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

They left me alone, in the quiet upstairs as evening darkened. Ruth’s last living words, steeped in joy, whispered in my heart. Oh, Jesus!

It has taken me over a month to record this account. Each time I raised my pen, ink dripped ugly blotches on an otherwise clean page. A succession of three smears mar the start of words that clogged my reality. Once more, death and loneliness thwarted life and friendship.

I can breathe through it now. Let the silence envelope me as comforting arms. See the sunrise as brother to my day. God, my ever-present. My Jesus calms my personal terror over death.

Lad wags his tail for bacon reminding me that I am not completely alone. Or am I? This cottage of my independence has become more than a shelter.

I often walk to the church, since I hadn’t attended in several months. I didn’t want to make Aunt and Uncle uncomfortable. Or give the Meades something more to worry over. No, I attended alone and sat in the pew, Ruth’s song playing in my head. I was even brave enough to sing out loud, and all the while, believing God heard me. When I sang, hope rose out of my shuddering fear. Bravery born out of song. Never mind that my voice floats back down to the everyday, to what I’ve always known. I can reach for it again.

God is with me. That I believe without a doubt.

Kate Birch continues to come by for visits. But with the harvest coming in, she’d been extra busy with canning and drying food for the winter. I wondered how Aunt fares. And what of Helen and Kirsten? They are strangers to me.

Ernest came to Ruth’s funeral a few weeks back. That’s the last I’d seen of my family. Mr. Bleu stayed away—busy with his own harvest, I believed. No longer as interested in me as I once had suspected. Probably exhausted—tired of the unceasing drama I’d brought to his life. Made sense. Perhaps he needs the chance to breathe, too. How I miss him.

Chapter 34

SEPTEMBER 14, 1880

I have a choice before me. A good one, I think. It’s Ruth’s fault I treat such a weighty decision so lightly. How have I not thought to do this before? I’ve been single-minded. My only design had been to deliver the deed to the rightful owner, Mr. Bleu, who rejected it out of hand.

Ruth. Her strong hands always open and serving me, though I neither deserved nor paid for such faithfulness. And how many others have been blessed by her ministrations? Her enthusiasm buoyed me, provided me a wholly unexpected presence while she lived here. And now I don’t care that I’m mistress to Uncle’s remaining fifty acres. Don’t give a whit whether or not I ever benefit from it again. I think of Aunt and the rest of my cousins—and Mr. Bleu’s efforts to keep them from poverty. Uncle’s acceptance of my parent’s help—and no one else’s.

My parents didn’t tell me about owning the farm because it was never really theirs. The land never held their heart. Nor mine. T’was never any of my business, really. Not at all. Now, thank Heaven, I get to be the messenger of good news for a change. But I am afraid! Part of me still wanted their loving embrace because of who I am. Inclusion into the very heart of their home. I leave even this in God’s hands. What will be, will be, as Mother often used to say.

First, I planned to ride Becky to town and see the deed rewritten—the way that made sense to me—then make haste to the farm. Can’t help smiling! Strange, how hope is rising, like when I sing. Unexplainable pleasure.

SEPTEMBER 14, EVENING

“My burden is light,” Jesus said. Mine also, when His will and His way are followed. Strange to think of the stronghold this land once had on me, as if my parent’s supposed destiny for me had to be the one lived out. As though I were locked into a plan, and following it was my only and perfect course. I can see now, that isn’t true—leastwise, not in the same sense.

Despite the flaws, their lives had been lived with open hands. For all my doe-eyed desire to be like them. I’d missed the point. Their destiny for me had always been to care for those in need, to give and forgive. Not to keep wringing hot grief out of the thing.

My prayers haven’t all been answered, but I feel free as a bird. When I knocked on Uncle’s door like a stranger might, I was met with wide eyed shock. Helen and Kirsten stood there waiting, arms folded. Once-glowing faces encased a sadness I wished to heal, but I couldn’t.

Yes, I sold twenty acres. I’m sorry that hurt you. But here, I hold the deed! For you! I wanted to shout, hoping they’d rush to my side in sisterhood again. But I had to do this the right way.

“I need to speak with Uncle. Please.”

“He’s out in the barn. With Ernest,” Helen mumbled, disinterested. Kirsten had already turned away.

I nodded. “Thanks.” I made my way to the new construction, much better looking than the previous barn, its wood still yet to turn gray with winter weather. I entered a small side door, breathed in musky air and hay, peered into a few empty stalls.

Uncle sat on a stump turned stool, hands on his knees. Ernest was likely the one shoveling on the other side of the barn. And then I saw that cat. My cat. The darling runaway! Here, in Uncle’s barn. Trading me for them. Or perhaps comforting the heartsick?

Uncle looked to his left, avoiding my presence, while stroking my soft Rosie.

“I’ve brought you something.” I feared his rejection.

“Oh?” His eyes dared a flicker to mine. As though I’d have anything he’d want.

“Here, take it.” I handed him the envelope like I was giving him the key to a