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

knowing later what would happen. No hint of her distant ancestors tugging at her hem, pulling her through. She didn’t suspect for a moment.

AUGUST 15, 1880

Had I known the pain that riding a horse would bring, I’d never have bothered to learn. I kept reminding myself how important this was to my independence.

Ruth was there to help me alight the patient beast, Kate Birch held the reins. I am ever so glad that no men—or anyone else—was around to see me slip to the ground on the other side in a plume of dust and skirts. A few tries later, I was high on Becky’s back, hanging onto the pommel for dear life. I tried hard not to be afraid and took strength from Kate’s confidence. Her genuine smile bolstered me.

After that adventure, I invited Kate in for lemonade and some of Ruth’s pie. It seemed, for those few hours, that I had true friends around me. Our laughter rose, spirits high. For no good reason at all except that we enjoyed each other’s presence. My, it had been a long time. School friends seemed a world away.

This evening, as I readied for bed, I noticed Ruth’s hands shaking as she buttoned her night gown.

“Are you unwell?” Fear plunged to the pit of my stomach. Memories. Too many memories.

“I be fine chile.” Her smile didn’t negate my concern.

I let her snuggle in first. Not ever having sisters to share with, I’ve been dreadfully spoiled. I found it least awkward to let her fall asleep before slipping in. I’ve relished my time alone in the kitchen, Lad at my feet, his fur better than wooly slippers, a good book in my hands. My dreams and hopes spring buoyantly, undashed by the rigors of the day.

But tonight, I am uneasy. She does not toss herself about with that odd, inner pain she doesn’t talk about. She only trembles.

I made my bed on the lumpy settee, hardly able to sleep.

SEPTEMBER 13, 1880

Ruth had been ill for days. I was so afraid to leave her side in order to send for the doctor. Or run for Mr. Bleu. I wasn’t confident enough to ride Old Becky yet.

I decided to run down the road a short piece—hoping for anyone to pass by. I spied Uncle riding the wagon into town, Helen and Kirsten were with him. I waved like a mad woman. I know they heard me, yet they did not acknowledge my shouts. Ignored by my own kin.

I quickly ran back to Ruth. I propped pillows behind her head and spooned tea through her chattering lips, all the while tears slipping down my face. The last time I had to do this, I lost them both. My parents.

She slept, but a fever blazed, hot and fearsome.

I decided to run to Mr. Bleu’s. I burst in on him eating lunch by the water pump.

“Ruth...” gurgled from my throat. I choked on my own tears.

He saddled his horse in no time. He pulled me up behind him, unspeaking. I shamefully wept into his back on the ride home. He lifted me down as gently as a baby, his eyes locked with mine. I knew that he loved Ruth. I did too. He rubbed my arms in gentle reassurance and rushed into the house.

Ruth had thrashed about and lost the cool cloth I’d left on her forehead.

“I’ll be back with the doctor.” His tight voice did nothing to quell my fear.

I wish I didn’t have to write the next words. Or many of the others I’ve had to write this year. Once a word is down in ink—a statement written out, a memory inscribed—I look at the undeniable truth and let it sink into to me, in an effort to believe it.

Ruth died.

I sat with her for hours, wondering what took Mr. Bleu so long to bring the doctor. She refused tea or any ministrations.  We were helpless. Both of us.

The afternoon sun filtered through the white curtains and lit her face. She grinned—laughed in a weakening shiver. All the while my resistance grew. I’d make her live. I spoke aloud, “Jesus, heal her.” Repeated the words again and again. His name did not stop the trembles as it did her night terrors.

“She’s my family, God. Don’t take her.” Fruitless begging. I clenched my teeth and tightened my fist as before. She lay there, salt and pepper curls splayed across the pillow like a halo, grinning.

Did she not know to fight the sickness? Her hands, though still a-tremble, lay relaxed and open. She was accepting her own death. Stop that! Don’t give up! I wanted to shout.

“Please, God.” More begging. I reached for her hand, surprised that her fingers curled around mine. I leaned to her ear. “You are going to be okay.”

She spoke then, repeating back to me the words, “You gonna be okay.”

“Oh, Jesus!” I bit my lip in an effort not to weep again. Into how many pieces can a heart break?

She responded with light joy, “Oh, Jesus.”

Her hand slackened. Her smile sank away with her soul. But I could not let go of her hand. Her presence gone, I refused to believe she’d left me.

How much longer I kneeled beside her, I do not know. The doctor pulled me away from her body and into Mr. Bleu’s embrace.

We shared another cup of tea. One of grief. The others had been served on the cusp of frustration and pain. I stared down at the scar on the palm of my hand, where he’d stitched it for me. He gently touched the new jagged lines with his index finger. Evidence of my healing.

I could not look up at him. At his face where history scarred and smoothed into the present. Strength in difficulty. Fortuis in arduis.

He carried me to town on his horse and left me at the Reverend Meade’s house. Mrs. Meade wrapped me in her newly finished quilt and placed me in the room where Hammond had convalesced and