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

by my situation. I own a farm, after all. Like any other pioneering American, I set forth and discover my fate as I go, with or without such people.

When Philip and Chess came with the invitation, I’d been helping Kirsten adjust her skirt hems. School is set to begin next week. The older boys acted as though they had to meet with death himself.

My school days are long gone, but I feel as though my true education has only just begun. To make sense of everything. Isn’t this what all people must do eventually? Just as Mrs. MacDonald seeks to meet me in order to understand me. Or in case my acquaintance may prove important or a distraction for her wealthy sons. I suppose that is not fair. This lady may be delightful and lacking in glittery assumptions. Like the ones I’m making.  I certainly don’t expect my life to directly intertwine with hers. No thanks. Helen dreams after Philip or Chess—don’t know which. I do not plan to break hearts or steal hopes. Or match this person whom Aunt sometimes serves...

I have to confess gloating. Earlier I caught Mr. Bleu eating my molasses cookies with a large mug of milk. He even closed his eyes while he chewed! I knew it! Every man has a heart for food. Even this one.

I sniffed so he’d know I’d entered. I took two cookies from the large brown crock and made this now cooling pot of sassafras. I sat across from him while my brew steeped. “Do you cook for yourself most days?”

He shook his head in the negative.

“You enjoy reading?”

His eyes clamped mine. “I suppose so.”

“Have any favorite authors?”

“Many.”

“You had a rather large volume of something the other evening, when you told me about my future ownership of this farm. I took you for an enthusiastic reader.” I tried to smile, encourage...

“Dictionary.”

I may have sputtered. I don’t wish to think of it. “A dictionary? That’s what you were reading?”

“Don’t you ever have to look up a definition?”

“Only if I’m really reading. Most of the time, I understand people quite clearly.”

He lay the last edge of a cookie down and brushed away the crumbs from both hands. “You shouldn’t be saving a horse for yourself, Miss Trafton.”

“I know.”

“Then why...” He shook his head in confusion.

“I spoke before thinking. I wish I could take back my words.”

“Your uncle needs the money.”

“I figured as much. He’s seems stubborn enough—don’t think I’ll be able to change his mind.”

“Well I can’t do anything about it. You’re his favored niece that needs petting.”

“Mr. Bleu, I am not a horse.” How dare he insinuate I’m spoiled?

Uncle walked in at that moment. We were both mortified. Mr. Bleu’s throat became mottled red and white, the nice side of his face blushed completely. My own cheeks singed.

My dear uncle grumbled like far-off thunder. “I’d give her the moon if I could, David. Anything for Clara’s child. Anything.”

“She’ll rule you to ruin.”

I about spoke then, but Uncle pointed a finger at David, I mean, Mr. James Bleu, “You are far out of line. Give the girl a chance. We all deserve that. You understand what I mean.”

My heart pounded. Such a low opinion Mr. Bleu had of me and we’d only known each other for mere days. I spoke up. “What would you have me do, go live on the street?”

Uncle shook his head. “Don’t get all-fired up, Dorothy. David’s just being protective of me.”

“Why? Why all this fuss? Why use him to tell me details of this estate? Why have him here at all if he despises the notion of my ownership? It just isn’t fair.” My voice began to shake. I wanted to hide. “I had hoped to make friends here, instead I am set to make enemies. Already, I have this man, angry at me for my parent’s deaths, two of your sons—jealous over that silly horse, and now Helen. Because I am invited to tea with Mrs. MacDonald. What childish behavior...” I spat out the last words.

Uncle lowered his eyes, embarrassed. I hated that. “David, apologize to Dorothy.”

Mr. Bleu’s eyes flashed towards the hot cooking range. The kettle still steamed. “Perhaps this whole business has rankled me a bit.” His shoulders slumped.

“That’s not an apology.” Uncle grumbled.

Mr. Bleu reset his lips to speak again. As if good words had to be forever forced from him—at least concerning me. “Forgive my attitude, Dorothy. I spent too many years on the high horse myself.”

His words were more softly spoken than usual. Maybe Uncle had a calming effect on him. I wish I could say the same for myself, for fire still kindled in my belly. I wanted to puff more smoke. Apologies can feel like a cold-water dousing. Once he said those magic “forgive me” words I knew I had to behave as humbly as he. I wasn’t sure I understood his “high horse” comment.

I may have sputtered again. “Please, Uncle. I want you to sell the horse. I was too quick to claim one. Mr. Bleu informs me of your need.”

Uncle sighed as he looked up at the ceiling. “Alright, Dorothy. This time, we will sell them. But next ‘round, you can choose one for yourself. Promise me you won’t change your mind?” He smiled, his jaw locked in a straight line—a promise to put David in his place?

I inwardly smirked, outwardly accepted his future gift as a bargain.

Uncle walked out without another word, leaving Mr. Bleu and I alone.

I hoped Uncle wouldn’t repeat my rant. I must learn to keep my mouth shut. Would Helen be chastised? Poor girl.

I couldn’t look Mr. Bleu in the eye, but knew I needed to ease the tension between us. I lifted the tea pot. “Would you care for a cup of sassafras?”

He shook his head.

I left for this quiet nest of mine...where calm and future hopes mingle in my mind. Perhaps I should feel awkward. But I don’t. My feelings did need to be clearly stated and understood. I’m not