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

James shook his head.

“Ever since his debts...” Ernest didn’t finish. He tried again. “I don’t know how he got into the mess, but we were managing, then all of a sudden, our account had emptied and letters started showing up saying how much we owed. Dad didn’t know it, but I sneaked and read the bills. I figured if I was going to run this place one day, I needed to know a thing or two.”

James breathed deep and slow.

“And then Dad’s sister wanted to help. Right kind of her. And now, we might lose our living after all. Not sure I can do this alone.” He shrugged. “Tom and Henry aren’t near old enough to do the work of a man.”

“I’ll help you all I can, Ernest. I promise.”

“Ah, you got your own farm to run.”

“Philip and Chess come see you today?”

“Philip worked all day, like a regular mule.” Ernest cast his eyes down, humbled but thankful.

“We aim to help you get up three acres of tobacco at least.” James gripped his reins. If needed, he’d hire an extra man to see this family through.

“We collected enough seed last year. Was going to sell some, but I reckon we’re going to need it.”

“Let’s get the fields ready first. Finish the house after planting.” James caught Ernest’s flinch. “That is, if you think it best.”

“I’ll feel a lot better when Dad does.”

James patted his horse. “We all will.”

MAY 18, 1880, EVENING

My cheeks burn for now I know. But what can I do? How can I order my life as if nothing has happened?

For nearly two hours I’ve been sitting by lamplight on the floor, sorting through Father’s box. Pandora’s box, that is! I tried not to see Uncle’s red, furious face gasping for air. Has he guessed at James’ kindness? If he has, how dare he be so...so...

Anyhow, I lifted the latch and found a note from James inside, reiterating his apology. He never should have taken it. Shows how a lie can eat a body, even with the best of intentions. And then I found what I could scarce believe. James had, to the best of his ability, rewritten the letters that he’d burned!  Each line detailing how much the farm needed financially to survive and its worth. I confess myself taken aback. I had no idea of the value of my inheritance. I still wonder at how my father was able to come up with such a sum. It soon became clear.

I organized each receipt, every message. Lots of banking words I am not accustomed to, but I did get a sense of what was going on. And then came the agonizing moment of truth.

Father paid some of Hammond’s debts. Is this the money that James had borrowed? To help pay for debts? I slid a receipt from an envelope and found another tucked inside. A deposit. A very large deposit in the exact value of the farm. Wouldn’t Father need to deposit it elsewhere if he were purchasing? And then a cancelled check slid out. Mr. Bleu’s unmistakable script, also in the exact amount Father had deposited. I held these hot coals of truth. Mr. Bleu had paid for everything. Entirely. I think. But I need to go over these details again to be sure...

Chapter 23

JAMES WORE A SHIRT soaked in sweat. Branches lay in a tall heap. Henry and Tom pitched in, each with a hatchet chopping the branches into small bundles—good for the cook stove.

Ernest took a long drink.

James took a swig out of his own canteen. “It’s shameful that no one has bothered to visit Dorothy at Cedar Gate.”

“They haven’t?” Ernest frowned and looked off towards town.

“Might be good for you to visit her—show her that some family still cares about her.”

“I’ve a mind to visit my sisters and give them a talking to. Not that it would do any good! Scarcely ever listen to a word I say. ‘Sides. I got all this work to do.”  He gazed down the length of the tree, pain swept his countenance.

“You can’t help what they do, Ernest, but you can certainly be the friend Dorothy needs.”

“Haven’t you been to see ‘er?”

James thumped a finger on Ernest’s chest, ire rising. “I’m not her family.”

Ernest shrugged. “Feels like you are. I’ll take the time. I’ll go. You’re right. It’s just downright embarrassin’. Easier to ignore it and keep workin’.”

They labored for an hour more when James nearly let his axe slip off the side of the fallen poplar.

Dorothy stood like a grave apparition a few feet away, unmoving, unspeaking in a brown walking dress—her hair shining in the midday sun.

“For land sakes, you spooked me, Miss Trafton.” She’d saved Ernest a trip.

She offered a light smile. Ernest yanked his shirt on and went to her.

“I wanted to see how the rebuilding is progressing. I know you must be working night and day.”

What was that she carried? Did he smell cinnamon?”

Ernest pointed to the long trees. “These here will give us enough lumber to patch up what’s left of the house. Need to chop down a few more if Mom’s going to have her kitchen again.”

James joined in. “We’ll take them to the saw-mill tomorrow. You’ll be back home in no time.”

Dorothy nodded lightly, avoided his gaze. “Thank you for bringing the box yesterday.” Ah. She looked at him, color rising to her cheeks. He couldn’t look away.

She held out a lunch pail. “Mrs. MacDonald and I made a batch of molasses cookies this morning. Thought you and the boys might like them.”

A blue checkered napkin peeked from the pail. She lifted a corner. “Henry, Tom! Wash up and I’ll let you have some.”

The boys skittered down to the creek. James laughed. “They don’t know we’ve a bucket of water right here.”

She handed over the pail. “I’ll let you dole them out.”

He could eat the whole lot of them.  He inhaled the spices—better than gold.

MAY 21, 1880

I didn’t mind the lonesome walk to