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

nestled beneath a maple tree filling out with light lacy leaves. Nature hummed its tune. I removed my pocket knife and cut a small branch with a few miniature leaves to carry back to Cedar Gate.

I’ve never been more certain of myself. I’d found my home. A home lacking heart wouldn’t be able to shut mine out. I enjoyed my lunch with open zeal. Licked my fingers and gulped down cool sweetened tea. Finally, a plan!

I pulled out a pencil and notebook and listed what’s needed to make this cottage livable. I considered what I had remaining from Father. A mere $50.00.  I’d have to do something to survive.

Chapter 25

JAMES HAD SEEN HER hiking to that slice of old Birch land. “Trafton land, now,” he allowed.  Shameful her cousins alienated her from the family. The whole passel of them should be off hiking together on this beautiful day. Making memories, dreaming of their futures together. Linking arms like sisters. Instead, the silly girls took up Hammond’s offense without a second thought. And certainly without evidence. He murmured to himself, “He is their father...would I have done the same?” Perhaps so.

His meeting yesterday with Hammond had been too brief. A chasm as wide as the Kentucky River flowed between them. Where had the man-to-man salute gone? At one time, they’d fought on the same side for the same reasons. Now they stood like enemies.

“You’ve always been the spoiled rich kid.” Hammond frowned. “You don’t know what it’s like to work your whole life for something.”

Didn’t he?

Hammond jerked a crooked fence post loose from the barbed wire that trapped it.

“I’m not going to stand around and watch someone take what’s rightfully mine.”

“Dorothy needs to...”

“She needs to stay out of my way. Her father did me a good turn, I’ll admit. He also knew that this place is mine down to the deepest roots. I’m the one that’s stayed forever and worked it hard. Not my privileged sister. Nor anyone else.” He pointed to his chest. “Me. They didn’t so much as bother to visit. Not for twenty years! Dorothy don’t know a fence post from a stick of firewood.”

“Do you imagine she’s just going to hand over that deed?” He needed to be reasonable.

Hammond’s mouth grew in a thick line. Looked down to his shoes. Fear, again. Would his fear make him do something he’d regret?

James tried again, with a low, calm voice. He didn’t want to rile him into another fit. “I’d never steal anything from you. Why would you think that? How could you?” Last time he checked, getting married wasn’t stealing anyhow. The thought burned.

Hammond had been weakened by spells but toughened by anger. To imagine that he, James, would be so greedy. He wanted to share his life with his friend. Cultivate life and land together as they had marched forward during the war.

Neighboring land had been for sale when he had visited years ago, the timing was perfect. When he’d moved here, he’d grafted right into the family. Or so he thought.

“You give Dorothy all those papers? The ones that I wanted?”

“I did. I should never have taken them. Neither should you. Would have been better to ask first and avoid a conflict.” Truth set people free, didn’t it?

Hammond walked away without a reply. Gave a directive to Ernest who’d scarce looked his way the whole time.

When he found out that Hammond had borrowed against the farm and was about to lose everything, well, the rest was history. Maybe he should have stayed out of it. Watched the family suffer humiliation. Become tenant farmers with little to their name. Didn’t Hammond realize how close he’d been to complete and utter destruction? Tornado damage was nothing by comparison.

His mind wandered to Dorothy, who had indeed lost her home in a devastating way. The brave girl had defended him. Kept his secret. If Hammond found out what he’d done. But no. Wasn’t worth telling now. He only hoped he hadn’t offered Hammond enough rope to hang himself.

Does Dorothy fit in at Cedar Gate? Mrs. MacDonald’s welcoming personality would be good for her. Keep her teacup filled with the right kind of tea. He smiled, remembering her astonishment at her first taste of hot sassafras. Eyes widened after a quick swallow. He chuckled. Wished he could sit across from her again. Talk things out. If only things had gone well the afternoon he confessed...

He tapped his fingers on the side table. She might court and marry anyone.  He noticed plenty of other single men at church glancing her way. He unbuttoned his tight collar, choking at the thought.

The farm was legally set to go to her husband. He thought of that possibility over and over. When he’d opened his pockets, he’d hoped to save the farm. Not give it away. But God’s plans...he sighed. He gave a gift—and should not claim ownership in any way. God’s money, God’s land. Dorothy’s love. His plan.

Dorothy deserved the happiness of marriage. Who was he to stand in the way of that? He fought the dream. Tried so hard not to imagine her contentedly sitting in the other rocking chair in his study. He leaned back and prayed with his hands wide open.

MAY 29, 1880

I flipped through Mr. Birch’s sketchbook and found a small drawing of the house. I almost didn’t recognize it! In days past the windows had glass, the shutters were free of vines. Smoke slipped from the chimney. Or was that merely youth’s fancy?  Wreathed in a design of twigs and maple leaves, it’s clear that he favored the cottage. And well knew the tree I’d lunched beneath. He’d received it as a wedding gift, but chose to live on Mother’s farm instead? Why? I searched the sketch book, inside and out for another rendition. Couldn’t find any, but shall treasure this one. I’ve propped the book open to glance upon as I plan.

It’s strange to be glad Mr. Birch married Mother. This wedding gift had been