These heirlooms aren’t my business. I put the cardboard lid back, concealing the photograph once more. With care, I return the other keepsakes as well. The family will pick this all up eventually, but for now they’ll have the journal as requested. It’s hard to say what they need it for, but there’s a satisfaction that something—even an old journal—is finally finding its way back home.
Or maybe this is its home. Maybe its heart would be breaking to leave the box with the photograph. That’s if it had a heart to begin with.
I contemplate the name again. Juniper. Written in a heavy hand. Maybe even an urgent one. Over and over. Was it pain to spark such intensity? Or passion? Was this Juniper the woman in the photograph? Curiosity has me wanting to check. To flip that photograph over and read its label. But that would mean prying into business that’s not mine. Besides, I have other things to focus on. Like the fact that Emily is bringing the kids up tomorrow and fridges and stoves don’t deliver themselves.
The fact that I’m stunned into place right now is just because I’ve listened too much to my sister talk about the pioneers who first settled this county. All the dates and history must be getting to my head.
After everything is back in place, I reattach the lock to the metal box and double-check that it’s secure. Time for a trip down the mountain. There’s already tie-downs in the back of the truck to secure the new appliances for the windy drive home. The quick trip will do me good.
The thought of bringing back some burgers and fries for dinner has me carrying the diary to my truck. The thought of seeing the kids tomorrow has me sliding it into a FedEx envelope and cranking the engine to life.
Chapter 9
Juniper
October 1902
Storm clouds roll in from the west, and I’ve just finished the milking when Mrs. Parson arrives at the farm. Mr. Conrad escorts her. The gentle miner pushes a handcart loaded with a well-worn trunk. His dog, Trixie, trots loyally beside him. The dog’s eyes lift to him with every few steps as though to be certain that he and his kindness are real. Mrs. Parson carries a carpetbag as well as a narrow crate. Both would have easily fit in the cart along with the trunk, but she has made his burden less by bearing it herself.
They cross the yard as though blown in with the wind. Mrs. Parson’s black skirt swirls against her ankles, and I haven’t witnessed a lace hem in ages. The delicate trim is tattered now but would have once been quite fine. The carpetbag she clutches is woven in a pattern of thick stripes and is as coated in dust as the rest of the world outside is. She’s some years past fifty. Kindness blossoms in the lines of her eyes and in the way she greets Bethany, who runs to open the door.
My efforts of greeting her as a proper lady get interrupted when Mr. Conrad carries the trunk inside and it slips from his injured grip. The thud startles us all—Oliver Conrad most of all when his face tints red. Bethany giggles, and Mrs. Parson thanks him for his aid, which softens his embarrassment as much as my own smile does. In taking his leave, he waves to Bethany as he starts off, and she bounds around the room, as smitten with all this company as I secretly am.
Mrs. Parson looks around the cabin, which was built for the town’s founder, Harold Kenworthy. It’s the finest house in town, which I sometimes forget since I think of it only as home. Checked curtains hang on the windows, and a string of pine cones decorates the stairwell banister. I remembered to close the pantry door so she doesn’t witness the sparsely lined shelves. She’ll find out in due time, and no doubt is accustomed to the same amount of provisions as we are. Not that Edie doesn’t do her best to bring in what supplies are needed, but few of us have proper income to even up the tab.
Even so, Mrs. Parson’s eyes soften as though feeling at home. “I heard tell that your husband was one of the builders of this house. As well as some of the other structures.” She says it with ease, as though John has merely stepped out to till a field or cull a herd of cattle. As though he’ll return in an hour’s time and wash for supper.
“Yes. He did.” I don’t look around the room as I say it lest I recognize his craftsmanship everywhere. As it is, I am trying to stay strong.
But I can see that her compliment isn’t to bring grief. Quite the opposite. There is a spark of optimism in her eyes, and I catch it in my heart, slip it into that hidden pocket. Where I have run low on hope, I will glean from what others are willing to sow. Like water to a thirsty meadow.
Mrs. Parson sets the crate on the table, and Bethany immediately rises onto her tiptoes to try and peer inside. My own curiosity has the best of me as I try to make sense of the foreign object that is a black leather box, braced closed by brass hinges and an ornate clasp.
“This,” Mrs. Parson begins, “is a camera.” She solves the riddle with a spark of amusement, and when Bethany climbs up onto the chair beside where I stand, Mrs. Parson lifts out the camera to make it easier to see. “Perhaps I can take your picture with it. If your mother says it’s alright, that is.”
Bethany crouches down into a little spring as though she’ll shoot up the moment I say yes. I do . . . and she bounds back up to squeeze me tight.
I squeeze back. “Shall we help Mrs. Parson get settled?”
Bethany nods.
We show our new guest to the upstairs bedroom. The day before, Bethany and I moved her possessions to my own room. We washed and ironed all the linens, skidded a washstand into place, and set the finer of the pitchers alongside its matching bowl. The humbler tin one is now in my room along with the older of the hand towels. It feels good to offer the best we have to another, even better to help Bethany see the why of it. My daughter’s brown eyes take in the scene of Mrs. Parson admiring every detail. This moment is a grander lesson than most I could have taught.
Our guest nudges aside the lace curtain. Golden light from the morning sun spills in, and it lifts her chin the way it does my own.
I think we’re all going to get along just fine.
“Please take your time settling in. Breakfast will be warm on the stove if you’re hungry.”
Back downstairs, I stir milk and honey into the oats, and Bethany unloads the cabinet of not two bowls but three. A day’s worth of laundry beckons—laundry that I always have dried, pressed, and at the mercantile steps each Friday, so I fill my largest pot with water from the pump and set it to heat. Not yet hungry, I settle Bethany to eat at the table then head onto the porch. There, I arrange the wooden tub and washboard in their usual places, sprinkle in soap, and sort out the laundry that men used to deposit on my doorstep at all hours of the week. Now I wash only for Mr. Conrad and a few other men.
Soon, I hear Mrs. Parson’s voice joining with Bethany’s downstairs. When I check on them, they’re both seated, and Mrs. Parson is teaching Bethany how to shape new letters in their bowls of oats. My daughter giggles as she forms a backward G. The sight blesses me to no end, even more so at having help on hand with this girl who needs all the care she can get. How many times have I bundled my daughter onto a chair in the cabin while I went out to break ice from the water pump or pulled her along in a sled as we searched deep into the woods for limbs to tuck into the cookstove?
I milk the cow before my daughter rises most days, but on the mornings when I am slower to wake, Bethany sits in the hayloft, playing in the straw as I work.
The memories lift my gaze to our barn. There is so little hay laid in for the cow this winter that I try to imagine how we will garner enough, but such a need would keep a man busy from dawn until dusk for weeks on end, and it is strength and time that I lack. I consider seeking help from one of the lingering men, but I have no means to pay, and they have their own troubles in preparing for winter.
There has to be a way, but worry over that and other winter needs splinters the peace of this morning as I dip work shirts and scrub sweat from collars and sleeves.
The peace is fractured further at the sound of Edie’s distant voice. Of the strain in my name as she hollers it up the hillside. I turn away from the
grimy water to see her struggling along. She stumbles but catches herself. When she peels off her hat, a panicked face is lit by the sun. A matching fear jolts straight through me.
I push aside the wet folds of my skirt that tangle, making it nearly impossible to stand. “Is it the baby?” Dear Lord, please, no.
She shakes her head as I run that way. I’m nearly to her now.
Is it her father? When we reach one another, her face is flushed but her hands are ice. She grips my wrist and presses a folded newspaper page into my hand. Secret-like. As though not to let any other see. There are none to even witness the exchange, yet her hushed demeanor drops lead in my gut.
I open it with shaking hands. Edie’s own are unsteady as she clutches my forearms.
“It’s John.” Her voice is grave. “Two copies arrived at the mercantile. I destroyed the other.”
Desperate, I read the headline first.
Members of Confirmed Miner’s Gang Arrested after Gold Fraud in CA and AZ Territory
There had been talk of arrests near Yuma, but these can’t be the same men. Can they be?
Three Outlaws Hung at State Prison. Two Awaiting Trial.
The world spins as I try to comprehend what this has to do with John. My gaze plummets from the word hung to the rest of the declaration. Beneath the headline are the photographs of five men. Five outlaws. Five men who have been captured. Some who have been tried and executed. My eyes skim their faces, landing at last on the final man. My John. Bethany’s father. With his steely eyes and calm demeanor, gazing back at me in striped prison garb . . . joining the other four men as ones I do not know.
Chapter 10
Johnny
October
Being late is standard op for Emily, so I stop watching the driveway for her silver sedan at 10:15 a.m. She’ll be here when she’s here, so I keep busy unloading a stack of old newspapers from the bed of my truck. Their new home is beside the woodstove for fire starting. I’ll need to get firewood for winter, but for now lumber scraps from previous job sites have the stove roaring. The house is toasty for the kids’ arrival.
After pulling off my beanie, I run a hand through my hair, using the window as a mirror. There’s a number of things this place doesn’t have yet, but . . . priorities. My hair probably still looks nuts, but Emily has seen it this way plenty of times. At least my T-shirt is clean. While my work boots and jeans are streaked with varnish, I managed to brush off most of the sawdust.
I cram the beanie into the back pocket of my jeans then haul the neon beanbags I bought for Micaela and Cameron upstairs. They look out of place in this nineteenth-century house, but the kid-sized blobs are part of what will make this place home. Our home.
At the top of the stairs, two doors open up from the narrow landing. A gabled window frames the east. I elbow my way into the smaller room and plop down the beanbags. Autumn sunlight makes the space soft and sleepy. A plastic tub of colorful blocks sits in the corner, the rocking horse that my dad made for the kids before he passed beside it. A soft nudge has me wishing he could be here. He’d love this place.
At the window, I check the driveway again for any sight of the woman my dad adored almost as much as I did. Still nothing. I crack the window to hear better. Thanks to my sister’s help, the glass panes shine and the floor is satin smooth. The boards look amazing. It’s tempting to snap a picture to show my guys. My three-man construction crew has been razzing me about this place since I put in the offer, nicknaming me Grandfather Mountain. The hard-wrought patina on those boards would quiet them down.
Desperate to keep busy, I check that the battery-operated lantern on the side table is at full power. The lantern is something that Micaela can easily access in the evenings, but just so they’re not alone tonight, I’ll crash in here with them. If the kids want me to stay longer, I’ll sleep in here for as many nights as they need me. There’s a floodlight up here as well, but I’ll take it down soon. The window sash settles just above its thick extension cord, which plummets to the downstairs outlet. The cord could have been trailed up the stairs just as easily, but it wasn’t worth risking my sister tripping and getting hurt. The setup isn’t ideal from the outside, but proper electrical is at the top of my to-do list.
Dust churns in the distance as a car veers off the highway. They’re here. Deep breaths. I aim for the stairs and instantly trip over the extension cord. The floodlight swings cockeyed, and I catch it before it slams into the wall. Well done, man.
Steadying the apparatus gives me a second to heave in a chestful of air before heading down, heart thumping. It beats harder as I nab the divorce papers and fold the thin packet. After pulling out the beanie, I slide the envelope into the back pocket of my jeans, taking care to tug the edge of my shirt to block it from sight. Rye’s already at the door, staring at the knob. I’m scarcely outside when Micaela scrambles from the back seat of her mom’s car. Bending down, I catch her running hug. Scooping her up feels like heaven. She smells like strawberry shampoo, and the ends of her short bob are so feathery soft they tickle the side of my cheek that’s cemented into a grin.
“Hey, sweet girl.” I stroke the back of her head and give it a kiss.
She burrows in for a tighter hug. “You forgot to call last night,” she whispers.
“I called twice, sweet girl,” I whisper back. It’s hard to explain to a seven-year-old that sometimes the only thing I have a conversation with is her mother’s voicemail.
Lowering Micaela back down, I watch as the very woman unbuckles Cameron from his car seat. Best not to crowd her, so I hang back. The dog? Not so much. He collides into her, and Emily scruffs the top of his head, knowing it’s the only way he’ll get a grip.
I call Rye back as Emily sets down our son, who waddles my way. I move to grab Cameron up next, taking care to make room for Micaela, who squeezes in against my side. I hold them both tight and, for a moment, forget all about the house. That is, until I open my eyes and see Emily gaping at it.
Well, she’s gaping at the orange extension cord running along the edge of the porch and up into the second-floor window. It’s probably still swaying.
“Please tell me you’re joking.” She lowers the kids’ backpacks to the ground then brushes dust away from one of her sandals.
Micaela’s jumping up and down now, begging to go inside. Needing to talk to her mother first, I take a knee. “I’m so glad you’re excited.” I squeeze her hand then point to the massive oak tree. “Why don’t you and Cam go check out that spot while I help Mommy get the rest of your stuff from the car? Then we’ll go in together.” I smile to reassure her.
Micaela takes her brother’s hand to help him amble over, and Rye trails them. I watch the kids for a few steps then turn back to my wife.
“Is that safe?” Her sculpted brows dip as she scrutinizes the setup.
The pair of swings I hung dangle from an oak branch that’s thick as a Buick and older than my wife and me put together. “Pretty sure.” Just to the side of the old tree is a picnic blanket that my sister spread out to hold a tin pail of plastic horses and soldiers. Cameron has parked himself there already. “Have a good trip?” I ask.
She nods then adjusts the zipper on one of the backpacks. “I forgot to pack pajamas for Cameron, but he has an extra T-shirt.”
“No problem.”
“Also, Micaela’s shoulders got kind of sunburned at the beach. There’s a bottle of aloe in with her stuff.”
“I’ll make sure we use it.”
“She finished up her packet of schoolwork while we were there, and the teacher said she did great.”
“That’s wonderful.”
We both go silent, and having contemplated for days—months, really—what I need to say, I try to think of where to begin. “I’d like to talk to you about the arrangement. The lawyer called.” I pull out the packet of divorce papers, slowly shaking my head. “I appreciate the gesture to give me more time with the kids, but Emily, this isn’t the answer . . .”
My voice trails off. Having tugged an elastic band from her wrist, Emily raises her blond hair into a ponytail and twists on the tie. Finished, she smooths her hand over the length of it a few times. I notice then that she’s wearing a blouse that drapes loosely over her stomach. Is that a . . . maternity top? The way it hangs indicates that her midsection is not as narrow as it was a few weeks back. This is a woman who has never missed a morning at the gym.
I stare at the shirt for several moments, and while I hope to one day forget that it’s yellow with white stripes, what I know will never be forgotten is the fact that there’s a life growing underneath it. I’ve seen that mounded shape to her waist twice now. But unlike those times, it’s not joy that floods me, it’s despair. My wife and I haven’t been within two feet of one another in nearly a year.
Pain clenches my chest. My eyes lock with hers, and for the first time since this nightmare set into motion, I know of the gravity of how I’ve lost her.
I try to say her name, but it doesn’t come out.
She speaks mine instead. “I’ve been wanting to tell you.”
Wanting to tell me?
“Please just sign the papers, Johnny.” Spoken by the same lips that nine years ago kissed me beside a three-tiered white cake in a churchyard.
There’s a different ring on her finger now, twice as big as the one I gave her.
When did this world become so backward? “You’re . . . engaged?”
“J, you and I have been separated for nearly a year.”
It takes me a second to comprehend what we’re both saying. “That means still married.”
“It’s been over for a long time.”
“Not for me.” All these months I’ve been hacking through a wilderness, trying to coax her back from this trail she’s stumbled upon. But she’s determined to forge ahead without me. She’s glancing over her shoulder at me. A goodbye so final I was probably a fool to try.
The Gold in These Hills Page 8