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

After obeying, I sat down, obedient to this very awkward circumstance. I managed to finally ask a question, “How did you come to rest here?”

“James brought me last night.”

“He did?” Why on earth?

“Yes’um.” She handed me the biscuit platter, though it sat within reach.

“If he ordered you to help me, I assure you, I’m quite capable.”

“Oh, he didn’t sen me,” she laughed. “I come of my own.”

But why? I scarcely knew the woman. I ate a slice of bacon, savoring the saltiness. The farm deed lay atop the bookshelf. A painful reminder of Mr. Bleu’s latest rejection. I’d been so certain he would want it and know exactly what to do with it. Save me from the pressure that crushes my heart.

I was wrong. I opened the hot biscuit and slathered on butter, added a spoonful of Ruth’s jam—divine. Heavenly. Might be sacrilegious, but I thought of communion. So much hope found in a bite of bread.

Ruth bent over her food, showing the tight black and gray-speckled braids that fitted her scalp. Her eyes took in the mess. “We got us some work to do.”

Cobwebs clung to the corners of the room, soiled dresses had been cast aside in a heap. The ash bucket overflowed. “You don’t have to help me—I am cap—

She stood, arms akimbo. “Nonsense. Now you wash up. Where’s y’ broom?”

How to get her out of my house? I’d walk to Mr. Bleu’s and demand he remove her. But I plain don’t want to see him right now. Couldn’t bear it. I gobbled another slice of bacon instead.

“Am I gonna wait here all day? Wear right through this here floor.”

Lad sat and wagged his tail for bacon. I fed him a slice and he ran out the door—then fetched the broom like I was told.

JULY 14, 1880

She is still here. Every inch of this place has been scrubbed whether needed or not! I’m a good kind of tired. She sits in my rocking chair with her eyes closed. I can’t tell whether she is awake or asleep. Guess it doesn’t matter.

She spoke of fresh buttered corn for supper. I haven’t any, though I suspect the corn growing in nearby fields have barely pushed up from the earth. She’s mumbled about juicy watermelon too. Awakening dormant cravings fulfilled only in the summer.

JULY 15, 1880

Was that foolish? I hiked the direction that Charles and Kate pointed, in search of them—truthfully, in search of the fresh produce Ruth kept on about.

What an awkward scene! A few people I recognized from church, Birches apparently, were busy hanging laundry or peeling potatoes from their front porch. They ran inside like frightened rabbits. Like Birches apparently.

Kate came out, her forehead creased with worry. I floundered for a moment before handing out coins—in payment for anything fresh out of their garden.

She helped me fill a basket of greens and cucumber, and a few early tomatoes as well. She refused payment altogether.

“Here’s a few eggs too. We have more than we can eat.” She smiled reluctantly. “I wish I had time to walk you home. Come see me again!”

I had the feeling that the others didn’t want my coming around, else why hide? Why not introduce themselves? I gave Kate my brightest smile and turned toward home.

When I plunked the basket down, Ruth set to inspecting the contents. “Ahhh, ah. Make us a salad.”

Us? Did she not plan to return home tonight? “How long do you plan to visit?”

“Don’t rightly know.”

Oh my. What a strange predicament. Stranger still that Mr. Bleu had not come to fetch her.

I washed the produce, sliced the cucumber, arranged the tomatoes around the perimeter of the platter like Mother used to. Mixed the dressing nice and tart.

And we ate, a cold biscuit in our left hands and cold tea at our right. How strange that she should be here. How unexpected for me. How...good.

RUTH HAD NOT RETURNED quickly like he’d expected. He agonized over whether or not to go check on Dorothy. Ruth no doubt took her by surprise. Or shock! That woman had a way about her.

He’d tried to visit Hammond today, but they told him he wasn’t up to visitors. Tired excuse. As though I haven’t seen the worst in my lifetime already. Ernest had waved from a distant field.

His own overseer had all the fields sown and producing nicely, the tenant farmers also. He grew jittery. There had to be something besides lounging around his study lost in unreal worlds of his books. This house was way too quiet without Ruth’s soulful singing filling the rooms.

He pondered building Dorothy a stable for that tired old horse of hers. He opened his desk and pulled out a clean sheet of paper and rule and began mapping it out. He’d make it large enough to be a proper outbuilding too. Plenty of storage as well.

Would she accept the gift? Maybe he wouldn’t give her the choice.

Chapter 32

AUGUST 3, 1880

I sipped several strong cups of coffee this morning. Had anyone a more tortuous night than I? Perhaps Ruth herself. The moans began sometime after midnight, the weeping came an hour later. I could do nothing for her, she didn’t seem to be awake and yet would not, could not be woken.

She gripped the blankets to herself, gathered them right into her middle, her pain obvious. Writhed in place for hours on end, weeping all the while.

I’d slipped from bed long before sunrise. I tried to nestle on to the settee, too hard for sleeping. Despite my need for rest, I fumbled around and lit an oil lamp. Made coffee. I figured Ruth would show up any moment and benefit from the hot brew. I spent the wee hours of the morning sipping the pot clear down, praying, “God, oh, God, have mercy on her! I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what she needs, Lord? Please, take the nightmare away.” As I prayed, her grief rose to