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

no for an answer.” Uncle smiled as if pleased with himself, at his generous gift.

Ernest sat back in his chair his gaze questioning mine and his father’s. I determined to let the boys have the horse instead. Not sure how to make that happen, but happen it must. I need their trust far more than an animal I know nothing about.

But what about Mr. Bleu? Did I even care to have his trust? He is not my family, but he seems to be like family to Uncle and the rest. Shall I make efforts in his direction? Diplomacy, good Queen Bess, never hurt anyone.

Toliver popped his head over my knees. When had he crawled beneath the table? He pointed with a single finger on both hands, “’Pider.”

“No,” I whispered. “No spider.” I took his cold, sticky hands into mine and looked into those brown eyes. I’d never looked so deeply into the face of a black child. I ran my hand over his short, wooly hair and patted his back. He scooted away. I suddenly wanted to be his mother. Preposterous notion. One does not claim infants like horses...or a family their farm.

“How is your eye this morning, Mr. Bleu?”

“Fine.”

I nodded, considering a response. “I think today is a good day for baking, if that’s alright with you, Aunt. I’d like to make Mother’s favorite. Unless you have a favorite, Mr. Bleu?”

He jerked his head up from buttoning his jacket. “My favorite what?”

“Dessert.”

“Strawberry short cake.”

No berries in winter. “Impossible, pick something else.”

He shrugged his shoulders and walked out. Water off a duck’s back. Let it slide. I’d make apple pandowdy. And molasses cookies. Warm as many hearts as I could.

UNSTABLE, UNTRUTHFUL, and greedy. Never mind that she’d taken back her request. Still, the damage was done. Hammond might risk finances on outfitting his niece far more than he’d be willing to do for his own daughters.

Did Hammond really think that keeping her bread buttered would do him any good? She’d only clamor for more. They always did. It would be the ruination of them all.

He brushed down Bucephalus’s flanks and fed the hungry beast his oats.

Hammond approached. “Hey, did you find anything interesting in that box of Dorothy’s? No unpaid bills, were there?” Slight worry creased his brow.

“Looks like everything is in order. All bills paid, letters and papers just as you would expect.” And some that Hammond wouldn’t expect. He lifted the front left hoof and inspected it for hidden stones. Then the right. Less said, the better.

Hammond swiftly wound a long length of rope between his hand and elbow. “Do you think she might have any papers with her that she might have neglected? In her desk maybe?” He wound the center with the remainder of the rope in a perfect coil, tucking away the end. “I don’t take to strangers showing up here telling us we owe anything.” He placed the rope on an iron hook in the doorframe. “I won’t be able to pay it.”

James’s stomach tightened. “I hadn’t thought of that. Do you want to ask her?”

“Oh...”

“Hammond, you’ve got to face this.”

The man placed his hands on the hips of his overalls, looking upward at the multitude of cobwebs that covered the stable ceiling. Perhaps as many crowded his thinking these days.

Hammond lightly nodded. “I think you should go peek in her desk while she’s out. Chances are she doesn’t even know a bill from an advertisement.”

“Oh no. I couldn’t invade her privacy.” This just didn’t feel right.

“Davy-boy, she won’t even be in the room. You’re helping me, not stealing. I’m her guardian,” he pointed to his chest, “and I have a right to know.”

Hammond was right. Dorothy’s birthday wasn’t for a while yet. It’s just business. “Okay. I’ll go look. But if I get caught, you are going to be the one to explain. Not me.”

“I happen to know she’s baking in the kitchen. Gonna be there awhile. You might wanna jump to it right now.” Hammond walked away without his answer.

How the man could boss him around like he was twelve again! Never mind, he’d just get it over with. He trekked around the house and peered in at the kitchen door, to be sure. There she was, leaning over a mixing bowl stirring with all her might. He ducked away as she lifted her head. He’d go in the side door, closest to the stairs.

Thankfully, everyone was busy with a multitude of chores. He swiftly climbed, looked behind him and down the hall, and slipped in.  He glanced around. Tightly made bed, trunk, wardrobe, rocking chair, desk, vanity—all tidy except her desk. A book lay open, her pen still resting carelessly in an open ink bottle. He came closer and spied around for any missives.

An empty teapot, a folder of sketches, old letters. Nothing Uncle would want. He gazed down at the book—a journal of sorts. Little sketches of the family filled the sides. He didn’t mean to pry, but he caught the word “spider” and glanced further down.

He knew he was wrong to do it, his gut even twisted in defiance. But he couldn’t help himself. Heat crept down his neck when he’d read his own name. So. She had lied about the spider. But he was wrong about her staring at him. Couldn’t bear for him to think she had been inspecting his scars. She felt shame. A drawing of her spider ended the journal entry, with a much-tangled web at its feet.

His closed his eyes, confused. He had no right to be in here. Hammond would just have to deal with whatever came his way. He quietly slipped out, thanking God he’d not been caught.

He made his way slowly to the kitchen and stopped in the doorway. The room was empty except for Dorothy. She bent over a cookery book, flour dusted the sides of her black skirts in spite of her apron. A spicy aroma wafted. If he wasn’t mistaken, she’d made molasses cookies. She just