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

Perhaps blaming Mr. Bleu for my lie isn’t fair. But he stood there seething at me. As if I cause spiders to walk on eight legs and invade happy homes. Sad to confess, but he was truly caught in a web of my own making. Wanting to know which book he had and nosing around has caused him pain. He now lies on his cot, somewhere in this house with a pack of snow on his eye. He likely isn’t able to read that monstrous volume at the moment.

The boys all thought it fun. Ernest just wanted to know what the spider looked like. My description confused him, “Black with red and yellow spots—no, some white by the head—and the front legs were curved a little...” and failed to match any found in the arthropods manual. Of course, they would have an arthropod manual! This made for the rest of the evening’s entertainment.

Aunt betook herself to the kitchen with the little ones, not willing to risk a spider bite on any sweet hands. Uncle declared, “Must’ve come in on the firewood...” Helen and Kirsten skirted out and up the stairs into their shared bed for the remainder of their card game. They invited me to join them, but my gloom and guilt prevailed. Sadly, this was misunderstood for grief—and while the pain is still very real—I am too wrapped in my own shame to do anything pleasant at the moment. Even learning forbidden cards.

It’s been way too long since I’ve enjoyed myself with friends, sitting on a bed—laughing and dreaming. However, I worked especially hard today. My back aches from ironing and my hands have chapped regardless of my warm situation inside by the stove. Beeswax balm, my pen, my room—none of them make up for my stupidity. At least I’ll be able to sleep soundly tonight. Weary as I am.

JAMES SEETHED BENEATH the snow pack. His head ached and his eye poked unmercifully. Heavens, that girl is trouble. He wasn’t sure how it happened. One minute he was quietly reading his book, the next she stared blank-faced at him.

Before a retort had surfaced, she’d screamed over a spider and a shoe went sailing into his face. He had plenty of retorts in mind for her. Clever ones. Next time, he’d use one and see if she ever stared at him like that again. In fact, he was certain there wasn’t even a spider. Her description was ludicrous. Hammond believed her, no doubt.

Well, he knew one fact. If she was deceptive about small things, she was capable of lying about the big ones. Not only was she emotionally unstable, she might not be trustworthy.

No question. He was right.

Snow dripped down his face and onto his pillow. He tossed the whole lot aside and willed himself to sleep. These were going to be a long few weeks. How to handle Dorothy? He folded his hands across his chest and petitioned God.

Chapter 9

MARCH 2, 1880

The spider incident is forgotten. Mr. Bleu looks no worse for the wear this morning. I expected to publicly repent and not feel at peace until then. I could hardly swallow my oatmeal for the impending judgment of the ridiculous spider-lie. God has had mercy on me. Private repentance must have been sufficient. No one said a word about it, neither did I.

Aunt lit a thick, yellow wax candle standing in a cracked willow plate. She said the kitchen needed brightening and we would likely have a dark, rainy day. “Good thing it didn’t rain yesterday.”

I wondered what a rainy day on a farm was good for. When I peeked out the back door this morning, I smelled the chicken coop on the upwind, followed by pig’s manure. The pigs are closer to the house than the cows. The melting snow is soggy brown. Its beauty completely lost.

I addressed Mr. Bleu. “When do you return to your own home?” I added what I thought must be a pleasant smile. I needed his snide presence to leave me be.

“Not for another week yet.”

“Solitude too dull for you, living alone?” I wished I had not said that aloud.

“No, but the mares are too great for me to leave.”

“What do you mean?”

“What?” He bit back.

Ernest cut in, “Foaling. Seven of our mares are about to give birth.”

Aunt blushed and swatted Ernest with a dishtowel. “She’s not used to such talk.”

“She needs to study-up if she’s going to stay on,” said Mr. Bleu.

“Baby horses?” I must have seemed silly.

“Colts and fillies.” Ernest smiled wide. “Best time of the year.”

“Can I have one?” Oh, where are my manners? Why did I behave in such a childlike way? In two months, all of them were mine. I needed to tread carefully.

“I want one too!” Little Ruby spoke out, a ray of sunshine to my heart. Why shouldn’t we all want baby horses? Colts or fillies, I mean.

Mr. Bleu let out an exasperated sigh.

Uncle nodded and lifted his eyes to mine. “You should choose one. Most definitely.” He sipped his coffee and added, “The others must be sold, but we will spare one for you.”

“Only if convenient...”

“Can you ride?” Helen asked.

“No. I always take the tram car. Or walk.”

Helen spoke with her mouth full. “I’ve never been on a tram.”

“I’ll take you sometime.”

“Me too!” Henry piped in. The other two boys looked as jealous as King Saul. Didn’t take a genius to figure out that they desired a horse far more than I did. I’ve never wanted one, but the thought of petting a foal seemed irresistible. Why not go ahead and claim one? I usurped their greatest want by a vain, fleeting idea. Now I was to have a horse and likely the boys’ hatred. All in one morning.

“Sell the horse.” I was not about to put up with their simmering disappointment. I have enough guilt already. “It was a foolish request.”

“No, no. You shall have the horse of your choice. Won’t take