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

his eyes. He mixed sugar and bourbon for when the bleeding finally stopped. If only Ruth had stayed today! He bit his tongue to keep from gagging. Too much blood. He lifted her hand from the water to pat it dry. Such a nasty cut.

He reached for box of sterilized cloth bandages, took a square and pressed it tightly against her wound, cradling her small hand in his much larger one. “Are you alright?” His steady voice hiding the inner struggle.

“I’m going to be sick,” she whispered.

“Hang in there.” He propped her hand on the table and rifled around in the cabinet. Ginger candy was never far away. “Here, open up.” Her eyes blinked and she reached with her left hand. “Suck on this.” She did as she was told. He gathered her wounded hand back into his and pressed the cloth tightly. “You take a little rest.”

Her shoulders heaved slightly. She sniffed. She cried softly in the very place he’d boiled over with discouragement. His eyes smarted at the thought. He bent over her hand, marveling that he’d not keeled over before he could help. Thank God.

Her breathing slowed down and hair spilled out from her braided bun. Had she fainted? He gently placed her hand back on the table.

Startled, she lifted her head, looked at him with blurry eyes. “Life is terrible.”

He pondered the statement. At her age, life ought to be unstifled hope. Laughter and smiles. Ought to be. “This is going to sting.” He gave the sugar bourbon a little swirl and began spooning the mixture onto the cuts.  She grimaced. “Throbbing, is it? Here. Drink the rest.”

She choked down the strong alcohol that burned a path down her throat. “How did you ever bear your wounds?” She bent her head again. “This is nothing compared to yours.”

“I didn’t bear them. Screamed like a baby.” The soldiers told him there was no shame in it. He’d heard hollerin’ aplenty when limbs were removed.

He snatched a ginger candy for himself and took the stitching needle between his thumb and forefinger. “Keep your head turned, please.” God help me. He made a few tiny stitches. A calm surrounded him and held him steady, even when she whimpered.

He exhaled when every stitch was perfect and tied off neatly. “There now.” He wrapped layers of cotton around her hand.

She blinked slowly and asked, “How long did your wounds take to heal?”

He gave her wrapped hand back to her. “Forever.”

No more questions. He went to the stove, thankful the boiling water was ready. What she needed most was a perfect cup of tea. How else to show he cared? He feared she hadn’t believed him the other night. Losh, he didn’t want to think about it. Hammond had yet to find out. He’d sworn the MacDonald’s to secrecy until he could find a way to let the rest of them know.

He’d take Dorothy home, and slip over to talk with Ernest. Give him warning. Pray for peace.

JUNE 1, EVENING

Mr. Bleu saw me back to Cedar Gate. How humiliating to arrive with bloodied apron and bandaged hand to such worried, curious glances.

“They said you ran off to the doctor in town!” Chess threw his hands up. “Looked all over creation for you. Didn’t imagine you’d be at Bleu’s.”

“I didn’t tell them which way I was going.” Why did he make me feel so guilty? Am I not the wounded one?

Mrs. MacDonald questioned Mr. Bleu’s work. “Hmm. You sure it’s cleaned out well enough?”

James gave her an affirmative nod. “I’ve a little experience, if you recall.”

“Well yes. I suppose you do.” She wrapped her arm around me. “You poor girl. Let the workers handle the dirty jobs, alright?”

My hand throbbed as I wrote. Mrs. MacDonald brought medicine to help me sleep. Suffice it to say, I will not go to the cottage again until it is finished. In a few days, I will board the train to Cincinnati and stay with dear friends. If they’ll have me. I need to see my old home again. I need to regain something of my old self...

HE’D NEVER SEEN ERNEST get so mad. He hoped this happy-go-lucky young man would take it in stride, think before speaking, because Hammond would not.

“Maybe Pa’s been right about her all ‘long.”

“Now hold on. Can’t you see how she’s been backed into a corner?”

Ernest drew his back up. Defending his family. For once. “You know it ain’t right.”

James nodded. “No. I don’t like it either. But none of us have a choice. If Hammond hadn’t spoken to her like he did...”

Ernest kicked a rock with his thick boot. “Pa’s not right either. But that land, I kinda had plans for it. Hoped that one day, I’d move on. Build myself a spot out there. Be close but not too close. Have my own family.”

“That’s all Dorothy wanted, you know. Me too. We all have dreams. But now?” He shrugged. “I guess neither blood nor water is as thick as your farm mud.”

He left Ernest to his fate, as much as he hated to do it. He’d not be the despised bearer of any more tidings, glad or otherwise. Let people speak for themselves. Find truths out on their own.

He raced home and cleaned the mess he’d left in the kitchen, all the while thinking of her small hurting hand nestled in his. God had been with him. God was with him now. How often he failed to remember this.

Chapter 28

JUNE 4, 1880

Cincinnati felt empty and hollow without my parents to welcome me home, though as always it remained bustling and noisy. Memories accosted me at every turn. I walked by my old home, now occupied by someone else who knows nothing of our lives. Or cares. The shutters are now green. Geranium pots line the steps, which I noticed have not been scrubbed in some time. Mother would’ve set it right for certain.

I knew that most of my friends were encamped at the lake