The Gold in These Hills by Joanne Bischof

Author:Joanne Bischof
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Thomas Nelson
Published: 2021-08-30T00:00:00+00:00

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.

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