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

and tall. I couldn’t help feeling excited. Old Becky was another piece of my new life and independence.  And the third member of my animal family, if Rosie ever turned up again.

“Good. Thank you,” he said between bites.

“I wish I could offer you better.”

He shook his head. “During the war, we’d fight each other over food this fresh.” He gulped more lemonade. “Makes a body grateful for every crumb.” He averted his eyes.

Father rarely spoke of the war. His duties had been clerical, thank goodness.

I took his glass and plate back inside and hauled my linens to dry in the breeze across a section of fencing. He was loading the wagon. “I’ll be back tomorrow to finish. I promise.”

I could only hope.

AUGUST 3, EVENING

Ruth came a few hours later with steaming hot pies in a large basket. “Stopped by the house on my way home.” Her grin was almost wicked.

Wait a minute—was she insinuating that my house was now her home? But I was distracted by the wafting spicy scent.

“Are you staying on another night?”

“Oh, why of course!” She scooped a heaping slice for each of us and we ate together as before, at my little table set as though for expected company.

And she snuggled herself right back into my bed. I should have begged Mr. Bleu to take her home where she belonged. I may never sleep a full night again.

Weariness overtook me, but I’m reminded of Mr. Bleu’s smile, his helping hand...I’d see him again tomorrow. Thankfully. I wanted to be upset with him for not taking the deed, but couldn’t find the will. After all, he’s not my enemy. Far from it.

Chapter 33

BUILDING OLD BECKY’S stable for Dorothy assuaged his guilt some. Well, a little. With the work completed and the horse safely installed, he had no good reason to visit again anytime soon. Glimpses of Dorothy about her duties, her through-the-window gaze fixed on some distant thought until her eyes saw him looking back. A reflective flit, and she’d slip away for a spell.

His life had dulled considerably without his horse breeding venture with Hammond or his interaction with those rambunctious boys. He missed the rest of the family as well. Ruth’s abandonment and lack of her perfectly baked pies on his table left him hungry all the time. How long did she plan to stay away?

Not even Ernest popped by as before. Couldn’t hardly blame him, poor fellow, between a immovable rock and a difficult place. He’d been forced to choose a side without any desire to do so.

Contacting Mr. Trafton had been a long shot, a risk he’d willingly taken. Sure, he’d known about Hammond’s gambling. Knew the habit had formed in the desolation of the battlefields, the sorry campsites with little else to do between battling the enemy. He knew too well of the fierce grip that can hold a man’s soul captive.

Mr. Trafton’s heart had been softened by James’s frantic appeal. Then as now, people still suffered from the war, in so many different ways. Nostalgia, a cheap word to put on so costly a sacrifice. That’s why he’d been willing to reach deeply into his own pockets. Let Mr. Trafton be a part of Hammond’s redemption from himself. They’d shaken on the promise. Kept it hidden under his hat.

No longer would Hammond be able to gamble against the farm and put his family at risk. But here he was, losing out all the same. That adorable niece of his shouldn’t have to suffer either. How else could he show how much he cared?

He had a bothersome feeling that wouldn’t go away. God expected him to do something else. Wish he knew exactly what.

AUGUST 5, 1880

“Gots to learn you a song so you can join me.”

I stopped cold. Ruth perched in my rocking chair with knitting in her lap, humming like she always did, one foot on a rung, the other flapping against the floor when the rocker tilted forward again. She’d been with me for a week already. I scarcely know how the time had passed.

“Set on down here with yer’ needle an’ linens. Follo’ m’ lead.” Ruth sang one of her Negro spirituals.

I absolutely balked. I do not have a rich, buttery voice for singing, though I enjoy singing when alone and out of earshot. Not in the mood to be made to sing anything at all. I sat down and threaded my needle.

Ruth squeezed her brows together at my silence. I couldn’t resist her. When she finally heard me sing, I thought she might beg me to stop.

At least there was no one else around to hear my attempts. I released my voice to follow, “Swing low..., sweet chariot...” A memory surfaced some moments later. Father and I had taken an adventure walk—with no maps. We ended up at the edge of a Negro community. Children stood in rows outside a small clapboard schoolhouse, singing this very song. Father applauded and discretely handed the teacher some coins. I’d been mortified. Did my best to hide behind a maple tree, away from curious eyes. Oh Father, what I would do to take that walk again. I’d sing with them, yes.

Our voices mingled, hers taking up for what talent I lacked. We kept going until I relaxed, no longer embarrassed, her knitting needles quickly clicking, my needle and thread tugging, stitching white thorns on a blackberry bramble.

“And if you get there before I do, coming for to carry me home, I’ll cut a hole and pull you through...” Snip went my scissors through the cloth, cutwork for the berries.

Ruth’s voice trailed off.  I wondered at this woman, with her night terrors. Who is turning me into a coffee drinker as never before. Who calms at the name of Jesus.

I asked her then. “Ruth? Why did you come here to stay?”

She looked at me with bewilderment. “You gots to ask?”

I nodded.

“To be yo’ family.” She rose from her rocking chair and put the kettle on, not