A hole blasts into the bullseye, and Bethany cheers in her little voice. “We’re winning!”
“We are indeed. But now it’s Mr. Santiago’s turn to go.” The earrings I’ve worn today swing as I turn my head that way. Though made only of brass, the short dangles were for my wedding to John. There have been few instances to wear them since, and a day such as this was a welcome reason to don our finest.
Bethany clambers up onto a wooden chair, as wild as the beautiful day around her, and puts two hands on her hips to watch Edie’s husband. Santiago steps from behind his wife, grazing fingertips against her lower back as he does. He accepts the revolver from Edie and, with it aimed to the ground, loads it fresh. After clicking the chamber closed, he steps ahead, sets his aim at the dying target, and fires.
A hair shy of the bullseye as well. Edie and Santiago are as good a shot as John, so their misses are for the benefit of a little girl whose birthday we’re celebrating today.
Bethany clasps her hands over her mouth and erupts into giggles. She and her papa are the victors. With an air of ceremony, Mrs. Parson pins the ruffled first-place ribbon we cut from cloth to the front of Bethany’s dress, announcing her the winner of the competition.
With the shoot-out now over, the men each take a few more shots just for fun. Edie does the same. There is a camaraderie about John and Santiago. I had never witnessed it before, and perhaps it’s because they treated one another as near strangers. But after Santiago found John outside the prison in Yuma, their bond has not only become clearer but stronger.
“Let’s see what Juniper can do,” Edie calls.
I touch my hip, and it dawns on me that I stopped wearing a pistol sometime since John’s return. He turns his own around, offering me the wooden handle. It’s warm when I take it, and there’s amusement in his eyes as he steps aside for me to stand before the target. I check and see that there are two bullets left.
Everyone is silent as I take aim, and I can feel John watching me. I pull the trigger. Two inches high of the bullseye. A poor shot considering the expertise around me, but seeing as I grew up in the city, I’m rather proud of the hit. Aiming once more, my second shot is nearly center. I smile. John’s eyes are alight with pride.
“I believe Mr. Conrad should have taken a turn,” I say.
The quiet miner unholsters his gun, steps clear of everyone, and raises it to eye level. The fingers I once cleaned and bound are not on his shooting hand, and from where I stand, it looks as though they have healed well. He and John have made small talk this afternoon. My prayer is that nothing inside Mr. Conrad is hurting. I don’t think he would show it if it did, and so while I hope he bears no regret over John’s sudden return, I cannot assume that Mr. Conrad didn’t think more of me than simply a neighbor. If I have learned anything about this quiet, gentle man, it is that he is more complex than that.
Wind stirs across the short April grasses. When Mr. Conrad pulls the trigger, the center of the bullseye blasts away. Everyone cheers. Hopping down from her chair, Bethany starts to unpin her blue ribbon, but Oliver Conrad insists she keep it.
John shakes the miner’s hand, and despite my worries, Mr. Conrad smiles. Mrs. Parson begins to pour glasses of dark, sweet tea while I press a knife into the cake. It’s a rich amber color, and the fragrance of ginger and sugar is heavenly. As I spread out a quilt on the grass, Edie starts to sing out, “For she’s a jolly good fellow . . . ,” and the rest of us join in.
Bethany is pink cheeked and grinning by the time we finish, and I am thankful that my daughter has this special day. It’s good to see her laugh. To watch her play. For so many to be gathered around, and most especially for her father’s presence. John scoops Bethany up to his shoulders, and she eats her cake from the high-up perch. Sugar dusts the tip of her nose.
I offer him his own slice, and while he cuts into it with his fork, he doesn’t lift any to his mouth. We already had a filling noon meal, and though his appetite has been steady, I’ve noticed him pacing himself. As though he can only stomach so much at a time, even though his body may be needing more. He’ll graze on it, as I’ve seen him do with most of the meals he’s taken. A slow regaining of strength.
He finally lifts the bite to his mouth but doesn’t go in for a second.
“I’ve a feeling they about starved you in Yuma,” Edie says. She states it matter-of-factly, as though commenting on the field a man just plowed or if he means to sell his new colt at auction.
Everyone goes still. Including Mr. Conrad.
Santiago, whose expression is always collected, slides her an apprehensive look. My breath catches. Not because she tapped into something we’ve spoken so little of, but because we’d been working to keep this news quiet between only ourselves. It’s why we took such pains to collect any newspapers that arrived, and why I am thankful that even then, the few lingering miners don’t read much.
John glances to Mr. Conrad as though to gauge whether or not he just heard what Edie said. That John had served time in Yuma. Served sentence for a crime.
Though he’s off free and clear now, most folks would still imagine such a man in striped prison garb—freed or not.
Santiago clears his throat, and Edie’s brown eyes widen. She’s realized her blunder.
Oliver Conrad has kept his focus on his cake, neither acknowledging nor inquiring into what was just said.
John has always had a kind spot for Edie. Like an older brother who has never minded the unpredictable antics of a kid sister. He picks up his fork again and cuts another bite. “It was enough food. But the heat made it hard to stomach at times.”
I can’t help but glimpse Mr. Conrad again, who has observed John’s absence from afar all these months. For John to have spoken of it freely, instead of tucking it under the rug, means that he either trusts this man or is willing to take the fall for his actions. I don’t know why. It would be so much easier to keep it hidden away, keep it in darkness so that no other souls in Kenworthy know that a convict lives in their midst. Let alone one that is responsible for the demise of this very town.
“They . . . they say . . . ,” Mr. Conrad says as he balances his dessert in dirt-creased hands, “the h-heat hits over one hundred and . . . one hundred and . . .”
John steps in to help. “Over a hundred and twenty degrees in summer.”
Oliver Conrad nods. “I would l-lose my appetite too.” He gives John a nod of assurance. One as filled with grace as everything else this man has done.
John claps him on the shoulder. “Then it’s a good time to eat up, so I’m thankful to my wife.” He nods in my direction. “And to you all for gathering today to celebrate our little girl.”
Mr. Conrad holds up his glass of tea in Bethany’s direction. “T-to the best shot in the W-West.”
We all do the same, and Bethany takes a bow.
* * *
Upstairs, I pull the chair away from my writing desk and sit. It’s been a glorious day, and with evening harkening in, I came up for only a moment to see the sun set through my favorite window. Edie and Santiago are gone home now, and their company today was a welcome addition. After supper, Santiago and John pulled out pipes and shared a light while Edie and Mrs. Parson shared stories. The house is still warm with the memory of their laughter and fragrant with the smell of tobacco. From downstairs lift the voices of Bethany and Mrs. Parson poring over the book of paper dolls the schoolteacher gave her for her birthday.
I’m ready to be rid of this corset, but it’s too early to turn in, so I ignore the sight of my nightgown draped over the desk chair. I’ve gotten so used to sitting at this desk, writing to John, it’s strange now not to pull out a fresh sheet of paper. To dip the pen into the inkwell.
There’s a soft knock, and with the door ajar, I turn to see John standing there—a hesitant look on his face. “May we speak a moment?” At my nod, he enters but doesn’t come much closer. With the sun going down behind me, there’s a rosy tint to the room. It lights his skin with th
e same tone, softening everything around us.
I’m not sure what to say, but something in particular has been on my mind all afternoon. A furrow of worry. “About what Edie said . . . ,” I begin.
“Edie?” He steps closer.
“In front of Mr. Conrad.”
His brow pinches then smooths as dawning comes. “I’m not worried about that.”
He’s not?
“I was afraid before, but I’m not now. I spent too many years being afraid. Regretting. It was too much time fearing the truth. Now the truth is out.”
And paid for, though he doesn’t have to say that.
He gestures to the edge of the bed. “May I?”
I motion for him to sit. Reaching across the desk, I turn the knob on the kerosene lantern, and with a lit match, it brightens the room softly. The scent of sulfur lingers as I shake out the match. This desk is the place I have penned his name with longing dozens upon dozens of times. How many nights did I peer at this dark window, hoping and praying that he would somehow be safe? That he would somehow return to us? Now he is here, in this very place.
“May I tell you something about Yuma?” His eyes search my own as though to be certain I’m comfortable in learning what he’s about to say. “Perhaps it’s not so different from most prisons, but it’s the only one that I know.” He pulls his hat off, and I notice once more the way his forehead is soft and pale. Not as weathered as the rest of him. The weathering—inside and out—has only made him more handsome. “I’d heard rumors before arriving, as all of us have, but I was not prepared. There’s a reason they call it the Hell Hole. There, in the middle of the desert, the summer heat was excruciating. A gritty, red sand blows in all the time. It coats your skin endlessly. Beyond that, the rest was hopelessness.”
His gaze shifts to the collar of my dress. Lace. My Sunday best.
“We were several men to a cell at times, and one chap in particular was tough to get along with. Maybe it was the heat that messes with your mind, but we came to blows at one point and were taken out for punishment.” His eyes gauge my own before continuing. “I never found out where they put him, but for me, I knew they were taking me down to the basement—which I’d heard of. Below the prison there’s no light. Not even a spark. It’s through this room that the guards lead you to a central cage. I do not know how high it is, but when I was inside, I couldn’t go more than a few paces before feeling iron again.”
A cage with no light?
“They don’t hang men at Yuma, June. There is no death there, only suffering. Unless someone dies from fever or is shot for trying to escape, everyone just exists. A slow, agonizing existence. Two of my cousins had already been transferred and executed, and I feared my time was coming next. That I’d never see you or Bethany again.”
Closing his eyes, he wets his lips. A slow shake of his head.
“It felt like an eternity, and it’s a darkness I will not describe to you. It’s darker than even a mine. It’s alone and empty. Void of hope. When I was brought back up, an old man in the cell they placed me in said it had been three days. The minutes, they had crawled on like torture. I was used to darkness because of the mine—but that was something else entirely. It crushes your spirit.”
When a breeze stirs the curtain beside us, I move to close it, but he asks me not to.
“Please,” he adds.
Fresh air, no matter how chilled, must be heaven-sent to him.
I return to the chair and watch the way his face now leans in the direction of the night. My gaze traces the profile I have grown to know and love. And now? Now, there is an ache in my spirit that I can hardly put name to. It lands there somewhere between loss and longing.
“I wasn’t underground anymore,” he continues, “but I couldn’t shake the memory of that cage. I could scarcely eat and in some ways was hovering against death. I think I had begun to give up, to give in to despair, but that time in the cage also taught me something.” He squares his boots, which are as roughened and dusty as my own shoes. The pair of us somehow belong here together. “It reminded me what it was like to stand there in a courtroom, awaiting my sentence with wrists handcuffed. Shamed and not able to say much about it except to answer the questions given to me.” John’s voice falls to a whisper now. “And I remembered the moment that the judge read my sentence and brought the gavel down . . .”
There is a look in John’s eyes that says he will never forget.
“And I began to realize—to question—what I would have done if instead of bringing the hammer down on my guilt, the judge brought it down for himself. That the judge chose to take my shame—to enter the darkness and the confinement and the hopelessness of that lightless cell. On my behalf . . . so that I could be set free.”
I’ve forgotten there is a whole world around us still. In this moment, I see only him.
“I slowly began to realize that it was what Christ had done for me. The Bible says ‘while we were yet sinners,’ and for the first time I truly understood the gravity of that and the abundance of the gift. That He took our place. Served our sentence and faced the darkness so that we wouldn’t have to.” John angles his face toward the window, then his eyes return to my face. Staying there. “That’s when I knew that if He deemed it right for me to find my way back to you, I would do everything I could to not lose you again.”
Rising, he leans forward and kisses the top of my head. The movement is so gentle—so familiar—that I don’t move.
“I’m horribly sorry for the ways I snuffed out the light for you. That I wasn’t open with you from the start.”
Lifting my face, I see the sheen of tears that is in his eyes.
“I promised Bethany I’d read her to sleep, so I’ll go fetch her and get her tucked in.”
In other days, I would have joined him, but I want Bethany and her father to have the time together.
“I’ll finish the dishes.” I rise, and as I do, his hand squeezes mine.
Stepping from the room, it’s an effort not to look back at this man who has always been a dream I don’t want to wake from. A dream that I was shaken awake from with such force, I am afraid to close my eyes again. Yet he is also the same miner I once knew. The one who brought me here . . . won my heart . . . and is still battling to keep it.
Chapter 30
Johnny
April
Halfway out the door for a morning climb, I halt. As much at the sight of the red sports car sitting in my driveway as of the four women who are walking around the barn, some of them pausing to peer into the windows. They all have rain boots on and skinny jeans. Flatlanders—city folk. A few are huddled inside designer jackets, and I haven’t seen that much artificial hair color outside of a cosmetic aisle in my life. One bright red, one bluish-black, and two bleach blonds.
“Lost?” I call, setting aside my day pack that’s already loaded with gear. Eventually, I’ll get better at addressing the occasional strangers that pull in here looking for the museum, but there hasn’t been much cause for practice yet.
“Is this the spot for the Kenworthy Heritage Museum? We might have missed the parking lot.”
I’ve got to put up a Private Property sign. “No, you didn’t miss anything.” I leave the steps to meet them in the yard. “This is the spot, but the museum’s been closed for a number of years.”
“Oh, no!” The redhead who spoke peers up at the cabin and pouts like Christmas just got canceled. “We used to come here as kids and thought we’d get out and see it again.”
“Yeah. Sorry. It’s all closed.”
“Even the souvenir shop?”
Unless they want to poke around some dude’s messy living room, yes. “Like I said, sorry.” It takes just a minute to give directions to the smaller museum up in town where I’ve been a couple of times now, but while they thank me, they seem more interested in this place and the history this farm wears on every surface. Can’t say I blame them.
“Is there a bathroom around here?” the
blond in a plaid scarf asks. Her rain boots are doing a little dance in the dirt that says they’ve been on the road for quite some time.
“Uh . . . gas station is about ten minutes up the road. By the lake.”
The lady blanches.
It’s hard not to feel bad for them. I unclip the ring of keys from my belt. “Okay, hang on just a second.”
In the cabin, I cross through to the bathroom and to the exterior door that still exists from when it was a public restroom and visitors entered from the outside. I’ve only opened this outer door once since moving in, so it takes a few tries to find the right key. Finally, I manage to creak the stiff door open and step out into the sunshine. I thumb into the bathroom. “There’s two stalls.”
All four women rush in at once. A few minutes later one of them calls out. “Are there any paper towels?”
I am not getting paid enough for this.
“Just a sec.” After grabbing a roll from the kitchen, I head back out and toss it in through the open door. I don’t know why they can’t just use the—
“Thanks!” calls whoever caught the roll.
Their voices muffle together as they all wash hands, and while I’m trying really hard not to overhear, someone whispers, “Totally hot,” and the others giggle. I sure hope they’re talking about the hand dryer. Finally, they’re back to their car and heading out of the driveway. I let Rye out of the house, and we head off toward the boulders behind the property.
By the time we’re there and my hands are chalked, I’ve forgotten all about the visitors, and it’s just me and the rock. Rye lies down near the manzanita bush where I anchored a leash for him. I don’t make a habit of tying him up around here, but on the off chance he spots a rabbit while I’m eighteen feet up this boulder, I’d rather he not vanish.
After dipping both hands into the chalk bag at my hip again, I survey the granite slab in front of me, decide on two handholds, and grip them. I settle my left climbing shoe onto a narrow flake of rock and lift my right foot up against a slope that’s bulging from the boulder just enough that I can get my balance. The ground is gone now, and I work my way higher, taking the time to decide on the best route since this is a boulder I’ve never climbed before. It’s slow going. Climbing without a rope isn’t a good time to make mistakes. If I fall, it’s only a couple of meters, but it’s gonna hurt, and breaking something is plenty possible.
The Gold in These Hills Page 20