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

break in and find it? What had happened to this gentle father, the man that kept a firm hold on his respect?

HELEN MET HIM AT THE new screen door off a much smaller kitchen than what had been lost. Foundation stones jutted about as though forgotten. “Pa’s sick again.”

“I hate to hear that. Can I talk to him for a minute?”

“I guess.”

Her youthful spark had diminished as though everyone had been struck ill with the same disease. Except Ernest. He hoped the young man was immune to what ailed his father.

“David.” Hammond spoke before he saw him. The parlor hadn’t changed. Hammond sat in the old horsehair rocker, footstool at his feet. A light blanket covered his large body to his neck.

James broke into a sweat. “Did you come by yesterday? Anything I can do for you?”

His head jerked, he looked away. “No, nope didn’t come by. Don’t need a thing.”

The man was a bad liar. “Helen says you’re sick again.”

“Not a relapse, thankfully. Worked too hard too soon, I guess.”

At least he was talking to him. That was something. Guess he’d take it. “Sorry about the words we had between us.” If he’d stayed true, there’d be nothing to patch up.

Hammond grunted, blinked, and looked at the ceiling. “That’s not the worst of it. D’ya hear what Dorothy’s gone and done? Irresponsible. Just as we expected.” A cough wracked through his chest. When had it begun?

“I heard.” Should he try to explain?

“MacDonald’s always wanted my back parcel. Said he was just helping a girl in need.” He jerked his head side to side. “Nuts.”

“I think you scared Dorothy—the day you became ill.” And Ruth, last night.

Hammond’s eyes narrowed.

“You sure you didn’t come by my house last night?”

“What are you trying to dig up, Davy-boy?”

James shrugged, “Saw you walking away.”

“Wasn’t me. Haven’t had good reason to come your way lately—with all the extra work to do ‘round here.” His accusation sang clear.

James stood, ready to leave. “Let me know if I can do anything for you. You’re in my prayers.”

When the kitchen door slammed behind him, he exhaled. Could have been worse.  But would it ever be better?

Chapter 31

JULY 12, 1880

I’ve been alone in this quiet place for a long stretch of days, not even my journal seemed a proper companion. I suspect the summer heat has kept everyone away from me, tending their own farms as though future dinners—and full stomachs—depend upon it.

Honestly, I’m ignored. Chess does not continue his earnest addresses— Charles and Kate have not returned. Nor has Mr. Bleu given me any special notice. Reverend and Mrs. Meade must be busy about the town. Certainly haven’t had the pleasure of my own family’s company. Likely won’t.

I’ve held a secret, these hot unending days. If any of them had stepped over my threshold, they might have mistaken me for a wild woman, so unkempt I’ve been. Some days, I hadn’t left my bed except to eat and feed the animals. Why did Mrs. MacDonald believe I would prosper here? All the charming details, the pretty, unstained walls only mock me. Had I accepted the truth sooner—what would have been my choice? The same mistake or some entirely different one?

I’d seen the receipts for what they were, back at Cedar Gate. I’d wanted to find a different, more acceptable answer.

I didn’t find it, only more painful truth.

Father, what would my life be like if you hadn’t been so kind? So merciful. Mr. Bleu, what would my life look like if you had not been an even kinder man? These questions are purely selfish. As if they were the ones who’d made a mess of me.

How did these noble gentlemen fail to grasp Uncle’s character? I debated selling the farm. Yes, a worse idea than the twenty acres. But it would be out of my hands, no longer a painful chasm separating us. I don’t want it anymore. Mr. MacDonald would be a good landowner—make utmost use of the ground and turn a profit from the fallow waste.  A terrible, unrighteous plan. I knew I couldn’t go through with it.

I only knew one, proper thing to do.  But it will never be enough.

True, Father had helped Uncle freely. With gambling debts. I’d finally pried open the last box of household what-nots. My purpose only to find and use Father’s silver rowing team trophy as a flower vase.

Wound in tight folds, I found incriminating receipts—paid IOU’s all of the same date, close to the letters and receipts found among Father’s business papers. He’d even written out a sum to Mr. Bleu, for any future debts incurred. That borrowed money Mr. Bleu had told the truth about back in March.

But that’s all he’d paid. Not one penny of Father’s paid for the farm that sits in my name. I was sick at first. Sick for days. No wonder Mr. Bleu had been more apprehensive about my coming than Uncle. Truth is, I’ve clutched my inheritance, secretly liking the idea of being a station above my family. A recompense of sorts for my great loss. Life and a living seem to be forever slipping from my fingers.

Now Mr. Bleu has all of my well-earned respect. I must have pained them both greatly when I sold the twenty acres to Mr. MacDonald

Now. I’d go now. No more waiting.

Rosie and Lad have abandoned me again. I hope wherever they are, they are safe from the coyotes. I’ll walk this path alone.

DOROTHY LOOKED A MIGHT uneasy, sitting in the rocking chair. Her hand stroked the large envelope as though it held something precious. James noted the dark circles under her eyes, her slight frame. Her posture. Had she been eating?

“I came to bring you this.” She handed him the packet.

He slid the contents out. “Is something out of place?”

“No. I believe it’s all there.” She leaned her head against the back of the rocker, relaxing. “I have figured every slip of paper, every receipt. As far as I can