Now here we are.
She arrived first and ordered, so I didn’t pay for anything, which means it’s most definitely not a date. This is a classy gal, so I’m guessing she did that on purpose. Maybe a grace to me? To her? Likely both of us. Just a way to make this less complicated.
“I’m eager to hear about what you’ve figured out,” I say as she opens the nearest folder.
It’s clear she’s just as eager. “I can’t tell you how helpful those letters have been.” She’s flushed now. Something good has happened.
“Well, come on, let’s see it!” I toss it out in a teasing tone to try to set her further at ease.
A little laugh. “I’m trying to find it!” A few of the letters are marked with sticky notes, and these she thumbs through, scanning the pages, a treasure hunt.
I wait, sipping the sweet tea—in no rush at all.
“So, I read through the letters this week—”
“All of them?”
“Yes, and I found a few indicators that I wanted to run by you. Since you’ve read Juniper Cohen’s writings as well, and know some of the history surrounding them, I’m hoping you might be able to confirm what I’m thinking.”
She’s offering me a position I’m not qualified for. Faith from a woman I barely know. “I’ll do my best.”
“So, this here”—she places her drink off to the side—“is from the winter of 1902, and it says . . . Well, I’ll let you read it for yourself.”
She touches a bottom paragraph, and I read the slanted cursive.
We buried Reverend Manchester yesterday. My friend is alone in Kenworthy now. We watch the horizon now, the pair of us. Two women both hoping for the same thing. For a returning. For answers.
I read the line again. I don’t get it. Sonoma’s ten times sharper at this, so my gaze lifts to her face.
“Do you see?” She touches the page. “Most people might not notice what she just said, but they’re waiting on the same thing. A returning. Answers.”
I squint at the paper. “Answers . . . answers . . . ?”
Sonoma smacks a palm to her forehead. Did she just roll her eyes at me? Her soft laugh confirms it. “Johnny. Edith Manchester was also left behind.”
The clue clicks into place, and I read it once more, this time seeing what Sonoma spotted. Two women waiting for someone to return. They wouldn’t be waiting on the same man, so it would have to be two different ones. “I think you’re right. Whoever it is that Edith was watching for, it certainly wasn’t her father. He was already gone. So, who was it? This Señor Tiago—er, Santiago?”
“Possibly.” Her eyes spark with the likelihood. “That’s where the photograph comes into play.” She pulls out a 5x7 of the shot I sent her of my house. She’s printed it in sepia tone, but the high res is clearly modern. Next, she opens up an old history book and turns to a marked page near the back. “Look at this photograph.”
The image is grainy and in the same golden tones. A group of men stand in front of a cabin, but the structure itself isn’t the focus of the picture. Only a portion of it is captured, and that is blocked by several men in front of it. I note the caption: Miners stand in front of the newly built cabin for town founder Harold Kenworthy, circa 1897.
There are no names listed. All of the men—four total—are white. I lean closer, searching for more significance. Searching for what Sonoma must see. Before I have to admit to being lost again, she slides forward yet another history book. It’s open to another old photograph. Same cabin. Only two men this time. One is white and one is native. The white man is staring at the camera, and the native man is standing tall and somber, except his eyes have drifted to something that’s behind the photographer. I’ve seen this photograph.
“Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions, but I’m thinking that if these two men were friends, then the woman that Juniper is referring to could be . . .” The wonder of it lights in her brown eyes. “Edith Manchester. Or perhaps Edith Del Sol.”
Wow, she’s good. When I say this, she beams. From the speakers, Tracy Chapman is slowly singing “The Promise” now, which means it’s got to be a CD playing.
“It’s in the details. It just takes time to find them. Nothing is certain, of course, but the clues might be lining up.”
I shake my head, amazed.
“Okay, are you ready for more?” she asks.
“Hit me with it.” I gotta admit, this is pretty fun.
She moves to another marker in the book. This photograph, while smaller, is the same one hanging in the historical society of the woman with the rifle. She’s tall and slender and peering back at us. Through the power of photography, this fiery gaze has somehow spanned more than a century.
Sonoma reads the caption aloud. “Edith Manchester, daughter of Reverend Carl Manchester, mercantile proprietors.”
Beside the image is a close-up of the woman’s face. As though the author of this history book decided to zoom in, clip out the landscape around her, her rustic manner of dress, even most of the shotgun. This focal point is simply of her face. The close-up is grainier, but it’s obvious that her skin is smooth and young. There are shadows under her eyes. That double-dog-dare-you look I noticed from a few months back is more complex than I first realized. Instead, the stoniness of this face might stem from a profound strength. “You said she lost two children by this point?”
Sonoma nods slowly. “If everything lines up as I think it does, she would have lost them both already before this photograph was taken.”
I lean closer to see the pinch between the woman’s eyes. It’s one of courage. One that’s hard wrought. Perhaps this woman had been fighting for it.
It’s a feeling I’ve known in ways. Our stories are different—our losses different—and I am saddened for her. It’s impossible not to respect this woman that I don’t even know. In fact, I’ve been so caught up in all this, my iced-tea glass has soaked condensation onto the knee of my jeans. I set the cup aside, swipe at the damp circle, and glance to the woman across from me. “This is really something.”
I examine Edith’s face again, grieved that she would have endured such an amount of pain. I think of Emily’s C-section—a modern procedure designed to keep mother and baby alive in dangerous circumstances. This woman wouldn’t have had such an option. Not even if she would have hoped for it. What would that have been like?
“I like to think that Edith could be my great-great-grandmother,” Sonoma says softly.
I lift my focus to her bittersweet expression. If that were the case, Sonoma would have less Cahuilla blood in her, not more, something that clearly holds value. “Why is that?”
She smiles softly and touches Edith’s picture with great care as she angles the book back toward herself. “Because if I am somehow a part of their family tree, it would have to mean only one thing.” Hope floods her face. Not for herself but for another. “It would mean that she eventually had a child that lived.”
Chapter 37
Juniper
April 1903
The ache of the heart can pulse as sharp as death itself. It’s a fighting toward life—and at times a losing battle that skirts the unlit paths of despair. Twining within it. The sun but a memory that can no longer be conjured. Victory—hope—dwells at its edges, and even in the in-between places, but it is a long wasteland to cross. That battle is pulsing inside Edie as she sits abed, staring out the window. Heated river stones have been placed against her hips, just atop a light blanket. The stones were brought by the Cahuilla women, warmed on the stove, and now curve round Edie’s body for healing and comfort as is their custom. Edie’s pale face and auburn hair are clean, as stark as fire and ice. Her pale hands rest limp at her sides. Her eyes rest unblinking on the snowy horizon. Her tears have quieted. She held her daughter for hours in the night, until Santiago finally coaxed the small body to his own.
Edie peered up at her husband with an ocean in her gaze and finally let go. And in his strong embrace, a tiny girl was ushere
d from her mother’s sight as must eventually be done. The sweet child looked to be slumbering in Santiago’s strong grip. Bundled in a knitted blanket, she lay nestled against his slit-top shirt, her face close to the span of his sinewy chest. Her lips were plump and perfect, and her feet so small and wrinkled.
I turn away from my friend now, so that she will not see my tears spilling again. Shame floods me that I ever declared my life unfair. Who am I to have ever complained? This moment, as Edie mourns the death of a child, it nearly brings me to my knees that I allowed bitterness to take root in my soul over my lot in life. God has been generous with me, and regret spreads that I did not acknowledge it sooner.
At the washstand, I swipe at my vision so that it clears enough to mix her up a tincture from the herbs the Cahuilla women brought. Two of them have returned home. They traveled speedily that night. A whole four miles on foot to be with the woman their nephew and cousin chose as his wife. To be with Santiago and the unborn babe. One, Santiago’s aunt, has stayed behind today. She is aged and wise and gentle.
As we work quietly, tending to comforts that can scarcely pierce the darkness for Edie, the old woman looks at me. I stir a teaspoon slowly around the cup, and when she pats my hand in loving assurance, we speak the same language. We long for the same things.
Chapter 38
Johnny
April
Kneeling in the barn, I slide open the bottom drawer of the file cabinet and pull out the real-estate file on the cabin. José’s due at noon to help me with some finish work on the barn loft, but nearly as pressing—and, surprisingly, as important to me—is that the Cahuilla heritage event is in just one week, including Sonoma’s genealogy presentation. I’m no expert, so there’s probably little I can do to help her, but I want to try. I dig past escrow docs and find a series of emails that were pertinent enough to the sale to be saved. I thumb through to a document from the sellers themselves. At the bottom of the email is the Cohens’ address and phone number in Wyoming. Hopefully it’s a current number. Only way to find out is typing the digits into my phone.
It rings twice, then there’s a raspy, elderly voice. “Hello?”
“Hello. I’m sorry to contact you out of the blue. This is Johnny Sutherland who purchased your house.”
“Oh. Hello, Mr. Sutherland.”
I glimpse the paper to confirm the correct first names for the Cohens—Lynn and Herb. “Thanks for taking my call so unexpectedly. Is this Lynn Cohen?”
“Yes, it is.”
“A pleasure, Mrs. Cohen. I don’t want to keep you long, but I have a question about the journal that was recently shipped to you. Did it arrive okay?”
“Safe and sound, and we appreciate you getting it home to us.” There’s a tenderness in the way she speaks of the old journal. One I understand now.
“It was my pleasure. It’s also the reason I’m calling.” I hook a thumb into the front pocket of my jeans. “I’m wondering if there’s any possible way of getting the answer to a research question.” I explain the details and, from where Mrs. Cohen is, hear a teaspoon rattle in a glass cup. It’s easy to envision her there in Wyoming, enjoying warm weather with iced tea. She listens as I explain about the history I’ve been learning—that she’s already versed in—and as I divulge Sonoma’s discoveries that pertain to Santiago Del Sol and possibly Edith Manchester, there is genuine interest in Mrs. Cohen’s voice as she offers her two cents.
That yes, she sees potential in the connection.
“So, you think it would be possible?” I ask.
“Certainly. But I know you don’t need my hunch. I’ll ask Herb and see if he has any ideas as well. He’s read John Cohen’s journal twice through now over the years, and I’ll have him reach out to you with any further insights on this man. He’s heading into the hospital this week for a routine procedure, but soon as he’s home and in recovery, I’m sure he’ll be on the job.” She goes quiet a moment. “We’ll do what we can to help. This is the number to reach you at?”
“Yes, please. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”
“It’s our pleasure, Mr. Sutherland. Thank you for taking such care of the cabin. We know it’s in good hands. Oh, and one thing about the journal.”
“Yeah?”
“There are some pages missing. About five—” She pauses a moment, and I hear her husband in the background. Mrs. Cohen chuckles. “Okay, Herb is telling me it’s six. They’ve been torn clean out. There was never any record or indication where they went, and according to the stories Herb heard from his parents as a child, the entries have been torn out so long as anyone has had the journal.”
I let that sink in a moment.
“It’s possible they were removed by John himself or someone in his family. We don’t know what the content would have been, so there is a missing piece to the story that will never be understood.”
I nod slowly. “Thanks for letting me know.” Interesting. And in all honesty, I guess I wouldn’t blame the guy. I don’t know that I would want the world to know everything I’d write down about my life. Whatever reason he—or one of his family members—had for tearing out those pages, it would have been significant.
“We’ll be in touch, Mr. Sutherland.”
“It’s been an honor, Mrs. Cohen.” Speaking the name, I realize I could have been expressing the sentiment to Juniper Cohen herself. “It’s been an absolute honor.”
When we end the call, I slide the real-estate file back into the cabinet and secure the drawer. I try to imagine John Cohen tearing pages from his journal. What secrets . . . what stories would those pages have held? Would he have crumpled them up and discarded them? Hidden them somewhere else? If they were worth removing, he likely destroyed them.
There’s a thought building, and it’s not even fully formed yet. Probably because I don’t want to give it full attention in my mind. To zoom in on the pieces—of what’s here and of what’s missing—would mean to consider a bleak moment in time.
Was it John Cohen who salted the Kenworthy mine?
The timing of it all combined with his disappearing adds up in ways, but there’s no evidence to point to it. Six pages torn from a journal and destroyed. What story did those pages tell? It’s a story that died with them . . . that died with time and the way a present eventually turns into a past. That’s the way life works, and it’s the mystery of it all.
No matter what, I don’t think harshly of John Cohen; this rabbit trail isn’t because I think little of him. Quite the contrary. I’m learning from him, from his family. I’m awed by them and the struggles they faced. The hardships they endured, and yes, even the choices they made. The thing about a bad decision is that there can be, with grace and wisdom, more to come. The other half is to remedy what was wronged. Was that ever done? Judging by the glimpses I’ve had into the past, it sounds like restoration came, which means that John Cohen reached the end of his life far from a coward, but a man who stood upon courage. He had a wife who did the same.
Slowly I shake my head, realizing how far my thoughts have wandered. It’s all just speculation, and I won’t pursue it any further. If John wished for those matters to lay buried, I respect the man enough to do the same. There’s no way of knowing, and the past certainly can’t be changed. But I’m reminded suddenly of what I can do . . .
At the house, I climb the stairs to my room and grab the new journal Micaela and Cameron gave me. I’ve yet to write the first entry, and it’s more than time. While my life doesn’t have the kind of intrigue that other journals from this cabin hold, I can at least begin documenting these days here at home. For your own Kenworthy story, my sister wrote.
After jotting down the date, I begin the first page, taking my time so that my writing is legible. I’m not used to writing in a journal, so the first few lines feel unnatural, but then a momentum hits. And as nearly an hour goes by, I’ve begun the start of a story that’s not only in full motion, but I have the honor of living it—hurts, hopes, and all.
Chapter 39
Juniper
April 1903
The baby is buried at the point in the land where the sun is last to touch each dusk. Well east of where Pipe Creek springs from the mountains. Here the ground is soft, the land protected from wind by the rocky hills that steeple above the valley. Pine trees rise on either side, plummeting down blankets of noontime shadows that will be cool in summer. It is a gentle place for so small a creature to rest. A place near enough for her mother to visit, to lay wildflowers down in the spring, and to peer out upon from the mercantile during winter months.
Wrapping the land—this hour—are dozens of people who have come to pay their respect. There are those of us who remain in Kenworthy, including Mrs. Parson and Oliver Conrad. Most of all are our Cahuilla neighbors who stand in honor of a grandchild to their deceased shaman. That shaman’s son is neither Señor Tiago to these people nor even Santiago Del Sol. He bears a name that I do not know. Today it is the name of his people. Of him having become a man amid this tribe in a language that roots right into this earth.
His fellow tribal men stand and sway as their deep voices cry out into the evening air. In their hands, rattles shake. Slender handles catch the glow of dusk, the round gourds filled with seeds, clattering out a rhythm to their melancholy songs. Bird singers, they are called. Singing the “bird songs” of the Cahuilla tribe. This is told to us by the Cahuilla cowboy beside us, soft and slow in patchy English.
So empty this town has become . . . so sparse its people . . . that we have not had a funeral since burying the reverend.
Now, all who call this land home stand in reverence of the child being lowered into the earth. Santiago is on his knees at the graveside, lowering the wooden casket himself. Edie huddles beside me, her body trembling with exhaustion, but most of all with grief. Beside me, John observes it all in silence. The bird singers grow quiet. Wooden rattles still.
The Gold in These Hills Page 24