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

a wail. I peeked through the door. Her upper body rocked back and forth and the high-pitched wails sank into wordless moans again.

I grabbed my Bible and held it tight, sitting on the edge of my chair—more jittery than a squirrel. There was a verse, Mother used to say it when she was upset by something. No weapon formed against thee shall prosper. That was it! I flipped open my Bible hoping the words would present themselves. They didn’t, but it didn’t matter. I had them, and spoke them softly. “No weapon formed against thee shall prosper.”

I tried to wake her. I crept to her side of my bed and knelt on the floor, her thrashing body still rocked. I said it again. “Ruth...Ruth...” I put my hand on her shoulder to stop her movement. “No weapon...” her crying drowned out my words and I wept. “Jesus...Jesus.” The only word I knew to say came from my lips. It was enough.

She grew calmer.

“Jesus is here, Ruth.” Like Mother told me, on her death bed. Jesus is here, Dorothy. He is with you.

She stilled. Opened her eyes, blinking.

With a light touch, I reached for her hand—dark brown, old and gnarled, like roots that gripped a towering tree to the earth. “No weapon formed against you shall prosper, Ruth.”

She grunted assent, “Mmm, hmm...” Rolled over on her side and slept.

But I was far from true respite.

Hours later, when she presented herself once again at my cook stove, dressed and neatly tying her apron, she gave no hint that anything unusual had happened. I was half afraid to mention it. Soon after, she loaded some burlap sacks with food from my larder and left without so much of a word. Not even a “good bye.”

So very strange, yet so very affected I was by the experience last night. Mother’s verse coming to me as it did. A war kind of verse about weapons failing when used for harm...because God wouldn’t let them keep hurting us...

Set my mind to thinking of my enemies. I wouldn’t have them be so! God has commanded me to love them, to do good to those persecute me, but what do I know of persecution? My life has never been in jeopardy because of my faith. But what if...what if their lives are on the line? And my faith, my love, my goodness—drawn from God Himself—will be what brings peace to my family again?

Lad barked at the rattle of a wagon coming close to my home. I glanced out of the wavy glass window panes that distorted my view, but I could still tell who had arrived. Lad lifted his furry black and white paws to the sill, tossed his chin up and barked again. Mr. Bleu was parking a wagon filled with wood. He rushed to my door and gave it a heavy knock.

I swung it open, joined him outside. I had not anticipated his arrival in the least—and I was well aware how I must look. Dark circles, bedraggled braid. “I suspect you need your cook back.”

A grin cracked his unscarred side. “I am out of pie.”

Lad hid behind my legs, nose poking around my skirt, and finally dared to leave my side to sniff the man’s boots. “She loaded some bags of my food and left—that way.” I pointed. “Have no idea where she plans to live next.”

He nodded in understanding.  As though Ruth needed a little explanation. I’d say a lot. “Yes, I passed her on the way. Figured she cleaned you out. I’ll replace whatever food she took.” He laughed lightly. “But don’t worry. She’s not really a thief. I know exactly where she went. Feeds some poor folk over in the next county.”

“Oh. Well, then I suppose it’s okay. If the people really need it.” I thought of Father and his never-ending efforts to help as he was able.

“They do.” He knelt to give Lad a rub behind his ears. “She have another nightmare?”

I nodded. Of course, he’d know about them.

“She can’t help them. Not much you can do for her but pray.”

“That, and make a large pot of coffee.”

He laughed.

I risked another query about the deed. “You haven’t changed your mind, have you?” He knew exactly what I meant.

“No.” He glanced to the side of the house, then back at me. “I’m going to build a stable for your horse.”

How quickly he changed the subject, how much it irked my good senses. I suddenly noticed the wood piled in the wagon, the box of tools by his feet. “I’m not sure I can pay for that just yet.” Unless I’m to sell a few more acres and, risk more heart break.

“Nah. Wood’s been sitting in my barn. Needs to be used, and you need Old Becky kept safe and warm.”

I was still angry with him for rejecting my offer. Confused to boot. Now he stood in front of me with a generous offer, avoiding more discussion concerning that deed. Will it never end?

He smiled a smile that melted my heart right on the spot. So giving is this man. Not one of us deserving. “I suppose.” I smiled too.

While he worked, I pondered what qualifies a person as deserving, when all of us fall short. Miserably so.

I boiled several pots of water to wash my bed linens. I didn’t expect Ruth to return, but what if she did? I worked swiftly, very aware of the saw and pounding hammer. For a few hours, I swirled soap in the hot water, pressed the cloth against the wash board with the scrub brush, the linen all a-twist and dripping across my clean floor.  Guilt tugged.

I dried my hands and pulled out the precious bottle of lemon syrup I’d purchased. He deserved a decent drink.

When I arrived at his heel with a glass of lemonade and a sandwich, his eyes crinkled with merriment. “Perfect timing!” He enjoyed his work, plain to see. And his lunch as well.

The stable’s skeleton was already in place. Sturdy