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

Providence. I’d asked God for a harvest of good things. His ways confuse me. How can one move past the pain if bad things keep happening? If I’m honest with myself, I do sense goodness. Like the scent of fried doughnuts that cling to my clothing, goodness is here. I cannot explain or deny it.

I wondered where Helen and Kirsten were. “My cousins aren’t coming?”

“No amount of begging worked. I wonder if I put them off somehow. Maybe at the gala?” She looked to me for answers.

“No, I’m sure they would love being here. Perhaps they are overcome with emotion  about their father and will show up tomorrow.” I hoped to hide my apprehension. Their actions spoke clearly.

“Yes. You are right—that must be it. They’ll wake up sore and cramped from having to sleep on the floor rugs and change their minds right quick.” She rubbed her neck. A memory? “At any rate, you are here. Absolutely providential.”

There was that word again. What could she mean? “Do you need me for something? Short on staff? I am as capable as any housewife.”

“Oh no. I’ve plenty help, though we all try to help each other around here.” She paused for a moment, considering. “I’ve been lonely for a friend.”

I wondered how such a woman might be lonely. But only briefly. Wealth often built walls.

She continued, “You know, I never had a daughter.”

My breath caught. She couldn’t take my mother’s place. I scarcely knew this woman except for the tea we’d shared two months ago.

The grandfather clock chimed from within. We rose and I took refuge in my room.

JAMES NEARLY SWALLOWED the doughnut whole. Hunger still gnawed. He’d spent the entire day sifting through anything that might be saved—and setting aside every item belonging to Dorothy. Another mound for Hammond and his family.

Debris had been hauled off quickly and splintered wood had been stacked for reuse. Most of it only good for kindling. He mentally calculated supplies he had remaining from building his house. Not near enough to patch up this place. They’d have to choose a few trees and start from scratch.

He bent to pick up a nail protruding from the mud.

Ernest waved him over. His sisters drooped side by side, their sun bonnets doing little to cover their dark, sleep deprived eyes. How long had it been since they’d slept?

Ernest gripped one hand around a shovel. “Please tell them to go on to Cedar Gate.”

Helen and Kirsten stood with arms folded, stubborn resolve. Helen spoke. “You and Dorothy did something to Papa.”

“Helen! Don’t talk about things you don’t understand.” Ernest’s face grew red.

“I assure you that I’d do anything for your father. He is mistaken, that is all. Now. Why don’t you both go enjoy a month at Cedar Gate? I can’t think of a finer place to be stranded. And Dorothy’s there. She needs her family right now.”

“No, thank you.” Kirsten murmured.

“You won’t even go for Dorothy?” Ernest pled.

The girls looked at each other, then back at James. “We are staying with Papa.”

Ernest picked up a box of books. “Then get on with ya. I’ve got work to do. Make your own way to town.”

James pitched the nail in a nearby bucket. Hammond’s accusation that he’d court Dorothy to get the land for himself had been shocking. Where had that suspicion come from? He’d never take this farm from his friend, even if he...James sucked in a breath. Those thoughts weren’t even plausible. He absentmindedly rubbed his hand over his scarred chin.

He had done everything in his power to save this place. But Hammond didn’t know that.

Perhaps Hammond was right to be a little afraid. What’s to keep another fellow from making Dorothy their bride? Not even she could stop what her future husband might want to do with the land.

James turned his face to the setting sun, letting its warm rays wash over him. He couldn’t anticipate the future. But he could acknowledge his Maker and follow the path cut for him. Let go of his worry.

He’d ride on home to Ruth’s cooking. He’d check on Dorothy in the morning—take her some things. Then pay a visit to Hammond.

MAY 16, 1880, EVENING

Dinner here at Cedar Gate is more formal than at the farm, or at home for that matter. I am happy to say that there is actual conversation during the meal! Philip and Chess had changed from their coveralls and into dinner jackets, though weariness hung about them after laboring all day.

Mr. MacDonald questioned them about the damage as they ate, answering back with a grunt or a thoughtful “hmm.” His concern was endearing. This quiet, bearded man said something to Mrs. MacDonald. I failed to hear the topic but, but she nodded and lent me a polite smile.

Philip spoke of the colts and foals. Chess agreed. “We’ll buy them and that will help Mr. Hammond. Bleu won’t think twice about letting his share go.”

Mr. MacDonald raised his water glass. “They’ll bring a fair price at auction.”

Chess grinned her direction. “What do you say, Miss Trafton?”

“I know nothing of such things, though I am sorry they must be sold sooner than planned. Has Uncle agreed?”

Chess cocked his chin forward. “He’ll have to. I hate to say it, but your farm’s only going to survive if the planting gets in. Tobacco’s going to be your best bet. Forget the berry crops.”

“Tobacco?”

Mrs. MacDonald passed around a celery dish. “Don’t forget the cattle. They are safe are they not?”

Chess nodded. “Still, he’ll have to sell them. Fences are right torn up.”

My first peaceful glimpses of the beautiful farm drowned in economics and numbers. And tensions they knew nothing about. I smiled and politely nodded as any ignorant city girl must of course do.

Philip laid down his fork. “Miss Trafton, do you play cards?”

Philip, Chess, and I played for nearly two hours. I have not laughed so much in a long time, how those two banter back and forth! I confess I enjoyed myself immensely. Their