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

Chess rolled his eyes. “I don’t know what’s got into you Hammonds.”

Didn’t he? Helen had spouted the exact reason. Me.

Ernest mumbled. “Sorry.”

So. I shall not have peace in this regard.

Chapter 30

JAMES SAT ON HIS FRONT steps, strumming his guitar. The stars shone in profusion, Sagittarius barely visible over the hill. Hercules tumbled upside down, a Greek warrior with outlandish stories to his name, claiming his rights by sheer brute force.

Ruth came out and sat beside him. Regardless of the tune he played, she started singing another. Spirituals passed down from her forefathers. Or mothers. Fathers were often traded or sold away. Had hers been? How little he knew about her.

He picked up the tune for Swing Low, Sweet Chariot—played deep and slow as she preferred. Her eyes never left the stars. Often times, these moments unlocked and spilled forth memories. Did she look away from her past to a future? At her age, did it still matter? Much of her life had already been lived. Perhaps he asked the wrong question. Why did it matter? She sang of being carried away to home. A tear slipped down her cheek.

He’d tried to give her a good home. The aging lady was just a scrap of a woman when he gave her work and a place to live. She was much sturdier now. No family to speak of, she’d been adrift having lost her job for pilfering food out of the household’s pantry. No one in their right mind would hire the little thief. Except him, of course. He grinned. He was more than happy to help her help poor folk. No more experiencing empty pockets or brutal tongue lashings from her employers. If only more people were caring like her. Not only waiting for a chance to be kind, but pursuing it. Chasing an opportunity as though the wind carried it and the brief moment might be lost. The victory of the catch, a restoration of hope...No regrets. All moments golden.

JUNE 11, 1880

My world has changed. I’m sitting by lamplight in the single, large room, made cozy with my furnishings and the pieces Mrs. MacDonald insisted I take. She’d stayed the whole day with me, placing and decorating as if my small cottage were her mansion. Her light hum bespoke her fancies. We laughed and giggled like girls.

She exclaimed over Mother’s old things, pointing out each darling quality. Nodding an appreciation over my secretary and bedstead. We hung long linen curtains over the windows, unrolled a large, multi-colored braided rug, along with Mother’s turkey-red oriental. At that moment, this place began to breathe, live.

The freshly plastered walls are so clean and bright! No child’s handprints or smears. No coal dust or grime. I can scarce believe this was the desolate place I never wanted to see again.

My cook stove is a beauty. The star of the kitchen. Philip and Chess brought a load of firewood over and stacked it neatly behind the house, with a good portion in a copper bucket next to the stove.

Mrs. MacDonald stood beside the settee wistful, confident. “You shall be very happy here.” Her proclamation enabled me. As if she’d planted me here herself and was proud of her choice. Proud of me.

I am still not so sure of her desires concerning my land. How afraid I am! Life is all sweet and sour. I cannot discern. I am here, that is what matters. And she has stood by me, as a mother might.

We ended the day with jam tarts from Cedar Gate and my first kettle of tea heated on this cook stove. Then she left me.

I watched the wagon until it disappeared. The pup began to howl, I’ve yet to name him or feed him. I lifted the heavy ham from its hook and sawed a good ten minutes until I had enough. The effort left me completely weary. Many new things to learn. Most can wait until tomorrow, I suppose.

This tiny home and only myself within... Coyotes howled a chorus, the pup and I shivered. The kitten hid beneath my bed. I reached for my Bible and held it to my heart, as though the paper and ink are a weapon against fear. But they are, aren’t they? I bolted the door, locked the windows, and scooted close to the fire. The light drew the animals also. I opened my Bible. Time to name them. They blinked drowsily, still preferring to snuggle like twins side by side.

I looked up quite a few. Hezikiah, too complicated. Mary—too common. King David...James Bleu. Distracted, I turned backwards in my journal by a few months to the night I sketched his face. I snatch my hand mirror and covered the scarred portion, the good side reflecting a complete picture of who he had once been. But this is not the man I know, and I am ashamed for having changed his reflection even for a moment.

I’ve disappointed him again.

JUNE 12, 1880

The day is mine!

Or not. I went to draw water from the well and watched Philip and Chess pack up camp. Those two! I had not been alone last night as I had bravely thought. How did I not notice? Were they really afraid I’d be carried off? Or run screaming back to Cedar Gate, and they’d be there to give me a ride? Yes. That’s probably it.

Philip tipped his hat when he saw me. Chess waved. “Hallooo! Got any biscuits ready yet?”

“I’m sure Cedar Gate has enough to feed you two oafs.” I yelled, waving.

“After all we’ve done for you?” Chess tossed his pack over his horse. “You owe us.”

A joke? “I’ve oatmeal, and that’s all.”

“Naw, I’m going back home for some real food.”

“Suit yourself.”

They could not continue to do this, even though I had slept with blankets over my head all night like a frightened child! They don’t need to know my business.

I sat at my breakfast for a long while, savoring each unencumbered moment.