I chalk my right hand again, then reach up as high as possible, pinching a narrow rise in the granite between two fingers. The hold is sketchy, so I don’t hang out there too long. A few more moves and I’m at the top, pulling myself over the edge. Dust and rock scuff against my T-shirt and waist, but I get up relatively unscathed. Sitting, I brush at my white, chalky hands that now have a few fresh cuts on the fingertips. The skin is calloused enough that they don’t sting.
Once up, there’s no reason to hurry, so I soak in the view. The craggy landscape stretches out for miles, dry and arid. Closer to the farm grow dry grasses from old cattle-grazing lands, but farther back into these hills it’s dusty earth and boulders of the same pale color. Different-sized cacti jut from the hard ground here and there, but trees dot the landscape, bringing a richness that says this portion of land is more mountain than desert.
About a mile away, I can just barely make sight of the highway.
I wonder if those ladies found the other museum. Thinking back on it now, I imagine one or two of them might have been single—judging by the way they were talking in the bathroom—but it hadn’t crossed my mind to even glance for rings. My mind hasn’t been wired to work that way in so long, it’s hard to kick-start it. I’m free to date now if I wanted, but the desire is more convoluted than it is straightforward.
Do I want to be alone for the rest of my life? Definitely not. I long for a life partner. Someone to share everything with. But my heart is still raw and far from healed. Even more than that, it’s intimidating to think that the chance for marriage could ever come along again. Do people love more than once? Truly love and be loved in return? I don’t know. Part of me doesn’t want to find out that the answer could be no . . . but it could also be yes.
While I don’t imagine one has to be fully healed to begin dating again, well, I guess I will know when the time is right to think about trying. It’s a weird thought—getting back out there. I’m kind of cringing at the idea, but a strange sense of comfort eases that away when I think on someone I know.
Sonoma.
Not that I’m suddenly trying to date her or that she would be remotely interested in dating me. It’s because she’s been kind and is so comfortable to be around and talk to. I hope the search for a potential wife could look something like that.
A lizard darts from behind a bush, but while Rye lifts his head to watch, the dog stays where he’s parked and doesn’t fight the leash. It’s a reminder for me to do the same. So many times, I want to chase after what might be coming. Or what I fear I’ll lose. There’s something about a guy being single that reminds him of the chase. Yet there are also times to be still. To wait and watch and even grow. I’ll be the first to admit that patience straight up scares me. For most of my life, I haven’t wanted to lean into God’s timing. Instead, I’ve just worked hard to make things happen. Dating Emily was like that. Starting my own construction company. Even buying this property. I plowed forward and trusted that I’d figure out how to land on my feet.
But something about this piece of my future feels different. It feels like if I rush ahead and try to force something, I’m going to end up doing more damage than good. And when I think of Sonoma—whether it’s being friends or the possibility of something more—it’s not a price I want to risk. I like knowing her, and if it means moving forward with great patience, then that’s what I’m going to do.
I’ll need some help from God for that. Truth be told, I’ll need a heck of a lot of help. Because life is very possible to turn out differently than I imagined. It’s one of the lessons I’ve come to learn lately. I can try to envision how I think things could unfold, but unexpected twists and turns weave a different kind of outcome. But the twists aren’t unexpected to God, and there’s assurance in that.
Seeing as He hasn’t failed me yet, can I believe that He won’t start now?
It’s shocking, sitting here on the edge of this boulder, far from the home I once shared with Emily, to think of our divorce as yet one more piece of life where God hasn’t failed me. While I don’t know yet the purpose behind it, I want to trust that time will eventually tell. It’s kind of scary to look around, to see so many unknowns, and not to know the plan. Kind of like scaling this boulder. Each hold took time and patience. I didn’t yet know where the next hold would land, but with some time and diligence, I get to testify that the top has a pretty incredible view.
Chapter 31
Juniper
April 1903
The cold of night seeps through the cabin walls as though the dense log walls are mere twigs. Tugging the patched quilt tighter, I nestle deeper into the mattress, nearer to Bethany. The warmth of the stove isn’t enough to stem the night’s bite, and I don’t want to traipse downstairs and risk waking John to stoke it. He’s tended it of late but must be deep asleep. I’m grateful he’s at peace this night. I snuggle deeper beneath the blanket, longing for the same. In this sleepy state—the place where my guard is down and my heart is unfiltered by practicality—there’s a renewed sense of comfort that John is near. With that, I finally drift into a sweet, sleepy haze.
I awake to darkness and a banging at the door. The fog of drowsiness is blown to bits when the knocking pounds again. After reaching for my robe, I stumble down the stairs.
John’s already at the door. “Who is it?” he calls as I push aside the curtain.
“Beg pardon, sir,” comes a young man’s trembling voice through the door. The soul on the other side sounds nigh unto frozen. “The shopkeeper missus sent me over to fetch ya. The men are making camp. Just pulled in, we did, and they’s all right famished.”
His muffled voice grows clearer as John opens the door. I move in beside him.
The lad shivers as he speaks. John reaches out to beckon him inside, but he shakes his head. “I best be off again, but came to tell ya that we ain’t had a proper meal since dawn, and even that was cold.”
The cabin is too dim for me to glimpse the clock on the mantel. It must be near midnight if not later. With the cookhouse locked, they would have no way to pilfer for supper even if they wanted to. “Of course.” Simply speaking helps shake the last traces of sleep. “I’ll be right over. Please tell your men that supper is on the way.”
“We thank you, ma’am.”
After closing the door, I hurry upstairs. Mrs. Parson is on the landing, holding a candle.
“All is well,” I say at the top. “We’ll go over now. Would you mind looking after Bethany? It’s possible we won’t be back by sunrise.”
“Not at all.”
In the bedroom, I pull my woolen skirt over my nightgown. As I button up a flannel blouse, the silence in the house is softly broken by John tending the fire. It’s a cold night. No snowfall tonight, but the chill is sharp. I wrap a shawl around my shoulders, tucking it in the waistband of my skirt on the stairs. Below, I reach for John’s old coat when I realize that he needs it more.
He catches my hesitation. “Take it, please.” He sinks into a chair to pull on his boots.
“No. It’s yours.”
“It’s a cold night, June. Please put it on.” Rising, he pulls the coat down. Holds it open. Hungry men are waiting, so I slide my arms into the sleeves. The comforting weight of it settles around my shoulders as he offers it in full.
He doesn’t speak until I’ve fastened every button. “May I accompany you?”
“Into the night?” He has no coat . . .
“If you’ll allow me. I can carry the lantern. Help get that fire lit. Whatever else you might need.”
A second effort at protesting churns within, but it is silenced as the first. The night is dark as tar, and the cookhouse stove will take coaxing to produce warmth. Have I even laid in enough kindling yet?
“Should I bring some wood?” he asks before I’ve even agreed.
“Please.” It’s easier to speak than thank you.
John disappears into the night. Despite all the pain of the last year, I pray his two lay
ers of plaid shirts will be enough.
An empty tin can serves as a way to lift ash from the stove and layer it inside. Several hot coals come next, and I nestle them carefully before banking them with more ash. The tin warms in my hand as I join John in the yard. He’s bracing a mammoth amount of wood against his chest. His strength is weak yet, but I say nothing.
“I’ll need you to hold the lantern,” he says, steadiness in the words belying his condition.
“Of course.” I take it from the porch railing, and we start off together, him with his heavy burden, me with the clutch of warmth in my hand. The contrast seems unfair.
We walk quickly, and if his breathing grows labored, I hear only my own. The snow—this deep in the night—is frozen stiff, making the descent toward town easier.
I see nothing beyond our reach of light, until all around the night quakes with the rattle of wagons ambling on the rutted roads. Lanterns bob and horses whinny. Men call orders to one another—all under a moon that glows cold and white. Kenworthy is a loud, jostling ruckus. A memory of what it once was. I step aside for a horse and wagon, bringing me closer to John, who has matched his pace to my own.
Here in this land we are the few who have kept asylum in Kenworthy, and now these men seek the same. Men uprooted from their lives to further unroot our own.
I unlock the cookhouse door as John deposits wood beside it. Inside is black as pitch, and the lantern chases away shadows. John joins me at the stove, using a hatchet to split a soft piece of spruce into splinters that will catch quickly on the coals I sprinkle inside the iron grate. Kneeling there, he tends the flame, and I try not to think of how cold he must be, his breath fogging by lantern light in this icy building. My body, tucked within his coat, is warming further with each task.
Before I’ve even set water to boil, the men are pushing their way inside. At their lead is a tall, wiry miner who pulls off his Stetson so that he can stretch to his full height beneath the low ceiling.
His sober eyes are fixed on me in confidence, but his words are respectful. “Our apologies, ma’am. We’ve put you out with the odd hour.” He addresses John next with a nod of comradery.
“Do not think of it.” An earthenware bowl clangs as I set it into place. “You’ve all arrived safely, and that’s what matters. I’ll have hot coffee real quick. Biscuits on the way as well.” Fixings that can be prepared on the spot, which is what these men need.
“We thank you, ma’am.” He shoos out those who have followed him inside and barks orders to several who are leading a team of wagons to the wrong side of the town center. Men pass by the door, some casting me curious glances. In the dark, they are little less than shapes of men, of glistening eyes in the moonlight and weary footsteps.
After grinding the coffee and filling the percolator, I place the enamel pot to boil. The stove is roaring now. Flames crackle and pop, lending the spread of heat. John moves benches around so that they edge the tables at easy angles. My heart warms with gratitude, but there is no time to thank him as we hurry about.
At the flour barrel, I scoop out no less than six cups. After surveying more men unloading supplies into the nearby bunkhouses, I add two more scoops for good measure. I’ll mix up a gravy as well. I’ve bacon grease that can give it enough flavor to pass as supper. It will be more pallid than I would have planned for, but it will be hot and filling.
There is no room for apologies or excuses in a mining camp. Men are here to work, and they’re promised a meal, which is my task and mine alone. Though . . . John’s quiet presence somehow alters the ownership. The burden.
After mixing dough and rolling it in a rush, I cut quick rounds with a clean tin can. Turning for a second baking sheet, I bump into John. He steadies me with a grip to each arm. His expression, which has been unflinching since his return, is suddenly as vulnerable as the day we first met. He releases me, stepping away, and I take care not to turn so fast, lest that happen again. I’m glad I couldn’t see what my own expression was like. Probably not all that different than when I first saw him as well.
The ruckus of men continues from the dark of night. While the first biscuits bake, I scoop the rendered bacon grease into a second skillet and stir in flour as the makings of a gravy. The percolator bubbles and steams, filling the air with the smells of home. Men pass by the door more slowly now. Some have gathered just beyond. They linger in the traces of light spilling forth, and in the curious looks they cast, I see that their eyes are hungry.
“Please come in if you wish,” I call to them. “It’s warmer inside.”
No one moves. Men stay close to their belongings, their horses. Not sure how to set them at ease, I grab a dented tray and splay out as many tin cups as can be filled. I can only take out trays of coffee and hope that it begins to warm them. I’ll need to make another pot right away, but at least they’ll have something to heat and nourish them while the biscuits finish and the gravy thickens.
Tray in hand, I step out the door, harnessing more courage than I feel within. John lights a second lantern, hanging it just outside, beneath the rooftop eaves, and while our daughter slumbers back home, we serve coffee to road-weary men by its light. They accept the offering with gratitude. Humble nods and “Much obliged, ma’am” are what I gain in return, and it is strangely fortifying. More nourishing to my soul than the peace of sleep could be this night.
Maybe there is cause for this that goes beyond what I see. Is this how God tends to us? To me? A soul seeking refuge in the bleak hours before dawn. For so long I have doubted God’s purpose here. That God brought my husband home to me, but in a way I did not ask for. With a past that I did not ask for. Do I stand outside the door of warmth and provision, unsure how to move forward? Unsure how to accept?
I glance at John—considering what we have lost—but his humble presence continues to patch some of the pain, filling emptiness with something warmer. I do not deserve it. Not with the pain I have harbored in my chest, letting it block out the light.
For the first time since John arrived, I wish it was only him and me standing here so that I could speak these words. I wish that I could speak them up to the heavens, more so.
But we must keep moving. Men begin to come indoors. One or two strike up a conversation. A few hold their hands out closer to the stove’s warmth. I dish up plates of food as quickly as possible while John works tirelessly at my side. As I hurry from man to man, stepping in and out of the cookhouse with plates and the steaming coffeepot, I can see in these miners’ faces that they are receiving a patching-up all their own. I see in John’s face a care and intentionality that speaks how much he knows of what they have endured to journey here to this mountaintop. He knows as much and more.
The sun is nearly risen by the time each of them are fed and the dishes have been washed. I don’t know how many hours we’ve been on our feet, but if we don’t get some sleep now, there will be no one to feed the workers come their first workday. In the now-empty cookhouse, John is just reaching for his coat, handing it to me, when I finally brave what needs to be said.
I speak his name, and it is enough for him to still. He grips the leather coat, and it is I who needs to bridge the gap now for him. It is I who needs to forgive, who needs to humble my own pride—my own anger—and to acknowledge this man’s sacrifice. But forgiveness is not what I offer. I offer something we both need so much more.
“Will you forgive me, John?” I say, and the breeze doesn’t steal it away this time. I speak the words as much to my husband as I do to God. “For so many months I prayed for your return—for your safety. But when it came to truly facing what that entailed, of my purpose as your wife, I grew faint of heart. I have always loved you. I just haven’t known how to tell it to you.”
John nears me in long strides, and his answer is not one that he speaks.
Instead, he kisses me.
He kisses me, and it’s memory. It is the way I have known him a thousand moments in my heart. In the hours I once shared with
him. Knit to his side as two souls, two lives, learning how to make a new one. It’s a gift being reborn inside me, and I realize I had forgotten such tenderness. Because now it is not memory—faded and grayed. Now it is real.
I open my eyes to the blue of his shirt where it draws tight against his shoulder. The glisten of his cheeks as the sun rises through the eastern window. The brush of his beard and the strength and determination in his hands. All those months of heartache grate a rawness across my spirit, and yet this moment . . . one that is not memory . . . smooths the valleys over, binds them up, and brings the rest of my heart back to life. And what rises, even more than longing and the sacredness of his touch, is in knowing, in feeling, that he’s kissing me from the same summit of hurt and healing.
Chapter 32
Johnny
April
“Have the doctors scheduled it yet?” I ask Emily through the phone.
“For four o’clock.” Her voice is calm on the other end.
I set my cell on the windowsill, tap the speaker icon so it’s not as though she’s so close. There’s something very memorable about the sound of her voice against my ear. With the phone now wedged against a wilted cactus in a cheap dollar-store pot, it’s not so personal.
She called moments ago to explain that the doctors have arranged for her to deliver by C-section the following evening due to low amniotic fluid around the baby. She’ll go in tonight for monitoring until then. Everything about this conversation is at once numbing and newly familiar. There’s no other way but to have it and to keep pressing forward.
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