Oh, this must be the high school kid I finally sent that photograph to. What was her name? Sonoma, I think.
Mrs. Hollister continues. “She and I have been talking about your property as it’s pertinent to some of the research she’s doing. Would you have a chance to talk with her? I don’t know if you have time to swing by the museum today, or maybe we could set up a time that suits you both. She’s happy to come back.” Her voice lowers to a whisper. “I don’t think she wants to inconvenience you, but the information she has is pretty amazing. I think you two might be able to solve a few riddles if you put it all together.”
“Right. Oh.” My brain isn’t working fast enough. “I think I’ll swing by there.” I can spare an hour before Home Depot. “Maybe twenty minutes? She mind waiting?”
“Not at all! Gives me time to put on a pot of coffee. We’ll see you soon.”
* * *
There’s one vehicle parked out front of the history museum, which makes two cars in the snow-dusted lot by the time I pull my truck in beside it. The morning is all sunlight now as I step toward the front entrance, making it hard to see that there’s a person seated at the picnic table where the kids ate lunch with José.
A moment later, I glimpse that it’s a woman. With the day warming, a snow jacket rests on the table beside her.
Rising, she swipes her hands on the sides of her jeans before walking over. There’s something graceful in all of it. Something elegant and earthy. Her skin is a soft brown, and her long, sleek ponytail nearly black. She looks as though she could have Native American heritage in her, but not full blooded. She’s way too young to be the mom of a teenager.
I extend a hand. “Thanks for waiting. I wasn’t sure about having a kid at the farm all on her own, but if I knew she had company, it would have been totally fine. I should have asked. I’m sorry about that.”
Her thin brows lift. “I’m sorry?”
“Sonoma,” I clarify. That was the girl’s name, right? “I just wasn’t sure if she should come to the farm without a chaperone, so thought this would be a better way to go about it.”
Her face melts into a smile. “That was very responsible of you.”
I’m not sure what she means by that. I wasn’t trying to make a big point of it, but also wanted to be respectful, and why is she still smiling at me like that? “Is she . . . inside?” I ask.
She shoves back the sleeves of her gray sweater. “Mrs. Hollister?”
“Sorry, I mean Sonoma. Is she inside?”
This woman is nearly laughing now. “Not exactly.” A set of beaded bracelets jangles on her wrist as she extends a hand. “I’m not in high school anymore, but I hope it’s okay if I introduce myself. Sonoma Del Sol. I wrote you the email.”
I wish my brain had an extra circuit board, because when the main one cuts out in that moment, all I can do is stand there dumbly.
She finally gives in to a laugh. “I can see that we had some crossed wires. Anything I can do to troubleshoot that?”
It’s as though she can somehow see that crashed circuit board and its flashing lights that are desperately attempting to compute. “Uh. I’m sorry.” I stumble over the words. “I thought it was a high schooler doing a class project.”
“Oh, yes, a class project.” It’s a mercy the way she motions us to sit at the table, because I really need to sit down. “But it’s for a few final credits through an online academy. I’m attempting to get a bachelor’s in cultural studies, then go on to start my master’s program. A little late in the game, but I had to work two jobs to cover tuition and ended up taking off several years to care for my grandma who had dementia. So, I’m finishing up my degree program a few years later than planned.” There’s a leather bag on the seat beside her, and she pulls out a manila folder. “I believe there’s some hot coffee inside. Would you like some?”
“I, uh . . .”
Her eyes don’t quite meet mine as she rises again. “I think I’ll grab a cup.”
She heads in, and the few minutes gives me a chance to regain my wits. Partway through, I glimpse both women watching me through the window, probably discussing how I’m a total nut.
When Sonoma returns, there’s an air of hesitancy about her, but the face that settles across from me again is a friendly one. She places a steaming cup for herself and offers a second to me. “I brought it just in case.”
“Thanks.” I take a sip. It’s prepared differently than I usually drink it but tastes good. Maybe it’s the graciousness with which it was offered.
She sips from her own mug, and the quiet seems to be offering room for me to respond with more than a single word.
I swallow the scalding drink too quickly. “That’s great. About your degree programs, I mean. You’re already doing better than I’ve done.”
She braves a look my way again.
“The only classes I passed with decent grades were math and woodshop.”
She smiles at that.
“So, I do construction.” I shrug.
“Well, that stands for something,” she says warmly then suddenly looks a little mortified. “No pun intended.”
I chuckle, and it feels good. Like the tension somehow floated off with the breeze. “So, tell me more about what you’re looking for.” I’m curious about her file.
“Absolutely.” She opens it and, after brushing a few stray flecks of last night’s snow aside, shifts the papers closer for me to see. “First off, thank you so much for sending that photograph. It gave some answers, but . . .” A dimple appears in her left cheek as she smirks. “It’s also brought up a few new questions. That always seems to be the way with this kind of thing.” She straightens the papers, and I lift the nearest one. “The bulk of this is genealogy research. I’ve made a lot of progress over the last couple of years but hit a firewall that I can’t seem to get around.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, here . . .” She touches a series of empty squares in what looks like a family tree. “There is a portion of Cahuilla bloodline here, but nothing is set in stone yet.”
From here, I can read one of the boxes that is filled in. Santiago Del Sol. That’s the same last name as her own, if I’m not mistaken. And if I’m counting up the boxes right, he’d be farther back in time than a grandfather. The square beside him, what would have been a wife, is empty. As is the one below it, their offspring.
She slides a picture forward. It’s the one I emailed her the other day. It’s been blown up and printed on photo paper. She’s put a lot of effort into this. “At first, I had been thinking that my ancestor was with the desert Cahuilla because there were some ties there. But other indicators suggested the mountain Cahuilla. There were half a dozen groups of them in the area, some spanning all the way toward the Salton Sea.”
I lean forward on my arms to study the image better.
“I haven’t been able to know for certain, until you sent me the photograph.”
“Really?” Her enthusiasm is not only contagious, but for the house to be such a critical piece to her puzzle has me wishing I’d gotten the picture to her much sooner.
“Yeah.” She shifts through to the back of the file where more black-and-white photographs are compiled and pulls one out.
I take it, angling the glossy image to the light. And there, in black and white, is my house. It’s been stripped of a century of wear and looks nearly new. Standing in front of it are two men, similar in height. Similar even in build. But what is strikingly different between them is that despite the fact that one has an arm of comradery draped over the shoulder of the other, one man is Cahuilla and the other is white.
“This man,” she says, touching beside the white settler, “is the man who is alleged to have built the house. A John Cohen. You are familiar with him?”
“Yes.” Even as I answer, I study his face more closely. He looks about my own age. His beard is neat and his cropped hair combed off to the side. Though he’s not smiling, there’s something youthful
about his face, perhaps in the way it is shaded by a hat from the southwest sun.
“And this other man”—she touches the photo where the native man stands, dressed in cowboy garb—“is who might be my great-great-grandfather. But . . . it’s hard to say exactly. That’s where I’ve hit that firewall. Many Cahuilla in this era had several names. People often had two Cahuilla ones—given to them as a child and then again as an adult. For those who attended school at one of the missions, they were given a Christian name—which was typically Spanish since the missions were Catholic.” Reaching up, she tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. “Ultimately, this man had four different names.”
“Wow.”
“And that’s what has made it so difficult to match up the genealogy. Even then, I might be wrong, so it’s still a theory right now. You’ve already been a huge help.” She shifts papers around. “I don’t know his Cahuilla names, and sadly, I doubt those will surface.” She nudges her coffee cup aside so that there is nothing between us but the file and its mysteries. These two men—one with a shadowed past and another with several identities. “What I do know is that his Spanish name—or his Christian name, if you will—was Santiago Del Sol. That’s how I discovered him in a genealogy search, but I’m still not certain that this man is a match.”
“Why is that?”
“Well, look here.” She touches the bottom of the page. “He’s been listed as a Señor Tiago. That’s what the photographer wrote on the bottom corner of the photograph where two names were written by hand long ago. John Cohen, Señor Tiago, 1905.” Sonoma continues. “So was that what he was known by among the settlers in the area? If so, it makes sense, but . . .” She angles the photograph and studies his face for several seconds.
“It’s still sort of a riddle.”
“It is.” Her smile is sad. “But I think it’s enough of a match to be confident.”
“It sounds like you’re on the right track. What about his wife?”
“That’s what I still need to figure out.”
It’s fascinating. “So how can I help you?”
“I’m wondering if there is anything else that might have some answers. Anything else on the property or that you’ve learned. I hadn’t originally thought to link my heritage with this house you now own, but there’s something about this photograph that indicates a link of some kind.”
“It certainly does.”
“If you’ve heard stories, or have any names or resources that I could research further, well . . .” Gingerly, she places the photograph back in its file. “Often these riddles are answered in the unlikeliest of ways.”
My coffee is growing cold now, but my focus lingers on this person across from me.
“That’s not to say that it will be. But it seems worth it to try. So much was lost when my grandmother got dementia, and now, trying to piece it all together has been like building a bridge, stone by stone.” She smiles, and it’s a bittersweet contrast to the sheen in her eyes. It’s a look that has me wanting to know more. More important, wanting to help. “And maybe the answers are gone, and maybe they’ll never really be found. But for my family, to have a clear understanding of where we came from . . . It would mean a lot.”
I think of the letters. Of what I’ve slowly been learning. But there hasn’t been a single reference to any of the Cahuilla tribe in the area. “I don’t know if I have anything that can help, but I’ll be on the lookout. There are some old letters that I’m reading through, and I’ll let you know if I spot anything that could be connected.” Now that they’re in my possession it’s hard to think of passing them along, but maybe they weren’t meant for me in the long run. Maybe there’s a greater purpose here. “If so, I could get them to you. I’ve got your email address and can be in touch.”
“Thank you, Mr. Sutherland. That would be amazing.”
“It’s no problem. And please, call me Johnny.”
“Just the one name?” she jests, and it’s fitting, all things considered.
I smile. “So far as I know.”
Chapter 21
Juniper
March 1903
I wake to John’s fingers pressed against my hip. It’s in this half-conscious stage that I can’t comprehend why they’re still bound. For a few hazy moments, I think, Why has my husband come to bed in mittens? Then it hits me: we’re not in bed, and this man against me is less of a husband and more of a criminal. The notion jolts me further awake. Eyes open, I inch away from his heat. He’s warmer now, not fully conscious, and his forehead glistens with sweat. John’s hands shift again, bound fingertips grazing the front of my blouse, as though he, too, is dreaming, perhaps wondering what this prison of coverings is about.
Any person who has been imprisoned would want freedom—even in sleep.
I push myself farther away and remove one of the two blankets covering us, stopping in my movements at the sight of Bethany curled up against him still. Her forehead is pressed to his back, and her face is at peace. I settle the second blanket around her for warmth. I am afraid to remove the wrappings on John’s hands for fear that they will show signs of frostbite. But lack of knowledge won’t help him. There is not a doctor here, should he need medical attention, and it calms me to think that Santiago may have some skill here. He clearly knows how to keep a person alive.
The dried grasses that bind John’s wrists are so snug they’re difficult to unravel. I finally manage, and the grasses fall away, brittle. The portions of spliced saddle pad are coarse and nearly as stiff, but the first one peels away from his hand. Where I feared blackened fingertips, I see only the filth of his skin. Dirt and grease have filled the creases, embedded under his nails. These hands—that I now see are well—are ones I have known, and they have known me in return.
Do not cry, Juniper.
Rising, I swipe at my eyes. It’s early yet, the sun just turning the sky to gray. How strange it is to leave John sleeping on the floor, but sleep is healing, and he will need all that can be summoned. Santiago is nowhere to be seen. He must have gone to the barn again. It’s unsettling to be here alone with John.
There’s only one piece of firewood left, so I grab a shawl, slide on my boots, and step out into the gray haze of dawn. The storm from the last few days has passed. The sky is clear and the fresh snow looks deep. I halt in the doorway at sight of Santiago seated on the steps, pipe in hand. Smoke wafts from the end, and with his head low, he blows the rest toward the ground.
I gently step around him. “I’m just . . . I’m just going to fetch some wood. John is still asleep. Have you seen Edie?”
He nods. “In the night.” He rises, and when I step from the porch, he follows. My feet sink with every step that’s a struggle.
At the wood crib, I pick up several chunks of pine. Beside me, Santiago begins to take the wood from my grasp. The lightening is a relief. I don’t expect him to take it all, and yet piece by piece, he claims the whole of it.
“I get wood. You make John clean,” he says.
Hesitating, I reach for more wood. The motion serves to pretend that I don’t understand.
Snow clings to the legs of his pants as Santiago strides to the porch, where he deposits the wood. I follow with my own addition. He waits until I lower it beside his own. “I do this. You make John clean,” he repeats.
“No.” I square my shoulders, careful to keep my voice low so that it will not drift into the house. I will not make him clean. “I listened to you when you said, ‘Make warm,’ and he’s warm.” My voice falters. “But he . . . he can clean himself when he wakes.”
“If he does not wake?”
“Then what does it matter?” The bitterness in my voice sickens me.
It shows no effect on this man. “The vows we make.” Santiago angles so that he stands in front of the sunrise now. I see more of the amber glow than his face. It’s only the shape of him that I make out as he speaks on. “Love. Respect. Provide.”
“He has not upheld his vows.” Where h
ave I found this boldness? It must have been a long time coming—this chance to say what I must.
“You know this? You have sat in prison in Yuma and see these things?” He slants an arm toward the east as though the fortress were on the other side of the crest and not hundreds of miles away.
I don’t answer him.
He touches his chest. “I will not make clean. Not disgrace John.” He holds his hand out toward me. “Bone of my bone. Flesh of my flesh.”
These are Bible words.
This man is quoting Scripture to me?
Sun rises past his shoulders now, and the light is enough that I can make out the grief in his face. “Flesh of John’s flesh must make him clean.”
Who is this man? Who is this man who thinks that marriage is so simple? He does not know the beast of betrayal. He wouldn’t, or he would not preach to me so. “He will clean himself when he wakes.” This man does not dictate my actions. And neither does John. I swing away, intending to stomp back inside, but Santiago’s hand is faster, cradling my wrist with his fingers.
The touch is not unkind, only intent. “Come.” He releases his hold and starts for the barn. When I don’t follow, he adjusts the saddle blanket still draping his shoulders. It must itch terribly because he shifts it again. “Come, please, wife of John.”
Sighing, I follow across the snow, vaguely recalling that I wear no pistol at my hip this morning. What does it matter? This world no longer makes sense, and there is nothing that I fear more than the man lying on my floor opening his eyes. Seeing me. Me truly seeing him.
At the barn, Santiago pulls open the door, entering first. I follow in silence. His horse, tall and shadowed, stands quietly in a stall. The lantern is still warm when I touch it to light. This man was here only minutes ago, judging by the heat still in the tin. Now the new spark glows into a flame that flickers. Shadows and light dance around us, and Santiago’s steps are soundless as he comes around me.
The horse is still, watching us with unblinking eyes as we approach. Her keeper slides a hand to the side of her face, then down the length of her brown neck. He enters the stall, and the mare doesn’t so much as shift. A white diamond stretches the length of her long nose. A regal mark for a lovely creature. Her eyes are wide and innocent, watching me.
The Gold in These Hills Page 15