Of Needles and Haystacks by Ann Fryer (the beginning after the end novel read TXT) 📕

put to him in the same manner? “Yes. Are yours dead too?”

His eyes snapped up at that. I suppose I was tactless, but so was he. I thought about getting up just then, but he placed his hand on my arm, anticipating my flight. Warm, yet firm. My heart shivered.

“My parents are dead to me, or rather, I to them.” He spoke as if issuing a challenge.

“What are you talking about?” His words jumbled in my brain.

He shook his head. “They cannot bear to see me. I am no longer welcome in my home.”

Should I believe him? Self-pity drove him to think himself disowned, surely. If only my parents lived, scars would be nothing! No matter what our kerfuffle I would find a way to resolve matters. Never would I be as pig-headed as this man. Though I do not forget my unfair thoughts when I first saw him.

I grew tired of his game. “What is it you wish to tell me?”

“You know that your father purchased this farm from your uncle five years ago.” A statement that should have been a question.

Heat filled my face. “I never knew.” Father’s lawyer never breathed a word. Something was wrong. This made absolutely no sense.

He tapped a row of fingers on the table space between them. “Are you being honest?”

How dare he? “Why shouldn’t I be? And why is my honesty significant or even questioned at all?”

“This farm is held in trust for you until you turn twenty-one.”

I gasped. “In a few weeks...” Suddenly I understood.

He pressed his hands together and placed them in front of his mouth. “Why have I never seen you here before?”

“Same reason I’ve never seen you here before.”

His eyelids shuttered closed. I felt his condescension. I was losing patience with him, and my dishwater was cooling. “You will not do your uncle a bad turn.” He raised an eyebrow.

He is commanding me now? “My father’s lawyer would have told me if such an arrangement existed.” I took a breath. “I believe you jest. How cruel of you.”

“Miss...”

“Trafton.”

“Miss Trafton,” He brushed an imaginary crumb from the table. “I never jest and am never cruel.”

Only brutish and blunt. “I don’t understand. Why did no one tell me?”

“I’m telling you now.”

“Uncle...” These were private words for family only. Not this stranger.

“Asked me to have this little talk.”

“Why? I have no history with you.” I scooted my chair back. “Never even met you until last night.”

“You don’t have much of a history with your mother’s family either. We are all quite strangers to you.”

I really needed to get to my dish pile. “That is true, but blood is thicker than...”

“Water. Another point I need to discuss with you.”

“Good heavens.” I attempted to stand, but his hand shot out again. I jerked away.

“The adjoining farm to the west is mine.”

“Don’t tell me I own that too.” I was feeling quite saucy. To think Uncle and Aunt squeamish enough to have this man tell me the truth—Of what exactly did they think me capable?

“Only the back ten acres.”

“What?”

“Where the creek that divides the land is—waters the cattle.” He turned the page of his large volume. “His and mine.”

“Oh.” I failed to see the significance of his point. Land, water, cattle. I’m just a town-girl. I want my old home, my own people and not this random stranger attacking me for a mystery purchase from the past.

Suddenly, the key fit. “Was Uncle in debt? Going to lose the farm?”

He sat back, irritated. “What else?”

“And father paid the debt, so you are angry with me for inheriting?” I quavered at that point. I had not thought Father and Mother left me anything much, as I had other debts to pay at the time of their deaths. I had been living off the leftovers until I came here a few days ago. They left me this farm...Mother’s farm. So, despite any family discontent, Father had been kind to his brother-in-law. But why did he never speak of it?

Understanding fell into place. This family coddled me in case I knew these curious facts. They were, in a way, indebted to me. In a large way, actually. Fearful of what I might do or say when I reached the age of majority. I had to insist on washing dishes tonight or I wouldn’t have been allowed. Are they truly afraid that I would cast them out of the only home they’ve ever known? As I have been? How could they think such dark thoughts about me? There is no worse misery than losing a sense of home. I know. They should know that I’m completely harmless.

Mr. Bleu ran a finger down the center of his book. I’m not sure now if his scars are his pain. It’s the loss of home. Has to be.

Surely it was no coincidence that Uncle walked into the kitchen at that exact moment, sat down, and glanced at me as if I were Queen Elizabeth about to issue an edict. He lowered his head.

I opened my mouth, but words lodged in my throat. Too much pain, too much change. And Queen Elizabeth’s mighty collar choked me. I’d make a terrible monarch. My earlier thoughts of independence evaporated. I was tied to this place, like it or not.

Ernest’s moans drifted down the hallway.

Uncle ignored the sounds. “Well. What are we to expect?” All business, as Mother could be at times.

They both gazed at me now, four reflections seeking to read my eyes as I had done earlier. “This is your home. Why would I make you leave?”

Uncle shrugged. “Didn’t know what manner of gal you are.”

He couldn’t tell. After my time here, hadn’t they seen who I was? I cried. In front of two grown men, I dropped my head into my arms. My crown fell. It’s true. I don’t know them, they don’t know me. I might have murdered them in their beds and had this whole place to myself.

Honestly. What would I do with a farm?

“I don’t want this place. I do