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

No one to dance around, no brittle emotions to snap, no expectations to fulfill, no family to disappoint.

I opened my Bible, this time not to hunt for pet names. I’d decided on Lad and Rosie. Not very original. I will give more thought to naming when I have my own children. If I’m ever afforded this pleasure.

I read a terrible story, followed by a solemn Psalm. I’d opened it to find peace in my solitude. A reviving, as traveling preachers like to call it. But here I find difficulty—and His presence all at once. I turned to the miracles and noted the contrasting hardships as well, otherwise the miracle would not have been so miraculous. Or needed. Then I read the greatest commandment, the one I need the most help with—perhaps my personal miracle in waiting. To love my neighbor as myself. To love Uncle as much as myself? To love Helen, though she sneered and wished me away? To authentically love as He does... Loving them wholeheartedly means I must honestly forgive them.

Have I? Can I?

The oven has cooled. I am unsure of what to do with myself. Walk to town? I’ve embroidered until my fingers are sore.

It’s decided then. I don’t know to properly forgive.

JUNE 15, 1880

I’ve purchased a horse! A saddle will be delivered shortly. The horse is small and of some age, but will serve my purposes. I’ll have to keep it tied to a nearby tree at night until I hire out for a stable to be built.

I’m a bit afraid of the beast. I’ve been warned to never approach the animal from behind. His previous owner pointed to a scar beneath his chin, and a row of missing bottom teeth.  Reverend Meade believed him to be in jest, but I’m not so sure.

Took me nearly two hours to lead the creature home—so interested he was in the roadside clover, I didn’t have the heart to stop him from pleasantly munching. He was in no hurry. Nor was I.

Afterward, I began heating water for a good soaking bath. I smelled like horseflesh. I remembered then that I do not own a tub except for an enameled tin to wash my clothing in—only half my legs will fit within. I might pay to have one delivered. How long would my funds last at this rate of expenditure?

I bathed as well as I could and tried not to think of what I was missing at Cedar Gate—or at Uncle’s. After I’d donned a fresh nightgown, I realized that Rosie and Lad were nowhere to be seen. Some caregiver I was.

The sun rapidly sank beyond the hills. I lit two lanterns and searched the perimeter of the house. Not a head or tail in sight. I checked the horse, standing as though lock kneed, staring at me, likely wishing for more oats. I filled an old feeding bag, left a bowl of water. How much do horses drink? Another forgotten question. Perhaps I should ask James.

I called Lad and Rosie by name, but this was a fruitless endeavor since they don’t recognize them yet.

I went back inside, uneasy. Poured myself a cup of tea, and looked again. Maybe I’d find them waiting on the doorstep in the morning.

I pulled out Father’s boxes, began going through the papers. First, the one that caused this lack of forgiveness in my heart. I layered them by type, adding up the numbers on my old school slate. Lay the notes aside that has caused me concern since I found them. Those hot, tell-tale coals of Father’s and Mr. Bleu’s. That burned us all.

I opened Father’s personal things, hoping to find some clues—his hat, his pipe, his neckties, his pocket watch. His Bible. Portions of his life that I’d never paid special attention to. I can feel his tickly whiskers over my head as I rested in his embrace. I ache for him and wrapped Mother’s shawl more tightly about my shoulders.

I spread everything out on the small mantle above the fireplace, to give them further thought. I wished my Father back...and the secure home he’d given me.

In the bottom of one of the boxes, I found a small tin, closed tightly. I pried and pushed until the lid popped off, pinging against the plastered wall, leaving a tiny chip in its place. Another repair. Inside were folded scraps of paper. I’d expected receipts again—not the scribbled notes written from my child-self to him. Silly crayon renditions of ourselves—the three of us. I propped one up on the mantel with the rest, too tired to weep.

A knock came to the door and fear flashed through that moment of private grief. I had no way of knowing who’d be on the other side. I snagged my shawl around my shoulders again and cracked open the door. Relief. Charles and Kate.

“Missing anyone?” Kate grinned. She held up Rosie by the scruff of her neck, the wide- eyed and whiskered bit of fur.

I opened the door wide. “Oh my. Where did you find them?”

Charles gripped wiggling Lad in his large hands. “Seems this boy here took his new friend on an adventure back to our farm. We’re just a quarter of a mile that way, you know.” He pointed with an elbow.

Of course. Made perfect sense, if this portion had been Birch land at one time. “I’ve been so worried.”

I scooted the runaways into the house, tightened my shawl. They stood there as if waiting to be asked in. To be proper, I supposed I should make some sort of kind invitation. I found myself offering, “Tomorrow—won’t you both come to dinner? You’d be my first real guests.”

They answered quickly, “Thank you, we’ll be here.”

And now I’m wide awake, wishing I’d waited a few days. Given myself time to assess what food filled my larder and what I might serve.

I glanced at Father’s things above the fireplace. I’d have to sweep them back into the box before guests arrived. I snuggled on the settee