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

with my bed quilt, Lad and Rosie hiding beneath. A strangeness crept into my heart and mind.

Philip and Chess weren’t camping outside anymore. Helen and Kirsten? My should-be sisters. I wonder what dreams they share back in their old room.

JUNE 17, 1880

Kate’s hands showed telltale signs of having scrubbed something all day. Laundry was no small chore. Chapped and bright from the ointment she’d used.

I seated them around the table and began to place dishes around. I’d slaved all day to make a presentable feast. Lad gobbled down the remains of a ruined spice cake and had already been sick twice before they’d arrived. Messes I didn’t need today.

Heating the stove proved to be quite a venture. Maybe I should have ordered a smaller one! Heat clung to my body, clung to the walls. Even the wild buds I’d picked from the field drooped in protest.

I threw open the door, hoping for a breeze, hoping not to make a complete fool of myself. Their arrival brought butterflies to my stomach. But soon felt more settled

They chattered on back and forth about the locals, their school days. As I raised my fork to my lips, a heavy knock sounded.

Mr. Bleu stood on the other side of the door, a small smile lifted—of course I had to invite him to dine. He seemed pleased. I followed his gaze to the mantel piece, to the arrangement I’d accidentally left there. I wondered why he’d come. I had to wait until Charles and Kate left for home.

“Kind of you to invite them.” He gazed after their disappearing backs.

“Well, it was the least I could do.” I untied my apron and laid it over the handrail. “Why did you come?”

He grinned. “To make sure you’re still alive, of course.”

“Didn’t an old great aunt live here alone for years on end? She survived.”

“She wasn’t raised in the city.”

Ah. That.

“I heard you bought a horse. Old Becky’s been around awhile, but I think you made a decent purchase.”

Did I require approval for every decision made? I feel as though everyone is keeping up with my doings and then gossiping. A subject of much discussion. Except by the people that matter. Aunt, Uncle. “Wait...her name is Becky?” The horse is a female. Maybe I did need some guidance.

“Why don’t you let me keep her in my stables until you get something fixed up.” He slipped a thumb behind a suspender. “She’s gonna need a good deal more water than that small bucket you’ve got over there.” He grinned again.

“Alright.” I agreed, “For the sake of the horse.”

“Right. For the horse.” He looked at the side of my house. “Do you need some wood brought in?”

“I suppose.” My heart beat fast, full of emotion. He’d come to check on me and generously offered help. Should I say what’s in my heart?

His strong arms lifted as many loads as filled the bucket by the stove. For propriety’s sake, I stayed outside. The heat of the day had mercifully passed. I’d not make a fire tonight, though the sight of a warm flame makes me feel a little less lonely.

Mr. Bleu replaced his hat atop his head and lightly bowed a good night.

That’s when small inner screams began. The ones that hadn’t surfaced since I’d moved from Cincinnati. Gripping, squeezing heart-ache that shouted after him to hold me in his arms as my Father had done. As my beloved might. I didn’t want to be left so utterly alone.

He waved to me at the turn off, I choked and ran inside. The candle glow emanating from the dinner table distracted my thoughts, as a hypnotized moth. I allowed it in, reflected on things. Knew I needed to pray.

Light of God, help me, help me, help me before I drown. Raise me from death. Soften my heart. Help me forgive. Amen.

JAMES LATCHED OLD BECKY in a comfortable stall. A low lamp flickered in the kitchen and scents of Ruth’s roasted chicken still permeated the air. He’d eaten his fill before he’d left for Dorothy’s. He had to admit, her spread made the perfect pairing, if only they’d been consumed at the same time. He chuckled. Never had so many baked goods filled a table.

He wound the leading rope and hung it on a nail—and stopped short. Movement by the second story window, near his study.

He’d left his pistol where it should stay—hidden in a footlocker beneath his bed. His rifle stayed loaded in the kitchen pantry. No time to retrieve it. His sling shot should do.

He snatched it from his toolbox and slipped around the side, eyes never leaving the front of his house. There. A large man edged along in the darkness. Hammond?

Sickness crept in his gut, fierce anger threatened. He breathed deeply, evenly. Steadied himself. He raised his slingshot to aim. “Oh God of love and forgiveness...” he lowered his hands. Let the man go. Now was not the time.

But tomorrow would be. He’d pay them all a visit. Find out why Hammond had come. Disbelief rocked his hopes for reconciliation.

He went inside and found Ruth hiding behind the draperies clutching a fire poker and shivering like a wet kitten. “Don’t know who dat man be, come slippin’ through my open windas ...he ain’t gonna take Ruth. Ain’t gonna get ‘er.”

He helped Ruth to the kitchen for a cup of chamomile tea—prayed her fears away.  Reassured her. He locked up for the night and made his way to the study. Nothing out of place. Each drawer filled the same way as before. Except for some dried mud evidence where Hammond’s heavy boots had stepped.

What had he been looking for? Mr. Trafton’s box?

He made a quick dash back down the road to Dorothy’s, hid behind a cluster of trees, watched and listened for hours. No sign of Hammond. He wearily made his way home. He’d have to visit her again tomorrow afternoon. Convince her to hide her Father’s box—but how would this keep Hammond from trying to