Thank God. “Hey.”
“So, Mom told me about the house you bought.” Her voice holds its trademark cheerfulness.
“That was fast.”
“And? That’s all you’re gonna say?”
“What do you want to know?”
“Details!”
Rye rests his oversized head on my leg as I ease the truck to a stop. The vehicle settles, and I rest my elbow back on the windowsill. Dust churns, slowly. The house is just as I remember it from when last I was here, but something about this moment feels even more real.
“Alright,” I say. “It needs some dry-rotted fascia board replaced above the eaves. Got half a flat of it in the bed of my truck along with pressure-treated two-by-fours for the upstairs gabling and some quarter-inch round to trim out an old hopper window.”
“Oh, stop,” she laughs. “I want the details, not the blueprints.”
I grin. We both know our mom told her everything already, so I wait.
“It sounds like an amazing property.” She sighs, and it’s wistful—part envy and part worry. “It also sounds totally crazy. But I don’t blame you for needing a change of scenery.”
It’s nice that she understands.
“Is it really part of an old ghost town?”
“Last part standing, they say.”
“Wow. Johnny. That’s incredible. Do you remember what the town was called?”
Surrounded by the property now, it’s hard to imagine that there was ever a town around here with buildings and people. Now it’s just pastureland across the whole valley to where the mountain peaks rise up. Not a single wagon track or even the memory of one. Hikers and a few mountain climbers pass through, as I have, but that’s it. Even the road out here is just a glorified footpath. “I can’t remember what the name was, but it’s in the file. I’ll look it up today and let you know.”
“I want every detail.” There’s energy in her voice that’s worth more than the supplies in the back. “Do you need some help? I’ve got a couple of free days coming up. I would love to check out the place and lend you a hand.”
“That’d be great, Kate. Come anytime.”
It would be good to see her, and my sister is one of those women who can decorate an empty room and angle couches in the right direction. Since my wife doesn’t yet know where the kids will be staying when they’re with me, having a woman’s touch beforehand won’t hurt.
After we set a plan, I drop the cell on the seat and sigh just as Rye does. “Well, boy.” I thump his thick back. “Here we go.”
Climbing out, I hold the door so he can jump down, then I grab a manila envelope from the glove compartment. Rye keeps pace at my side all the way to the porch. There, he lunges up and sniffs at a pile of pine needles in the corner. I turn the manila envelope over, and a set of keys slides into my palm. The deadbolt loosens with a click. Rye backs up, paws clacking on weathered porch boards. When the door creaks open, he sits.
I find the nearest wall switch, and the room floods with light. It’s a strange kind of homecoming. Just walking in. Flipping a switch.
Bam. Here’s your new life.
The bottom level of the cabin is empty. The ceiling is low, depicting its era and a time when people were shorter, but it’s just spacious enough that I don’t have to duck. Against the wall stands a wood-burning stove that’s not an antique and still looks plenty usable. The papered walls are bare, with only a few tiny nail holes where frames or mirrors once hung. On the wall beside the stairs, the same kind of nail holes rise at a steep diagonal with the slant of the steps. As I climb, I smooth my hand to the papered walls. The roughness of my palm catches on a paper edge that has curled away from the wall with time.
My other hand grips the smooth, spindled railing. The dark maple is so well seasoned that it’d be a shame to wreck it. Crouching, I examine the evenly spaced balusters. Maybe the railing can be salvaged somehow. Whipping out a tape measure, I double-check the handrail height and once again confirm that it’s only thirty-two inches. Modern codes dictate that railings must be thirty-four inches, and while this building is so old I don’t think anyone would throw a stink about it, I’d like to have everything as safe as possible for the kids. I can’t imagine swinging a sledgehammer and smashing through this creation, though. There’s got to be a way to modernize the railing to code while preserving the beauty of this craftsmanship. Whoever designed the railing from hand tools alone cared about the ones who would touch this—the eyes that would notice it each and every day.
Needing to double-check the home inspection report, I fetch my bag from the truck and grab the house file from it. Thumbing through the documents, I spot the historical write-up as well. The miniscule text is faded and warped as though photocopied from an old book.
Good time to let Kate know before it vanishes from mind again. I shoot off a quick text.
Town was called Kenworthy. House was built 1890s-ish.
I turn my attention to the rest of the inspection report, barely reading ten words before the phone dings.
So cool! I’ll swing by the library and see what they have in the local history section.
Just look it up on the internet.
Libraries are better.
Chuckling, I return the papers to the file. It’s starting to make sense why she likes to poke through library shelves. The history really is interesting. I’ve only ever been drawn to this place for its hiking paths and boulders. I tend to notice textures more than words. Like this house and the surrounding landscape. Those are the tales I best understand, and this one is beginning to take shape, begging for attention. If only I could glance over my shoulder and tell this craftsman, “Well done.” The next best option is to give the design full respect while breathing new life into it.
Since there’s no point waiting for the lawyer to call, I get right to work, starting at the bottom of the handrail. With a wadded-up cloth and rubber mallet, I manage to tap loose two balusters without anything splintering. Rye dozes by the door, and I can hear squirrels scamper across the roofline. I rest the individual balusters beside the stairwell and slowly work upward. There’s a satisfaction in knowing that my kids will climb these stairs, holding on to the rail as they drag blankets, or play beneath them as a makeshift fort.
But first, I have to tell their mother that I’ve bought a hundred-year-old farmhouse. The finances are no biggie since Emily has already laid claim to her side of the assets. I’m using funds from my last two reno jobs—income that I earned after she filed for separation. As much as I hope to still win her back, I also have to keep placing one foot in front of the other. To keep living. I’ve learned the hard way that days of depression in the back end of your buddy’s garage is no way to really live.
I’ve already crunched some numbers to see what it might cost to flip this property. If everything goes as planned, this place could be back on the market for spring. In the meantime? It’s a cool place to live. Even if a number of factors still depend on Emily. During our last sit-down, her lawyer suggested we do things peaceably in his office. If we can agree on matters, we could avoid court. I don’t blame her for liking that idea, but everyone was missing what I wanted.
To stay married.
It’s not that I’m delusional. I get the point that she isn’t in love with me anymore, but while she isn’t exactly my favorite person on the planet these days, I also know that marriage is hard work. I’m not going to go down without doing everything I can to keep this family whole. There’s another problem, though, which is out of my control. The state of California allows for her divorce petition to finalize by default whether I consent or not. Meaning that even if I don’t want to play the game, I get picked for the losing team regardless. The only one who can stop this is her.
Rye lifts his head the same moment my phone rings. It’s gonna be the lawyer.
I answer, and a thumping heart is instantly in my throat.
“This is Johnny.” He gives his stiff greeting as I tap
the speakerphone then set the cell on the step above me. Absently, I push the sandpaper forward and back in slow strokes. The lawyer seems to take this as my greeting.
“Well, I’m sure you don’t need me to beat around the bush,” he begins. “I’m calling to inform you that Emily is requesting that all the documents be signed by you and returned to the office here by the end of the month. In exchange for your timely cooperation, she has agreed to your request of a fifty-fifty custody share of the children.”
It’s a strange sensation—what happens to my heart then. Mixed with a rush of joy over a guarantee of more time with my kids is the pain that my bride is this eager to end our marriage.
I set the sandpaper on the nearest step. I hadn’t even realized I was still holding it. “I’m sorry. Can you say that again?”
He does, and I’m certain that the parts of me that are dying will never come back to life again. The only thing that keeps me upright is thought of the children. Of the time I get with them by agreeing. “What about my accident?”
“The caseworker signed off on it. Confirmed that you posed no danger to the children and that since no drugs or alcohol were involved, and since it was the first incident on your driving record, not to mention reoccurring incidents with that stretch of highway for other motorists, there was no valid reason to take it further.”
Relief slams my chest so that I have to sit down. Ever since the day I rolled my truck, Emily has threatened to use the incident in court as petition that I’m reckless and irresponsible, so as to gain full custody.
Closing my eyes, I rub fingertips against my forehead. The lawyer explains the rest of the details. All I have to do is sign the documents, and this mess will close up shop. Emily would be free of me, and I would get my kids equal share.
“And if I don’t agree to sign?” The guy who says this is the same version of me that once raced Emily down the football field one night when we were in high school. It’s the sound of her laughter under the stars and our bare feet on the grass that summon the words out. The longing not to end my life with her.
“Then the divorce will go through by default, and you’ll have zero say in the outcome of how your assets are divided up. Including child custody.”
“No say at all?”
“No, Mr. Sutherland. I heavily suggest you engage in this process. While my top priority is to my client, I believe it’s in her best interest for this to be settled mutually.”
With the sandpaper nearby, I take it up again. Fold it in half. “How much is this phone call going to cost?”
“I charge four hundred dollars per hour. She’s requested you pay fifty percent of legal costs as part of the negotiation.”
“Then here’s a sixty-dollar question. What are the odds of stopping this moving train?”
“I’m sorry?”
“How often do you see a couple reconcile? This late in the process, that is?” With the phone still on speaker, I stare at the sawdust twirling in the air. The way it’s coated my hands. Hands that are scuffed and calloused from years of climbing sharp granite and gritty limestone.
“Not very often, Mr. Sutherland.”
“But it’s happened before?”
“A time or two.”
“If I stall, will it cost me the kids?”
“It may. The proposed arrangement is just that. Consider it an offer from your wife. It won’t be on the table for long. You could counter, but it’s risky. If this goes to court, things will get messier and take significantly longer. Not to mention it will cost much more than my base fees. In addition, the accident on record may work against you in front of a judge. If that happens, you’ll have significantly less time with your children.”
If a judge opens up that accident report, they’d know that my arm was broken in three places and repaired on the operating table. They’d also know that I busted my nose and broke two ribs when I slammed against the driver’s door during impact. The judge would also know, if he or she asked me, that I was driving too fast because I was so dadblasted sad. That I hit ice because I couldn’t see straight for the tears. But what they wouldn’t know or care about was that I’d gunned my truck down the highway that day because I’d just seen my wife on the arm of another man as they exited a vacation rental cottage early one morning. A little cabin tucked away from it all. Their bags were sitting beside his car.
But I have to swallow that pain, so instead, I think of Cameron and Micaela and how badly I want to kneel down and catch their running hugs. The kind of hugs they give me the moment their mom unfastens them from their car seats. I need those kids like oxygen. And since the caseworker confirmed that I pose no threat to them, I have to take what I can for them right now. I have to take what I can, and it’s killing me to do so at the loss of my wife whom I have loved since knowing her.
I want to hear the kids’ voices again. Their sweet, young laughter. I want to wake up with popcorn on the bed and them sound asleep after a movie night. I want to buy extra milk so that we can make oatmeal with raisins just like Cam likes it and stir chocolate syrup into our glasses for Micaela. But then there’s the memory of the woman I loved under the stars and the way she caught my hand as we ran all one hundred yards. The sight of her smile, even in the moonlight. “Can Emily give me a few more days to decide?”
“Yes. I’ll let her know we spoke and that I’ll be in touch with you again next week.”
“Thank you.”
“And, Mr. Sutherland?”
“Yes?”
“It was her idea to retract her intent to fight for full custody. I believe we can both agree that such a decision is generous considering her initial stance.”
Unsure how to answer, I turn the wedding band around my finger, frustrated that her compassion makes it harder to truly stop loving her. Even when that kindness is for the purpose of setting herself free.
Chapter 5
Juniper
October 1902
Dirt crumbles against the garden fork as I plunge it into the earth. Lifting breaks ground enough for potatoes to tumble loose. My hair, which is gathered back with a tattered cloth, tumbles over my shoulder, and while it is clean, it hasn’t been combed today. The shirt tucked into my striped skirt was once John’s. Rolled back to the elbows, it’s too large for me, but who is here to care? The sight we must make as Bethany gathers potatoes into a bucket with soiled hands and I dig at the earth for more. To think we used to dress up in our Sunday best for the horse races and festivities Kenworthy once exhibited.
Now, the day holds only the reality that our crop is weak from this dry climate and my poor farming skills. We move down a few inches and manage to unearth what little there is. As the autumn sun hits the potatoes’ soiled skins, I can’t help but think of new life and how instead of burying something into the ground as we do in spring, we are drawing it out. The notion makes it impossible not to think of Edie and the life that has begun inside her. In truth, I thought of her and the coming baby the moment I opened my eyes this morning.
Did she shed tears in the night over it?
Who fathered this child? The mystery will unveil itself with time if Edie chooses to confide in me. I pray she will. Not for my own knowledge but so that she will know she is safe. Edie has sufficient provisions, and I do not fear for her life, only her heart. For men? It matters not. What price do they have to pay? But for us women, we are the caretakers of all that they leave behind.
I swipe a gritty forearm over my eyes to push back stray strands of hair while Bethany reaches for a potato with dirt-creased hands. The same small hands that helped drizzle water from the buckets I hauled from the pump all summer long. Now her breath fogs in the cold, and a knit cap covers her spry little braids. She is dearer than life itself, and a glimmer of hope rises that Edie will feel this dearness and not despair.
Lord, show us Your mercy.
“Let’s finish one more row, then we’ll go in and fix some supper,” I call.
Bethany has paused t
o draw shapes in the dirt with a stick. She’s not yet four but does the work of an older child and has more than earned the break. Leaving her to play, I finish the row, and by the time the basket is filled, she shows me her earthen drawings. I admire each wobbly creation.
“They’re so fine.” I ruffle the scrap of calico tying her braids. “I think this will call for soup tonight,” I say, and together we snap off dark-green leaves from the narrow chard patch. In her pasture pen, the cow is grazing contentedly.
Edie has everything she needs at the mercantile but doesn’t garden, so I’ll bring some chard to her along with good, fresh milk. It’s a simple offering, but the purpose of it helps push back the shadows of what our reality actually is. Come what may, I must hold on to gratitude. Gratitude tosses starlight into the darkest of nights. Sparse plates become plentiful, and fears lose their crushing hold. It is in our hearts where we are rich, and I have spent too many bleak hours in despair to not fight forward toward hope.
Standing here, I glimpse the two-man saw abandoned in the distance. It leans against the felled tree that John hauled into the yard in early March. He’d borrowed a horse and skidding chains that frosty day and was as gentle with that animal as he was with everything he encountered. Even as I think of it, I run my dirt-stained hands together, recalling the way he would lace his fingers through mine and kiss the back of my hand. He did this often—no rhyme or reason to it except to silently say that I was his and he was mine.
My gaze drops to the rusted saw once more before I turn away from the memories. Befitting its name, the saw is too cumbersome to manage alone. I haven’t the strength, and now the abandoned tree trunk waits, as I do.
The thought dies when the sound that all mining families fear shudders the silence. A coarse rumble echoes down from the distant hills where the mine is tucked from sight of where we stand. A faint plume of dust begins to rise. Who would be in its depths? Something or someone has caused the commotion. Fearing the latter, I clutch Bethany’s hand and urge her to follow.
The Gold in These Hills Page 4