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

Mr. Bleu, I’m an absolute dunce. I should have looked closely, taken my time with them. I broke my quickly given promise.

James dropped the note to his lap, swiped one hand across his mouth. She was apologizing? He read on...

I am sorry. What can I do to repair what I’ve done? Without knowing how the pieces fit, I endeavor to live at peace with my family. But you, Mr. Bleu, hold all the cards to your chest. I don’t know why it is difficult for you to share your past business with my father or why Uncle shouldn’t know everything as well. Or why you have been in the thick of my farm ownership at all, unless Uncle truly needs a keen financial eye. This must be the case.

I want you to know that while I greatly desire the truth, I will let the issue lie. I have given this frustration to God. I don’t say this to be pious. If you have done wrong, He will take care of it. But I don’t believe you have done wrong. Not at all. Which leaves me with the opposite suspicion. You must have done something right.

His heart beat faster.

Lastly, I want to thank you for standing in the gap and helping Uncle navigate my ownership. I’ve been angry about that too, but I see now that you have been a devoted friend to him and—I dare say—me as well. My arrival must have set you both to wondering what a stranger would do. You’ve been far more patient than me.

Sincerely, Dorothy Trafton

Guilt spread over him like an unnaturally heavy quilt. He had not been as patient as she’d declared. Hardly. Yet he’d seen the sheer grief that stunned her features when she didn’t know anyone was looking. Shock at learning she owned the land, a twist in her wound when she learned of her mother’s past. He knew the pain that life-changing events brought. How had he not been more compassionate? More understanding. More observant of her grief. Instead he’d been selfish. Worried about his scars and her reaction to him than what she was going through.

If she only knew. She’d be furious if she found out he took her father’s box of business papers. Should’ve refused Hammond’s foolish request. They needed her trust. She should be able to trust them also.

She wonders why he’d chosen to give her the pocket knife? Guilt, mostly. And the message on the blade. An everyday tool beautified by inlay and silver. Her life may bear a more rustic outlook on the farm instead of the city, but he believed it possible to guild one’s future with purpose. Make it shine with intent. But how to say this to her? Wasn’t his place.

Might never be.

He read the letter again—slowly—and stuffed it back into the envelope. Deep in the desk drawer. He picked up his guitar, his fingers finding the music without thought. Played until his eyes blurred with exhaustion in the dim lamplight.

Chapter 15

APRIL 2, 1880

Black snakes have been nesting in the root cellar. Ernest killed them enthusiastically with a hoe while he assured me that they were quite harmless. I don’t agree. Snakes are cursed. Anything that bites and slithers is wretched. He tells me they eat mice and are good for the farm. I remain unconvinced.

Perhaps I am the one that is not good for this place. I wonder if Mr. Bleu has received my letter? I had to find a way to mail it secretly when last in town. I know Uncle wouldn’t have approved me writing to a single man, though he is a dear family friend.

I’ve carried Abraham Birch’s sketchbook to his grave site and sketched his head stone on the final empty page of his book. How ironic. I added the smaller headstones of my half siblings, grouped as though resting within their father’s arms.

I’m trying to make peace with him, or rather, his existence in Mother’s life. After all, he lived first. Should I be thankful he died so that Mother could marry Father? If he had not died, I would not exist. He most certainly did not die for this reason, though I must believe God did indeed make me with purpose. Odd to think that my life came from his death.

Here I am, parroting again. I can almost feel my wings flapping! My parents have always told me I was made with a purpose. A brief purpose or a lengthy one? As always, time will tell. I simply can’t believe that Mother and Father’s fleeting life—or Mr. Birch’s life—or my own life—account for nothing more than another’s short memory.

I’ve been pouring over his sketchbook. If I were a mother, I might count these farm life tidbits as precious. He was terribly precise—the smallest nail on a post, ivy tendrils that creep up buildings—coupled with the small quotes and poetry lines.  So sweet and romantic.

There is a sketch of mother in a sunbonnet. Those youthful, hope-filled eyes stared back at me. Dreamy and unknowing. I felt a flash of fear for her future, but it dissipated in the sunlight. I thought of only the hard times, and truthfully, my growing up years were good and she was contented. We’d been the best of friends. I peered back at her face again, this time thinking of who she is—where she is—now at this very moment. Happier than the happiness I’ve ever encountered. The youthful sparkle back in her eyes. It must be true.

I wonder if I have the same sparkle? When I look in the mirror, I only see a girl that doesn’t much like looking at herself for fear her soul might leak through her carefully mending heart.

I MADE USE OF MY KNIFE today. Perfect for opening letters. Likely not what Mr. Bleu had in mind. Was I supposed to whittle like a mountain man with it? Anyway, I