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

James led her down the hallway, unwilling to answer. Only one reason—guilt.

Footsteps came up the stairway. Ruth, Ernest, and Aunt peered in. Ernest looked troubled, and Aunt’s forehead covered in worry lines. “He’s loaded in the wagon. Best get home.”

He followed them down the front steps and grasped Dorothy’s hand.

“Thank you,” she whispered. Her eyes contained pools of knowledge, her lips poised for caution.

He could trust her.

Chapter 20

MAY 15, 1880, EVENING

I can’t possibly sleep. Mr. Bleu helped save this farm! My farm. I knew he’d done something good for Uncle, I just didn’t know what. Did he and my father join funds for this venture? How much money did he spend seeing my Uncle safely secure for the sake of the family?

Mr. Bleu’s initial worries are finally understandable. He must carry a sense of ownership, protection. I wonder why my parents did not tell me. Why the secrets? True, mother had begged me to come here for a visit. No promises of revelation. But with no forthcoming information. Would I have been more interested knowing that Father owned this place?

When I think back to the days before their deaths—their profound grinding sickness. Their bodies were wracked with fever, hallucinations haunted them. The doctor and nurses worked tirelessly. Lucid moments were rare. They knew. But I refused to believe them. Refused to acknowledge death’s nearness.

I busied myself brewing broth, boiling linen, and wasting their final precious moments. Perhaps Father would have told me if I had stayed by his bedside. How can they have gone together? And now I own the farm that was never meant for me. Perhaps it wasn’t Father’s parting gift after all.

Mr. Bleu. His home is lovely! Red brick with Italianate windows. A small balcony. As if the home could be a small mansion, but not nearly as pretentious as Cedar Gate. His home is elegant yet understated. A welcoming feeling. I enjoyed our luncheon there until Uncle’s near fatal overreaction—positively shocking! His childish fit has spilled out over that perfect and quiet home, sullying the fine day we’d been having. How can I sweep this out of my mind? I wonder how much Aunt knows, and my cousins?

Father’s box of papers yet sits at Mr. Bleu’s home. Perhaps it is safer there. But what is left? Evidence of his goodness is burned. I still have to trust him. But Uncle? Mr. Bleu may have burned some letters, but Uncle has burned our hearts. How does one recover from an injustice? How can I keep from being callous to his condition?

Uncle Hammond has jumped to outrageous conclusions. And has been a bit underhanded concerning Father’s business papers. Mr. Bleu at least confessed and apologized. Such accusations against him! What fury! To marry me is betrayal to the family? I blush at the thought of marriage, but surely, they cannot expect me to remain a single woman. The farm will eventually go to my future spouse, whoever that may be. I am tempted to hand the deed right over to him and walk away from this place forever. Has it only been days since I appreciated this dear family that gathered around its glowing hearth?

Ernest has begged to know what happened. He senses that all is not right. I told him to talk to his father about it, and his face dropped. How can I tell him how strangely Uncle behaved? And that his sickness resulted from unfounded anger...

The wind has picked up tonight, the warm air is being chased away by cooler winds and whistles through every crevice. A branch tapped my window. I suppose I should turn down the lamp and get some rest, but my eyes are wide open. As though I’m waiting for something.

I heard little Ruby wailing downstairs. The boys paced back and forth for hours—perhaps afraid to show their fear of an impending storm?

I closed my eyes for a second, just to pray. To let God know that I can recall my parent’s death without anger. And to thank Him for Mother’s shawl that wraps my shoulders.  This soft crimson wool feels like her gentle hug and God’s presence all at once. I can’t explain that, but despite the terrible ending to this day, He’s with me. This I know.

My thoughts turned to Mr. Bleu again, so I have prayed for him too. Mustn’t leave out Uncle, no matter how disappointed I am in him.

MAY 16, 1880

Destruction. How could I know that the whirring, whipping wind would gather in a cyclone and destroy my home? Yesterday’s trauma has not left me, and the night’s wind and rain still assault.

This place I called home for the past three months, this farm, is destroyed. I count myself and my cousins blessed to be alive. Aunt is well enough, but seems to skate through the debris ghostlike. Uncle is unwell. He made it to the root cellar in time, for Aunt and Uncle’s bedroom is decimated. Where is the bedframe? The mattress? Half the kitchen is splintered around the cast iron stove. Dishes lay about, some whole, others fractured into a million bits.

The upstairs rooms are intact, but I am uneasy about climbing a stair with the open world on the other side of it. Uncle rests on Helen and Kirsten’s bed, though his eyes are wide in shock. He cradles a cup of tea on his broad chest and refuses to look at me or answer my kind queries. As if I had brought the tornado down on this land.

The barn is flattened and five dead horses lay side by side. Some of the foals and colts survived and scamper about looking for a patch of grass to nibble on. So soon they forget the stable that housed them, the terror of the night.

Ernest does not hide his tears but lets them fall like a summer rain. And like the summer rain, I foresee that those tears will help him regrow this place. His younger brothers are wild with wonder.