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

“Dear James,

Dear, dear James. How can I miss what we’ve never had? But I do...

His heart thumped faster than his legs could run. He had to find her. He cantered down every road. Hightailed it to town. Checked the mercantile, Reverend Meade’s—even rode all the way out to Cedar Gate. Did no one know her whereabouts?

Philip hopped on his horse and went on his own search, leaving a porch-full of worried folks behind.

“Bring her back to us!” Mrs. MacDonald shouted.

James rode back to his house, just in case, then doubled back to hers. Still empty. Old Becky, alone in her stable.

Kate showed up, basket across her arm, question in her eyes. “Isn’t she home?”

James took his hat off and threw up a hand. “Can’t find her anywhere.”

“I’ll leave this food on the table. I’m sure she’ll be back soon.” She gave a reassuring nod.  “My family, Mr. Bleu, I love them, but sometimes I wish we weren’t related.”

He nodded and mounted his horse again. “Got any ideas?”

“Oh—sometimes she walks to the church. She likes to be there when it’s empty.”

The church. “Thank you!” His horse was tired. He took off with as much speed as he dared. Never mind that. They’d walk slowly home. Please be there.

He drew close, heart hammering. That dog of hers lazed at the open doorway. Lad panted a greeting, wagged his tail. He only heard her song. Dorothy’s voice, high and sweet, filled the silence. One of Ruth’s songs. He might have stood to listen, but he couldn’t wait. He had to know.

He stepped inside. Evening sun poured through the windows, but she sat in a cool, shadowy place at the altar. Singing her song like a lullaby, her face lifted to the plain cross on the wall. A long aisle between them...

His heart thrummed, his throat closed. He moved onward, one hand out—as though he might need to steady himself on a pew at any moment. She turned slightly and caught her breath. Stopped singing altogether, bit her lip, watching him with her innocent gaze. Those eyes.

He eased down beside her, words clogged down deep in his heart. He held out his hand instead. Suspended between them for a moment as her gaze reached out for his. She slowly, shyly put her hand in his. Home. He had no more doubts.

“I couldn’t find you.” He cradled her open palm, stroking the scar. “Been looking everywhere. Was worried...”

“Is there an emergency? Is Uncle...”

“No. Hammond is Hammond.”

Her eyes drooped down, gazing at their hands. He gently lifted her chin, her eyes flicked to his. How to give himself? His marred countenance, his imperfect soul? Now or never. He grew dizzy.

She trembled, a tear threatened.

“Close your eyes,” he whispered. He shook, his stomach churned.

She obeyed. Willingly, sweetly. Fear and terror rose, then disappeared when her chin tilted upward. His hands cupped her precious face and he dared to press his lips against hers.

SEPTEMBER 20, EVENING

How could I know how God would answer the void in my life? That lonesome, aching place. Like Pilgrim, I needed the foot of the cross and a steep hill to toss that unsettled, shifting burden down. All the letting go I had to do—my parents, my family, my land— the still, quiet waiting I’d come to expect, day in, day out. Nothing compared to the gift I am to receive now.

I savor the memory of my hand in James’s. Hope holds my heart. Before we left the altar, he promised himself to me. I did the same.

If Lad hadn’t begun barking, we might not have separated. My heart thumps at the thought.

I softly stroked the scar down his handsome face. He needed to know that I cherish him. All of him. Next time, he won’t need me to close my eyes.

Finding my home here in Paris, Kentucky, in the heart of my James—how downright unexpected.

He explained what he’d heard at the Birch’s, on our long walk back home. Asked me what I wanted to do—no longer fearing my choices, I sensed his trust. For the moment, I could only gaze into his deep, dark eyes. Humor flicked in one corner of his mouth.

“What do I want with another farm? Hmmm...let me think. Of course! Leave it be. I want no part of it.” Laughter seized us both.

“Mine will suffice?”

“You will suffice. More than.”

“Will you keep the cottage?”

“I wonder if Ernest might like it...”

He placed both hands on my shoulders and kissed me again. We plan to marry in a few weeks.

Finally, I’m going home.

Acknowledgments

WHERE TO BEGIN? SO many of you have been with me on my writing journey for so long, I’ve lost count of the years.

John Perrodin, without your years of patient teaching, mentoring, cheering, consoling, and editing—I’d be lost. Working with you on bringing this book to print has been an absolute highlight! Thank you doesn’t seem like a strong enough word. Perhaps “all the thanks” will suit?

Jim Uttley, my first writing teacher: I still recall the edits you made on the first letter I sent to you. I cried. THANKYOU. I learned to have a thick skin, to actually type, and to shine up a great deal of wobbly writing. You are one patient man.

Henry McLaughlin, our friendship began at the CWG intensive and cemented when I had to shove you out of your seat when you won that amazing publishing contract. Thank you for your many critiques, your steadfast kindness, and your example of fortitude. You never doubted God’s call on your life to be a writer, nor mine.

Danielle Owen, God knew I’d need a writing friend at exactly the right moment. Thank you for always being available to chat, read, critique, squeal-over-all-the-fun-writer-girly-stuff, and for reminding me to stop, have a cup of tea, and remember why we write in the first place. Your sweet, giving spirit inspires me.

Heather Gilbert, Wow, you sure know how to make a gal feel confident while she takes her first steps into publishing. Thank you for answering