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

Mr. Birch from his family, yet they had never lived here. Had it always sat empty and waiting for occupants?

I can’t decide what to do with it. Its abandoned aura left me feeling emptiness in a desolate, friendless way. A hopeless way. A Fatherless way. It held no cheerful thought captive. I wanted to escape and edged back to the road without thinking.

Mr. Bleu caught up with me. Ernest straggled behind, hiking stick keeping time with his dusty steps.

“I always imagined a ruin to be romantic—” When I’d emptied my parent’s house, there was still a homey air about it. Grieved as I’ve been to leave it, this house hadn’t held stories or love in it for a very long time.

“A house can be grand, full of costly things and still be forlorn...” He spoke as if remembering. I did not push for more.

What was in my heart at that moment was a gaining trust in the man that walked beside me. I felt at home by his side. This is hard to admit. To put ink to paper in one’s very own singular handwriting makes me more certain of myself than I ever expected to be. And then begins the cycle of hope and fear and hope and fear. Prayer is my only reprieve.

JAMES EYED THE METAL box of business papers. He needed to return them. They sat, mocking him for thievery. His dishonesty. How did he fall into Hammond’s desires so readily? Fine thing for a thirteen-year-old boy to do what he’s told on the battlefield. But a thirty-year-old man needed to stand up for his convictions. Hammond’s simple fears had tipped in James’ favor and so this deed turned sour. Obedience is better than sacrifice. It had been obedience to start with. No question about that.

But his secret had to be protected. As did Hammond himself. But so did Dorothy. Too many tangled strings. How did a good deed turn into suspicion and derision? The truth would yet teeter on the edge again.

Dorothy being marriageable, well, that complicated everything. Hammond needed security. Needed protection. Help for the man to be secure in raising his family after enduring war. And God help him, he had to tell the truth at some point. When?

His thoughts drifted back to Dorothy. He sensed resolve around her. Joy began to show around her eyes. Time, sunshine, blooms. Healing. If only she could be his. He brushed that thought away reluctantly. As he’d practiced many times before. An unbidden tear slipped down his scars.

He grabbed the box and headed to Hammonds.

He turned around five minutes later and shoved the box under his desk and sat in his chair with an annoyed “humph.” He pulled it back out again, did what he should have done the moment his guilt accosted him. “God, I repent of this.” Dorothy’s trusting eyes rose in his thoughts, shadowed by a fear that only love could dash away.

Her request and his promise that he’d not keep secrets from her nagged at his spirit. He knew God was giving him a directive. Repentance always bred instant relief. He’d not be allowed to sit on this one. How much would she hate him as a result? He tried to pray against her anger, but his words pinged against the ceiling and dropped again into his lap. How she responded was between herself and God.

The details of what he must do grew in his mind and began to weigh on him. Suppose he told her everything? What if she told Hammond? What Lord? Tension squeezed up his neck and into his eyes until all he could do was look upward, turn away from his murky fears.

The whole family was coming in a few days. He’d be ready by then. He’d have to be.

Chapter 19

MAY 15, 1880

I woke extra early and my stomach growls for oats and sausages and toast and a large pot of tea. One would take me for a horse.

When we left that decrepit house, it was as if I was choosing to walk away from death itself. Journeying alongside Mr. Bleu towards home gave me such a sense of rightness that I did not want to look back any more. Knew I must not. Rather I should slam shut the graves and caskets of my mind and look to the Resurrection and Life instead. Death takes only a moment. A flash. A crossing from one life to the next. From light to light.

I must abide in living thoughts, words, and works. My parents died, but they are alive. I refuse any chain that binds my heart to a moldering grave.

In three hours, we make our way to Mr. Bleu’s farm. I will not be wearing black.

RUTH HAD BEEN IN THE kitchen since the wee hours of the morning. Giving a luncheon for twelve was no small task but James didn’t feel sorry for her. She relished creating the fine dishes she’d been known for in her slavery days. An odd mix of thought, for sure. For while she’d worked most of her life for a cruel man, she’d been exposed to rich food and learned priceless recipes. A kind of grace that had helped her through the thorny side of her situation. As a freewoman, her work was confined to mostly plain cooking. But this was an opportunity to shine.

James grinned. She was singing at the top of her lungs. If he weren’t so reserved, he’d join her. Soon, he’d be free of a burden as well.

“Mornin’ Ruth!”

She swirled to his greeting. Brightness flashed from her eyes, a toothy smile followed. “Cut your own bread, spread your own jam too. But I gots yer coffee.” She lifted the pot and poured his cup, fresh and steaming.

“Anything I can do for you after I eat?”

“Firewood,” she held up her fingers, “two armfuls.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He lifted his coffee and inspected the dining room.

He’d set the china himself the night before on a stretch of plain