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

tell, you paid for Uncle’s farm in Father’s name. Every cent. That land rightly belongs to you.”

He knew it wouldn’t be long before she figured it out, if she bothered to search. The consequence of honesty—after dishonesty. He slid his fingers over the paper where hers had touched it.

“I’m right, aren’t I? You paid for every square foot, every acre, and fence post.” She pounded her knee with the palm of her hand. “My only question is how much more will you help him? What else did you do that no one else knows about?”

He bit his tongue. Out of the question.

“I know Father paid off some kind of gambling debts. A goodly amount—but nothing compared to what you’ve dished out. I’m giving it back to you. I can’t carry this burden anymore.”

“No.”

She snapped up, pushing the documents toward him.

He tossed the papers back in her lap. How could she do this to him? Hand a gift back that had cost him dearly?

“What do you mean? You never wanted me to have it anyway, you and Uncle.”

Fury and panic raced through his veins. If he held the deed, Hammond would know what he’d done. An irreparable future lay ahead, farming side by side with an open abyss between them. “I can’t take it back.”

She stood and shook it in his face. “I’ll go with you to town in the morning. We will get my name off this deed.”

“No.”

Tears raced down her face. “What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to live with myself?” She threw the documents to the floor and ran outside.

He gathered them up, tears forming around his eyes. He hated these papers. They marked his failure. Failure to see that sometimes a man, even a friend, needed to be left to his own devices and consequences. And that obedience to God was better than a sacrifice, no matter how noble it seemed.

He stuffed the papers back into the envelope and found Dorothy in the stable, stroking Old Becky’s nose.

Her voice trembled. “As long as that farm is in my name, Aunt and Uncle will despise me. Helen and Kirsten too.”

He pursed his lips, hoping that wouldn’t be the case, but knowing otherwise.

She looked so pitiful, standing there in brown calico, her hair in a loose braid grown wild by the summer breeze.

How could he have guessed the outcome of a single act of kindness? Would he sacrifice her family life for his? His heart broke. Had already been broken. His friendship with Hammond may never completely mend. When she’d gone and sold those twenty acres, he knew she was so very scared for herself. Did no one else notice? The failures went full circle. But none so deep as Hammond’s...or his.

“Keep it for now. Pray about it. I don’t know what else to tell you. I do know I’m not supposed to have this deed.” He couldn’t go back on this conviction. Sank too far, right down to his bones.

He held out the papers, she reluctantly took them and left, without turning her head or waving goodbye.

He watched her hike down the dirt road, not even stopping to admire the clump of white daisies at the gate post.

Ruth sidled near his elbow “She ain’t got no real family. She needs one.”

“You know who that is, Hammond’s niece. Dorothy.”

Her bottom lip turned up, but she closed her eyes and swayed to an unspoken pain.

Ruth was right.

“I’m gonna be her family.”

James started. “What’d you say?”

“She can’t be alone.” Ruth’s head swayed from side to side. “I knows it. I knows.” She trotted away, but returned with on overstuffed satchel. “You can tote me on down there.”

Of all the hair-brained—but that was Ruth, chasing kindness.

JULY 13, 1880

I awoke in the most frightful manner. I’d taken myself to bed as soon as I returned from Mr. Bleu’s, though the night had yet to fall. I slept as I hadn’t in days—some relief. There beside me, beneath my quilt lay another body! As shocking as Ruth was to Boaz, was this Ruth to me. How and why had she ended the day in my bed?

She awoke soon after I did, her large brown eyes blinked in the red sunrise. Lad jumped atop the bed, all a-sniff. Some watchdog. When had he come back?

I realized then, that I hadn’t latched the doorway. Anyone might have entered. I feared that Ruth had become drunk and disoriented. How disconcerting that I did not notice!

I stared at her for several moments before she bolted upright, swung herself out of bed, and made her way to my cook stove. She showed no sign of sickness. I followed, hoping to get some answers to my queries Mr. Bleu must be missing a hot breakfast this morning. “You let the fire go out, missus.” I expected her to wag a finger.

“Um, yes. I believe I did.”

She snatched a wooden spoon and waved it in my face, “Don’t you never let yer fire go out, chile. Where’s yo lard bucket? And flour? I make us a breakfast to live on t’day.”

I pulled out the ingredients with a quick prayer to God. I’d never had a stranger in my home quite like this. How did one ask an old lady to leave you be?

She started singing songs I’d never heard before, her voice raising and lowering in rich alto tones, making herself at home. Completely.

She noticed my reverie in the corner of the room and waved me over. “Git on over here an’ help me. You fry up the bacon.”

I slipped a much-soiled apron around my waist and did as I was told.

In no time, the biscuits rose high in the oven, bacon crisped, eggs scrambled, and corn grits cooked and buttered. Not to mention a jar of jam she must have brought along. Were more people joining us in my home?

She tossed a fresh blue gingham cloth over my table and set it carefully. “Open the door, chile. Let the morning ride on in afore