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

Ernest handed me a walking stick, curiously twisted about as if it could have been a vine but was sturdy as steel and smooth with use, much like Mr. Bleu’s. With my black gown and shawl, I must have appeared a crooked old lady!

When I arrived at the crossroads, I placed the stick behind a low stone fence for the journey back. The day was lovely and I made better pace without the third leg. Of course, fear makes one’s pace quicken. Perhaps I should have kept the stick.

Several minutes later, horse hooves came flying far behind me, I scarce gave the rider a glance and moved nearer the ditch, walking in moist overgrowth for several minutes. I didn’t dare look behind me again—such a glance would be blatant. The horseman slowed as he approached me. I angled my head sideways. Mr. Bleu.

“Whoa, Bucephalus.” He nodded. “Saw you from my hill—overlooking the crossroads.”

Where I squirreled away the stick. He’d been watching. I smiled up at him.

“Mind if I join you?”

“Of course.” Relief and intensity mingled. My heart began to pound. I waited for him as he dismounted.

We walked for a few minutes in silence as he led the horse behind us. “Are you well rested from the gala?” He smiled, his characteristic lip catching upward, unhindered by the scars.

“Only just,” I smiled back.

“The Birch siblings do you in?”

“I’ve thought of nothing else. Uncle might have warned me. Or you.”

Mr. Bleu shrugged, exasperated. “I might as well warn you that the entire town knew your mother and Mr. Birch quite well. I’m not even from here and I’ve heard the same sad story many a time.”

I shook my head, despite my earlier sentiments that they were just normal people being friendly. “What do they want from me? I am not my mother, nor her first husband’s child. I am a complete stranger to the Birch family. I have nothing.”

“That’s not quite true.”

“Oh yes, the farm. Would they want to buy some acreage? I won’t sell. Not fair to Uncle.” I inwardly trembled.

“I wasn’t speaking of your farm, Miss Trafton.”

He called it my farm, without hint of previous resentment. Despite his hand of friendship, I still wonder at it. “Perhaps I should part with that old sketchbook, though I might tear out Mother’s picture.”

“That may be a kind deed you can do. The family would likely treasure it.”

I couldn’t admit that I am reluctant to part with it. The artwork drew me in, came alive in my imagination. I had begun to measure my work against his. I’m sure it once had a place in Mother’s heart. But it’s more than that, though I can’t quite put my finger on why.

He stopped dead in his tracks. “I promised you, and I can’t hold it back any longer. Isn’t right.”

“Mr. Bleu?” What more could there be?

“It’s been plaguing me since your birthday. Your Uncle thought it best to wait. We both know he’s been somewhat oversensitive regarding the farm deed. Among many other issues at hand. Dash it all, ultimately he’ll beg me tell you anyway.”

“What now?”

He threw one hand in the air as if he wished to fling the fact away from himself. “You own a piece of Birch land too.”

I threw my head back and laughed. Of all the crazy news! “And how is this possible?”

“Belonged to your mother. A wedding gift, I believe, when she married Abraham. She never sold it. Just ten acres. Not much...”

“How do you know? Where is the deed?” Father’s box of business papers has been missing. I hadn’t the chance to be aware of any of his dealings. Or Mother’s.

“Hammond pulled it out of the trunk before you opened it.” He kicked a rock and watched it careen down the path.

Uncle meant to spoon-feed the truth to me one small bite at a time? Or did he mean to take the land for himself? Or did he not trust me? Another thought pulled at a thread. “They want it back, don’t they? The Birches?”

“They haven’t the money to buy it, that much is true. The grandmother grumbles about it regularly.”

I felt a rising tide of resentment towards the Birches. The old ones were set against me before they even knew me. Like Mr. Bleu and Uncle had been.

Why didn’t Mother ever take care of it? Surely after all the years, her initial pain would have subsided enough to square away matters. Unless she wanted me to have this bit of land too. But why? Certainly, they didn’t care for me, the child not of Birch blood—they wanted land. My land. All this wealth doesn’t enrich my life. “I wish I never came here.”

He touched my arm. I looked at my shoes.

“That can’t be true.” He shook his head. “Look. I promised you, no more secrets. That’s the last one I know of. Hammond will be relieved it’s over, I daresay.”

Unbidden tears welled up. Embarrassment and grief came rippling up all together. I fought it off to no avail. Grief accompanies every mood these days. The ugliness of finding oneself at odds with others, standing alone. But I wasn’t completely on my own.

Mr. Bleu stood like a deep-rooted tree. His hand stayed on my arm, the other came around and held me at a distance. As if putting me in place. “Why are you so worried?”

But he had been concerned, too. For a moment, I wished Helen had come along and spared me this further humiliation. I challenged him, “How would you feel in my shoes?”

He tightened his hold, bowed his head, and began to whisper. I couldn’t understand him at first, but realized he was praying...for my pain and grief. For God’s love to surround me.

The tears fell. Never in my life had I anticipated such an event.  He stopped praying and dropped his hands, his tight jaw working as if he might weep too. “I do know some of your pain, Dorothy.” He gave another crooked smile, “Come,