Of Needles and Haystacks by Ann Fryer (interesting novels to read .TXT) 📗

me and I knew I was more like the flitting moth drawn to the fire and not the first human to discover it.

“Reckon it nothing but joy, my brethren, whenever you find yourselves hedged in by various trials. Be sure that the testing of your faith leads to power of endurance. Only let endurance have perfect results so that you may become perfect and complete, deficient in nothing...James 1:2-3”

Hedged in? Yes, I reckon I am that. The minister said these words amid the calm pools of candlelight. These words dropped like a soft rain, though I resisted the initial impact. I soaked them in because my spirit had been like parched ground and I would have been mad to refuse what I desperately needed. Joy and endurance might thrive together in my heart! God grant me joy because I cannot conjure any on my own.

This particular Sunday, I believe, will always stand out in my memory as a contrast of darks and lights. The lights have stayed with me even now as I write, and gaze upon my oil lamp’s flame, remembering. Glimmering. Like hope—perhaps?

After the last hymn, Mr. Bleu ushered us to the wagon without any friendly introductions. I suppose this honor shall wait for Aunt.

When we returned, Uncle and Aunt served a feast fit for the Queen. Ernest sat at the table, supported by a few parlor cushions.  I walked over and he took my hand, “You’re a grand cousin, alright.” At that moment, I understood something. This farm was his birthright. He should have inherited, not me.

Debts are inglorious. They smother. Debtors don’t want a warehouse full of furnishings, hay rakes, cows and pigs from those who couldn’t manage to pay what they owed.

Aunt sniffed and pulled out my chair. She had been crying again. Uncle prayed such a prayer of gratefulness. I knew I would never take back my promise. I’m not sure what to make of this indebtedness. I want a family, not servants.

Chapter 8

MARCH 1, 1880

What does one do when waking up yet again to the knowledge that she has indeed inherited a great deal of property—or is about to? My birthday must be a looming event for poor Uncle. He’s invested an entire life into this acreage and livestock. Feels like Pilgrim’s back-breaking burden to me. If I had my way, I’d unlatch it and watch it roll down a steep hill into a forgotten abyss. Transplant the family to town. But this place is my father’s last gift to me. And wasn’t Mother’s constant hope that I would visit and know her home?

Looking at this issue with open eyes, I see my father handing me my mother’s very heart. I must not compare this farm to burdensome sin though. It isn’t as if I couldn’t love this place. I already hold some affection for it, as one might for a pastoral painting. Now I must jump into this painting like Alice in her looking glass and experience it. I must own this farm. Dirt under my nails and a tan on my face. Perhaps I, too, will become silent at supper from the daily exertion.

Once again, I must go down to breakfast and look everyone in the eye as this new person. Not the bereaved, homeless cousin, but the girl that regrettably holds sway over their father. I don’t believe fathers should be demoted in such a way. But what am I to do? If Uncle’s  problems were of his own making...

And what if Uncle, hard worker though he is, makes poor choices concerning money? I sneer at myself. Me, who squandered the last bits of my money on sweets and books in order to fill a potential void. Oh, Father and Mother, what have you given me? Pandora’s box is more tempting. Another ridiculous exaggeration. I’ve got to muster some of that hope I held yesterday! Some thankfulness. I smell bacon sizzling. Yes, I can surely be thankful for that.

Ah, my heart is ten times lighter after talking with Aunt and Ernest this morn. Good Aunt saw my wrinkled brow. I didn’t know until she asked about it. I must watch my melancholic ways so that my inner workings are not so transparent. All the same, I am glad my anxiety was exposed this once.

There is nothing quite like an understanding embrace. After I’d swallowed my last drink of coffee—I can’t wait to buy tea—Uncle, Mr. Bleu, and the boys left to check on the horses. I busily scraped bacon bits and grease that had settled in the bottom of the iron skillet. Aunt put her arm around me and most directly said, “This must be a great surprise to you. I can’t imagine being in your shoes. Are you very angry with us?” She shook her head, “No, I can see that you are not.”

“I never knew, Aunt. I came here honestly needing a home.” I have to admit, her directness made me just a tad uncomfortable.

“And a home you shall have, as much as I can give you one.” She gave me a squeeze. “Don’t let this place burden you, Dorothy. I have learned that all things in this earth belong to God. He will take care of us.”

I confess, the thought of actually taking care of this family myself had never crossed my mind. Control of the farm, yes, the livelihood of eleven? Certainly not.

Ernest leaned forward on a cushion, listening. We are closest in age, but I believe he the farthest along in wisdom. I feel the fool next to this would-be prince. He should have the throne, not I. Have I not read that God uses the foolish things of the world to confound the wise? I am the fool-thing, I am confounded as well. I’ve also read that He sets kings in their places. And if he sets kings, he must set the queens as well.

Ernest smiled handsomely, peace lighting his face. “I’ve known for a few years about your inheritance, Dorothy. Father