rooms for lighting. The only outlet is on the ground floor.”
I nod and can just hear the words buyer’s remorse ringing between my ears. I try to ignore it. I can handle electrical and don’t mind a rough-around-the-edges bathroom. That can all be renovated. It’s not just my contractor’s license that says so, or fifteen years of restoring homes. It’s a sense that just about anything can be restored if you go about it the right way.
“Recently, a nearby conference center contacted the owners with an offer on this property. Their plan was to put a horse-riding camp here.” He thumbs toward a nearby meadow that could have housed new pens and stables. “But the conference center lost the grant needed to afford the purchase. That’s when the family put it on the market to the general public. The Cohens admire this place but are both in their eighties with no children. They just can’t maintain it any longer. They hope to see it land in the right hands. Someone who will appreciate its value and history.”
I ponder that as we walk toward a two-story barn that rises amid pines standing opposite the house. It’s the kind of barn you’d see on a country calendar. The structure is run-down in places, but it’s clear why the online listing described this property as “charming.” After crossing through tall weeds, I peer through one of the many barn windows at a mess of old equipment. There’s a loft above. Judging by the load of crates weighing it, the rafters are sturdy, but the above flooring is warped and needs to come down. I thump my concrete-splattered work boot against the stone foundation. It seems solid. I step away, feeling like a kid on Christmas and terrified by it. I’m not supposed to feel this burst of ant
icipation.
“And that?” I point to a smaller building.
“That’s the old well house. It’s out of commission these days. This place was hooked up to the water district in the late nineties.”
“Okay.”
Slowly rolling back the cuffs of my flannel sleeves, I linger in the middle of the yard. The Realtor has already shown me inside the house. The rooms are small and poky, and the stairwell tight enough that I have no idea how to get a mattress up it. Stepping back to the open door of my truck, I lift the file that lists the other houses the Realtor plans to show me today, stopping at the flyer for this very cabin. The pristine picture depicts something out of the 1800s, and the real-life view is even more impressive. Maybe the history is a draw for some people, but I have other reasons. Reasons a lot closer to home . . . if I could just have a home to put them in.
“Up until how recent were the historical reenactments?” I ask.
“As a museum, this place closed about three years ago. There just wasn’t the funding anymore. Most of the museum features were auctioned off, but a few items are stored in the barn.”
I eye the price again. “You’re sure this is all the family’s asking?”
“Yes, but the price comes with a cost. This place needs a huge deal of work.”
When a pen slips from his folder, landing in the leaves, I retrieve it for him and hand it back. “I’ve got the tools.”
“The driveway needs serious grading to repair it, and the road to the highway isn’t accessed by snowplows in winter. You’ll be on your own for maintaining your road.”
I’ve done enough construction work in my thirty-two years to know that his concerns are valid. But there’s room in the budget to replace what needs fixing, and I’ve got a snowplow blade for the front of my truck. And since my wife dumped me exactly six months ago for her district manager, Austin, taking the house and the kids in the aftermath, I’ve been enough in the thick of life to not mind some good, clean snowfall. I can handle the road. The hallway. Outdated electrical. Just get me up here into these woods, give me some quiet, and maybe I can find the two things I need to regain.
The kids. And my soul.
I would add my wife to the list, but she’s insisting I sign divorce papers. Still, it isn’t over until it’s over, so I tuck the girl I promised forever to onto the list for good measure.
Stepping across the yard, I survey the massive oak tree that shades the back end of the lot on the eastern side. It somehow shapes a perfect triangle with the two structures. Near to the barn, but far from the road, the huge tree is so sturdy it had to have been planted about the time this home was built. It would be the perfect spot for a swing. I can just see seven-year-old Micaela sitting there on the leaf-mulched ground, having a tea party, while Cameron sits in one of those red baby swings as I push him back and forth.
Despite the fact that we live in the same town, I haven’t held my kids in over seventy-two hours. To say that I am eager to buy the first place with the perfect swing tree in the yard is something I don’t know how to explain to the Realtor. I try not to notice the width of the porch and how it would be just right for two chairs and a little table in between. Maybe even a deck of cards. My wife and I used to stay up late into the night playing cards on the floor of our first apartment. Two college newlyweds in love. That seems like a long time ago now.
The Realtor continues to list reasons why I shouldn’t buy this place.
Nodding, I turn the wedding band around on my finger. My hands are so scuffed and hardened from work that after half a rotation the band wedges snug. Like truck tires that can go no farther into the thick of it.
“I can’t legally stop you from signing on the dotted line,” he says. “I can advise against it, heavily, and will continue to do so. And I’m sorry about your divorce—”
“I’m not divorced.”
“I see. But maybe you’re finding yourself in a position of uncertainty. Impulse buys happen for a lot of reasons . . .”
I take the flyer from him and fold it square before pocketing it. As I do, he scrutinizes the scar splicing up my forearm, which is the proud guardian of a metal plate and half a dozen screws. Turns out my truck isn’t the only thing that survived that night on the highway. “This isn’t an impulse buy.” Having watched the market for months now, I’ve already seen a few places, but nothing has been right. That changed last week upon discovering the new For Sale sign staked out by the highway after I’d hiked back to climb with a buddy from town. I had forgotten all about this place. As teens, some of my friends and I had come out to see if it was haunted, and one of them had picked up a rock and thrown it through a window. Smacked straight through yesteryear. Reckless of us, and the window’s since been repaired, but I still feel a degree of responsibility to help the rest along. There’s something about this place and me. We belong together.
I glance to the stairs that once creaked beneath a bunch of boys looking for adventure. Stairs that are just asking to be climbed again. This time for real. Not because of a legend or juvenile curiosity, but because this place was meant to be a home. Whoever built it wouldn’t have done such a solid job otherwise. This cabin shouldn’t still be standing over a century later, but it is.
Speaking of impossibilities, I shouldn’t be standing here, staring down a pending divorce with a woman who recently informed a ridiculously good lawyer that she’d married the wrong guy a decade ago. I shouldn’t have a pacifier in the cupholder of my truck while the car seat sits empty, and I shouldn’t have a CD of Disney songs in the player while my daughter is at swim lessons with Austin Steals-My-Wife-Jerk-Face, but I do. Maybe other dads would ease up on those things in light of a wife battling for full custody, but I’m not giving up on my family. I can’t. And since I can’t yet bring myself to sign divorce papers, I’m more than eager to sign something else. Something that offers hope instead of brokenness.
Even if I only buy the house to flip it, this place would keep my hands busy and give the kids a much-needed adventure along the way.
The Realtor releases a slow sigh before speaking. “Let me show you other properties. Give you a chance to see what the market holds, and give it all some time to really sink in. We’ll crunch some numbers, and I’ll show you some comp houses and the school specs. No decision needs to be made today.”
I nod. That’s fair. After we climb back into my truck, I free the emergency brake and crank the wheel to turn around in the tree-lined drive. As dust billows up behind the back tires, I try not to think about how a hundred years ago it would have been a wagon and horses ambling along this same curving lane. Maybe a man with a family. The image fills me with an ache.
We head back down to the main highway while the Realtor describes where we’re driving to next: a move-in-ready ranch house near the lake. Within the span of a few hours, we make as many stops and both fulfill our promises. I see the rest of the homes on his list, and he ends our day by leading me into his office that stands between the Presbyterian church and the bakery in the middle of this town where I grew up and where my kids will too.
Despite the impressive properties I just saw, I need to claim the house from the previous century. The one where I broke the window. If she’ll still have me. For so long she’s sat empty and alone that it may take some coaxing to win her back. Houses are delicate that way. But there’s something in me that can’t stand to watch something else be alone.
As for that night with the pebble and my buddies . . . the past is history. Yet when the Realtor sits across from me at his desk, drafting up my offer for the perfect swing tree and the woodland porch with room for two, it seems the rest of the story is about to begin.
Chapter 3
Juniper
September 1902
“Git!” A greasy-haired miner kicks from where he’s seated on his wagon, frightening the dog who is trying to clamber up into the moving box bed.
I help Bethany move aside on the road to make space for the commot
ion. Up ahead and just out of sight is the main street of Kenworthy, but this man isn’t heading there. He’s veering with other wagons into the valley that will soon lead them off the mountain and to new possibilities. The man who offered me marriage is somewhere among them.
Having hung back, the dog sprints forward again. Its fur is matted with mud as it tries to clamber into the jostling bed of the wagon once more. The man swings another kick, and the dog cowers to the dusty road. The creature, a female, slowly stands on shaking legs, but the man doesn’t so much as look back.
I shift my hold on two bundles of clean laundry and, with Bethany close, we stay clear of the lineup of wagons bound for the flatlands. When the last one passes by, Bethany skips ahead. Dust billows around her. I call for her not to go far. She’s lithe as a fox on the uneven terrain. A courageous adventurer who has never feared forging ahead. I see myself in her in these moments and hope she knows that she instills courage in me by simply being her brave, beautiful self.
The dog is watching us now—her eyes too big for her face. Kneeling, I set aside the laundry bag and pat my hands together, coaxing her closer, but she scampers off. Toward town, fortunately, which allows me to watch her as we venture that way too.
Overhead, the sky is bright and clear, and the distant hills are soft in the daylight. With every glimpse of this view, I am in awe of such beauty. Of how a valley could dwell so high up in the sky, five thousand feet above sea level. It is no wonder John spoke of this place in his advertisement for a bride. The sheer notion of it had been so different from the view through the windows of my family’s apartment. Of brick buildings stitched together with too many laundry lines, casting shadows above as carts clattered by, trollies clanged, and factory whistles sounded the end of each day.
Here, the sky is so wide open you can’t take it all in with a mere glimpse. It takes a team of horses an entire day to climb this mountain over dangerous switchbacks and steep ravines. Such a trying journey to reach a mysterious stretch of land that welcomes the soul with a hush.
The Gold in These Hills Page 2