“We’ll have new coloring pages next month, so be sure and come back.” She adds Micaela’s picture to a corkboard behind the cash register, and my daughter beams.
“We sure will. Thanks.”
Outside, I give Micaela time to eat. I try to focus on my burger, but it’s hard not to wonder about the book in the bag.
After cleaning up our trash, we return to José’s house and unload half the wood. The kids wave him off, and I do too. As I pull away, both Micaela and Cameron look sleepy around the edges. On the drive home, Cameron sinks his blond head against his car seat and yawns. Town fades from view behind us as the road winds down the mountain. Thick forest hedges both sides of the highway, evergreen branches hazed by the fog still rolling in. Mist begins to dampen the windshield. Both wipers pump slowly back and forth. The rest of the storm holds off until we reach home.
The kids are conked out, and since they’re warm and safe, I keep the truck heater running and nestle the blanket better around them. The cold air bites through my coat when I climb down. Wanting to hurry, I drop the tailgate and heave out the first round. This wood still needs to be split into wedges, and for now I roll them into the barn to keep dry. A gas-powered wood splitter sits ready and waiting for action.
The light mist has vanished as though the air is drawing in a breath so as to blow down something icier. The air stings my fingers when I tug off the work gloves. It’s almost four, so it will be best for the kids to sleep a few more minutes. A nap will do them good and give them enough energy tonight for the board games they brought over from their mom’s.
After fetching the gift-shop bag from the passenger seat, I settle on the porch that’s over a hundred years old. Maybe it’s the creak of the antique wood, or the underlying grief in me, or a growing need for purpose, but I need to know. I need to know who the people were who once made a life here. And why.
What kind of person . . . besides me . . . is determined enough—desperate enough—to call this farm home?
I slide the book from its paper sack and thumb to the spot the historian bookmarked. The photocopied letter catches my eye again with its yellowed paper and slanted writing, but on a whim, I turn to the page just before it. And in a single moment, I’m once again struck dumb by the sight of the pioneer woman. Juniper Cohen. Of the sight of this very cabin behind her.
It’s the same photograph from the barn, and it’s hard to describe the satisfaction for the original to exist only yards away. This very person from history once lived here. More important, she seems to have a story to tell. While I didn’t pay full attention at the historical reenactments as a kid, it’s clear that the depth of this legacy—whatever is in that journal and those letters—was not fully on display.
Why is that?
The photocopy is grainy. Her chin is slanted up, eyes straight at what would have been an antique camera on its tripod. Is the directness in her gaze due to the inconvenience of having to stand painstakingly still for the flash? Or is it a depth she’s conveying in that single glance? It’s a look that unveils one soul to another, as though she’s trying to state something that can’t be declared in words. For a moment, I wonder who was on the other side of the camera. Crazy because now I sit in the exact spot it was taken yet on the other side of that look. She doesn’t know me. She never would have.
But for some strange reason, I want to tell her that I’m sorry.
I’m sorry for whatever her life was like here. As the first snowflakes begin to fall, I’m sorry for whatever she endured to be alone in a photograph surrounded by a spread of land that perhaps puzzled and astounded her as it does me. Perhaps she knew something much deeper than even I do. Some remarkable loss or even desperation. If that’s the case, then maybe her joy was also more intense. Perhaps she knew a type of assurance that I can’t begin to imagine as she glimpsed the sunsets here, or the way an eagle sometimes soars over the far-reaching sky while the horizon burns golden.
I touch the page, and either I’m losing my mind, or she once lost hers, but whatever grit dwelled within her, some must still linger because I want to rise.
I want to stand and tell this life that it will not defeat me.
I want to tell the lawyer and my wife and anyone else who will listen that I may be busted up into a thousand pieces inside, but those pieces are worth gluing back together one sliver at a time. I was made for some purpose, and even if it is only to be a father to my children, it is as noble a purpose as a man could have.
And it’s worth accepting.
Rising, I push the book back into its bag. There will be time to consider it all more, but for right now, I want to be the man who turns on the lights and starts a crackling fire for the kids. I want to have a smile on my face when they wake up and for it to be genuine.
Just like the prayer from the night I signed the divorce papers, I could really use some courage. If God could send some more my way, this is as good a time as any. It might not be as simple as asking for it, but it’s also impossible to ignore the fact that this breathtaking land had a Creator. One wilder than this territory was and is.
The mighty pines towering above the barn declare that the One who crafted the mountains that brace up these woodlands drew it all up from earth. That’s a God who wields a strength like none other. Can I draw on that strength? Can I trust that even a speck of it lives inside me? Even as my heart hollers out for the answer, I return to the truck and pull two sleeping children into my arms. Trusting that moving forward is the only way to find out, I shield them from the falling snow and carry them home—hoping and praying that God is doing the same for me.
Chapter 15
Juniper
February 1903
Kneeling on the cookhouse floor, I dip a scrub brush into a bucket of hot water and lye then scrape the bristles over the nearest floorboards. The friction is as steady as the racing of my mind. The letter I mailed to Yuma prison some weeks back? Has it arrived? Will someone there pen word to me of John’s fate? I do not know, and so it’s with a quaking spirit that I inquire each week with Edie if a response has arrived. Each week, there has been nothing for me in the limp mailbag. Shadows rim my eyes each day from crying and lack of sleep, and so I am grateful there are no looking glasses here in the cookhouse. I do not need to be reminded.
Though we press on with duties, longing for those who are far away is a constant companion. It is a silence between Edie and me as we both watch an empty road. Determination keeps us moving forward, as does our friendship. This knowing that we are not alone in this place. More so now that Reverend Manchester has passed away. He went to heaven in his sleep not long after the night Edie pitched salt boxes at Señor Tiago’s chest.
Edie’s grief was gentle—her having waited for her father’s passing for over a year now—but I sometimes sense her missing of him. There are moments, while she’s in the mercantile, when she wears a look about her as though he is unaccounted for. My heart has ached for her since his passing. Yet it was a peaceful homegoing, and there is comfort in knowing that Reverend Manchester is now safe at home with the Lord he cherished.
Why must this grief feel so endless? Is it better to never have loved than to have loved and lost?
Despair does no good, so I search for hope moment by moment, throwing ropes to it with weakening hands as though it is a ship and I am afloat in a vast and stormy sea. Sometimes I am holding on by mere threads, but God is teaching me how to keep my head above water. It is a daily struggle. An hourly struggle.
As I push bristles over wood, and John’s memory lingers with me, it is minute by minute.
With Bethany at school today alongside Mrs. Parson, I take this rare moment to let tears flow freely. I feel foolish, at times, when they do, but I know of no other way forward. I have tried to stuff down the missing of John, the unknowing over his life or death, and yet it flows as steadily through me as the blood in my veins. God’s Word reminds me to lift my eyes to the hills. That there is where my help comes from.
I do, letting my gaze lift to the snowcapped peaks through the cookhouse window. A cold breeze lifts through the open doorway, reminding that for all of my worries and sorrows, the Lord is greater. I must hold on to that.
Wiping my eyes, I force myself to rise. At the door, I pitch the filthy water over the side and move to the pump for a fresh fill.
In the distance, someone is walking this way. I shield my eyes with a hand. It is a woman. I squint harder. A Cahuilla woman. As she ventures nearer to town, her native heritage gleams with an elegant mystery. Her golden-brown face and black hair are striking beneath a blue sky. Her clothing indicates that she works at one of the nearby ranches. She wears a simple cotton blouse atop a calico skirt. Her feet are bare and her hands seasoned. As she nears the mercantile, she is close enough that I can see the smile lines that have spent perhaps half a century catching the California sun.
Soon, she is gone inside the mercantile. As curious as I am about her visit, Edie can’t keep much to herself, so I’ll be hearing of it soon.
Already, I’ve learned much about Edie’s romance with Señor Tiago. I have learned that his given name is Santiago Del Sol but that most in the region call him Señor Tiago out of respect for his position in the tribe and community. He is only thirty-five, but as the shaman’s son, he is as close to nobility as the Cahuilla have. More significant, Edie has explained that she and he are in fact married. Husband and wife . . . joined together by Reverend Manchester upon Edie turning eighteen. That was well over a year ago.
I guess Edie knew how to keep some secrets.
That she did not tell me prior is not something I will hold against her.
Edie, in all her spirit, has claimed one of the tribe’s finest men. He would have strong standing among his people. By taking a Cahuilla bride, it would have furthered his pureblood heritage. And yet Edie is the woman he has chosen. The one to claim his heart. I have known Edie long enough to understand why she captivated him. She is feisty and impulsive and glorious, all at the same time. Her spirit is wild, perhaps not so different from his own. Each of them have been shaped by this land they were raised on, her with a preacher father, him as a shaman’s son. Two drastically different worlds.
And yet, Edie has also described him as a Christian, a religion he chose through his schooling at one of the local missions operated by the Spanish—one reason so many Cahuilla have Spanish names. From what I have known of the Cahuilla, being made to learn the ways of the Bible has not been a welcome change. While I hope that all can come to hear of the love of Christ, it is only right to respect the many centuries they have worshiped in their native beliefs. Because of that, I do not blame them for disliking the way they were swept up into missions and forced to learn another way.
Santiago, however, seems to have truly formed a faith in Christ that now directs his every step. Perhaps that had something to do with the mutual respect he shared with Reverend Manchester? I am curious about this and hope for the chance to better understand the husband of my dearest friend.
It’s clear why this union has been kept secret. Here in California, the tension between settlers and the Cahuilla is as charged as it is across the nation with other tribes and those who have moved onto their lands. Aside from those who take work at the ranches, rarely do the two cultures mingle. This pregnancy, this marriage, is a rare testament that sometimes they do through love.
I glimpse the mercantile again through the cookhouse window, more than curious to learn about Edie’s visitor, and by the time I have finished the floor and scrubbed all the tables and benches, the woman exits. Hands raw and weary, I move to the window and glimpse Edie giving her several items—a tin of tobacco and sack of what might be coffee. Before parting, the Cahuilla woman touches Edie’s belly. Her fingers move like water, dark eyes steady as small stones. There is wisdom and care in her quiet, gentle movements. I am thankful that there is someone else who can look after Edie and the coming child. Someone who holds much more wisdom than myself.
When the woman departs, Edie strides my way. She waves overhead, and I wave back. It is good to see the smile on her face. Her belly has grown over the months, and yet she manages to keep it concealed beneath all of her layers. If I didn’t know she was with child, I would be curious, but I doubt the few remaining townsfolk give it much thought. Perhaps Mrs. Parson has taken note, but the woman has never spoken of it. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Mrs. Parson, she’s discreet, and I’m as thankful with my own secrets as Edie surely is.
“Oh, June. I feel so much less afraid now.”
“I’m so glad to hear it. Come and tell me.” Pouring focus into other things, be it tasks or this dear woman beside me, is blessed relief. I dry a bench for her to sit, and she settles near the cookstove where it’s warmest.
There, Edie explains that the woman is Santiago’s aunt from the same ranch where he works. “She’s a housekeeper and has delivered babies—both Cahuilla and whites—for decades. Before his leaving, Santiago asked her to check on me when the time drew nearer.” Her eyes glisten with tears. “He’s looking out for me, June.”
I pull her close to my side. “He is. Did she give any indication of Señor Tiago’s whereabouts?”
“Nothing beyond what he already told me. That he promised to return by spring.”
“There is comfort in that promise, Edie.”
She hangs her head some. “Yes, there is. I wish I hadn’t been so angry with him. I wish—”
“I know.” Still near, I circle a hand across her back. “He knows how much you care, and I believe he will do as he has promised. Take heart in that.”
She wipes her eyes, and when she looks at me, she seems ashamed. For crying for her husband? There is no shame in that. Or because she has a promise where I have none?
That is not her fault.
“I hope you’ll come to know him as Santiago,” Edie says, inviting me to address him less formally just as she does with John. “He doesn’t really know how people came to call him as Señor Tiago, but it must be because the two sound so similar. He eventually stopped correcting people.” She winks. “I suppose the pronunciation is difficult for most people. It was for me at first as well.”
“Of course. It would be my privilege.” I will try to think of him as Señor no longer. The Spanish equivalent of mister always seemed more befitting, but Edie’s invitation is a warm one. I will honor their marriage and my friendship with Edie, thinking of him as Santiago. I have never spoken his name so informally, but here with Edie, his wife and my dearest friend, it seems only natural to begin.
Desperate to keep Edie and my thoughts busy, I ask more. “So tell me how it went. What did she have to say about the baby?”
“She said the baby was growing well. A good, healthy size. And that I looked well too.” Edie leans her head close to my own in a sisterly way. “It was good of you to hide my flask of gin from me. I looked behind the counter last week and noticed it gone.”
I smile. “I’m glad you’re not angry.”
“No. I need to do all I can to help this baby be safe and strong. Oh!” Edie perches her boots up on a nearby bench. “She said that this little bit is going to be a girl.”
“A girl? However would she know that?”
“Well, she used this length of string. Almost as though she were gonna play cat’s cradle. She held it right over my middle and, after watching it a spell, declared the baby a girl. I dunno, June, but it was awful nice to hear. I like the idea of a girl.”
It is a lovely thought. “Boy or girl, I am praying for a safe, smooth delivery.”
“Thank you. You’ll be with me, won’t you? And Santiago’s aunt has promised to be with me as well.”
“I’ll be by your side.”
She sighs, looking satisfied and even spent. It’s been a long day for her. A long winter for us both. So I’m surprised when she looks around and asks if there is anything she can do to help.
“You just sit there and keep your feet up.” Her
chatter brightens the room as much as the sun does.
“Alright, then. Have we finalized our list for supplies?” She slides a fold of paper from the pocket of her britches and reads off the ingredients we’ve already listed.
Plenty of flour for biscuits. Salt pork for gravy and lots of coffee. Cornmeal for grits and cornbread. She’s ordering dried apples and sweet currants, as well, which I can stew and turn into pies or jellies. The men will be well fed.
This task is a good feeling for both of us, I sense. It is life coming to our town again. Even if it’s only for a few weeks. We will each face the aftermath as we must, but for now, we’ve thrown ourselves into this job as though it were oxygen. We will not be alone, and it’s that notion that spurs me on to ready this place to welcome guests.
The pots and pans beside the giant cookstove all still need to be scalded and scrubbed. It’s been over a year since the cookhouse was used, and every inch of its abandonment shows. Cobwebs cloud the room’s corners at the ceilings, but after today’s work, the floors are polished once more.
At a sound coming from the pantry, I fear something living might be scampering inside an empty barrel. When Edie volunteers to investigate, I assure her that I’ll see the tenant relocated.
Was this place truly integral to the town of Kenworthy? It’s hard to imagine, but it was. If the mine was this town’s hope, the cookhouse was its heart. Dozens of men ate here—mostly bachelors in need of refreshment amid summer’s heat. Nourishment during the bite of winter. Two full-time cooks handled it all. Now it’s just Edie and me leading the charge.
For today, it takes a bit of that courage to drag the nearly empty barrel out onto the porch and tip it over so that a squirrel can dash off. I swipe the back of my hand over my forehead, tip the barrel upright, and am thankful for this day and the God who grants the strength to keep going. That strength is always around us—I see it now—but how often do I forget to reach and grab hold? To lay down troubles of the heart and breathe in peace in their stead? It is a trying thing to do, but one that must be pursued with abandon or else . . . what do we hope in?
The Gold in These Hills Page 12