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

‘Til then, I’ll not hazard going near the farm. I’ll eye it from a distance. Check in with Ernest if he visits. As for praying, I can only offer up the pitiful facts to the One who sees all. His will be done. Amen.

I truly feel for Mr. Bleu. His words: “I’ve lost my best friend...and only family I’ve had in a while...” I do not understand what it means. What of his parents? I recall that he does not visit home or even talk about such a place. I wonder why.

I loathe Mr. Bleu’s displeasure. It sinks deep like a bramble thorn, hard to soothe the sting until it’s gone altogether. I hope he can bring himself to understand me.

My pleasure is dimmed, but workers arrive at the cottage tomorrow! How fortunate that Mr. MacDonald was able to find men ready and willing so quickly. He is about the only one not thoroughly taken aback by my shocking plan.

The day grows hot, yet I need to go to town and special order my stove. Not too keen on cooking over an open fire. Even if I’m cooking just for me.

JAMES PULLED BACK THE vulcanized rubber strap and released the rock. The bottle on the fence post shattered, leaving a jagged neck. He pulled another stone from his pocket and aimed. He’d not miss. Crack! A third green-tinted bottle caught the sun. Drums and pipes beat in the distance. His stomach clenched. He shrugged it off, pulled back and released. Quite a weapon. Small and primitive, its sum of parts but few. It’s ability to knock tall men flat, undisputed.

“I hope you be the one gonna clean dat mess.” Ruth quipped. “Or I’m gonna be pulling glass outta somebody’s sore feet afore long.”

“I’ll get it.”

“Why you want to mess up perfectly good bottles like that?”

He slid on a leather glove and bent to pick up chunks and slivers, heaping them onto old newspaper.

“I needed to see if I still could.”

“I reckon you can. You trainin’ to kill a giant mayhap?”

James grinned. “I’ve been asked that before.”

“I gots to go down the valley. The beans and ham are done cooked. You can eat yesterday’s cornbread.”

“Thank you, Ruth.” A hearty meal sounded good.

She nodded and slung a heavy sack over her shoulder.

“I’ll drive you down if you wait.”

“Ain’t waitin’.”

“Ruth, give me fifteen minutes.”

“Ain’t waitin’.” She repeated.

If everyone would just slow down and wait. Think about how best to handle situations. “Suit yourself.”

“I aim to.” And she was gone.

He shoved his sling shot into his back pocket and headed inside. Sopped his cornbread in the hot beans and ham, ate in silence. Swallowed a half gallon of water in more silence. He shoved the dishes aside and bent his head over his arms and let the day’s frustration roll off his shoulders.

He rested for some time in that position, sleep slipped around the edges of his consciousness. The back door slapped shut and shook him out of his reverie. He jerked his head toward the sound, but saw no one. He looked out the door. Dorothy. Running like a frightened rabbit. He wanted to call out to her, but her name caught in his throat. She must’ve been embarrassed to catch him snoozing. Was there an emergency?

He’d catch up with her right quick on his horse. He mounted within five minutes. Sighted her quickly—not far off. She sat on the side of the road atop a smooth rock jutting from the land.  Her chin rested on her knees tucked deep within her voluminous skirts. He didn’t miss the blood- stained apron. His heart quickened.

“Dorothy?”

She peered up.

“What’s wrong?”

She held up her trembling hand as far as she dared, her palm was sliced through and oozing. Her cheeks grew pale. “I was trying to help around the cottage—clear up some of the debris so the new flooring can be put in.” Her eyes fluttered.

“Don’t you own a pair of work gloves?” he smiled, hoping to encourage. He slid from his horse.

She shook her head.

He drew nearer and knelt in the dusty gravel, leaving his horse to graze on the tender grass. “Didn’t anyone tell you it isn’t proper for you to be hanging around those men all day?”

She covered her hand with a soaked handkerchief. “There’s another woman there. Don’t know who she is—won’t talk to me one bit.” Her lips pursed.

He understood the ache of loneliness. Why hadn’t that other woman helped? “Let me take a look at that.”

“Will it make you ill?” She tried to hide her hand under her stained apron and swayed.

“I’m fine.” He commanded his stomach to stop squeezing. He would not lose himself in front of her again. “Now let’s see.” He looked at her small hand, grimy from a little labor. A might proud to see it, though she really should have been wearing gloves. Hard to tell how deep the gash was, there was so much blood. She winced and turned her head away from him.

“Ruth’s gone out—not back until tomorrow.” Cedar Gate was too far. She needed attention. “Come, get on my horse. We’ll go back to the house and patch you up.”

She looked down the road uncertain.

“Can’t help the fact that you need assistance. No one need know.”

She lightly nodded.

He held out his hand and brought her to her feet, lifted her with ease onto his horse, guilt swirling. He’d ripped up the rotten flooring in the old cottage—just to blow off steam. Didn’t think anyone would notice. Never expected Dorothy to be living there. Since Ernest didn’t dare ask him back, and his overseer managed everything else exceedingly well. He’d needed something to do. He’d taken his old sling shot and had a little fun that day, popping deserted bottles and possum bones.

Back in his kitchen, she lay with her head slumped as his had been an hour earlier. Her hand rested in a bowl of warm water. James worked quickly, averting