Of Needles and Haystacks Ann Fryer (ebook reader with built in dictionary .TXT) 📖

want my life back. Do you understand? I want my parents to hold me in their arms again. I want my home back, long talks over tea, my trips to the lake...”

I thought this was my new home. But now I see that I’m more than a mere burden. I’m unwanted. That’s the word that popped into my head as they looked bug-eyed at me.

I had been open-hearted to this family and they had seemed so to me.  Clearly, I was mistaken. The question of what to do with myself has just been trumped by an undeniable fact. At first, I thought I could get things back to normal—whatever that meant—if I returned the deed to Uncle. To allay his fears and show my pure motives. But is it right to hand over Father’s last gift to me? My inheritance. What if I am supposed to own this place? Raise my own family here. What if God has a plan for me in all this? To cast off Father’s legacy gift might open me to divine judgment somehow...Not to mention poverty.

Uncle left. I rose from my chair and washed the dishes. Mr. Bleu dried them. We didn’t speak, I couldn’t and he wouldn’t. As soon as we finished, he tried to say something, but I scampered up here to my small square of solitude. He has been unkind despite the forced show of drying dishes.

Not surprising but I have a roaring head ache now.

JAMES SHUFFLED THROUGH his bag for a peppermint. His stomach had grown nauseous after questioning that niece of Hammond’s.

Oh, how he hated that she’d seen him trigger into sickness. What foolishness. She must have thought he was insane, though she’d showed no sign but slight annoyance. He’d been the one annoyed! Not to be able to control oneself in a group would ever be a thorn in his flesh. The uncontrolled fear that gripped him—the heaving sickness. It couldn’t happen again. Next time, he wouldn’t be caught off guard. Next time, he’d count to a thousand.

Hammond trooped up the attic stairs with a lantern and a box under one arm. James held the door.

“Here. Why don’t you go through these papers and see if there’s anything we oughtta know.” Hammond set the metal box on his cot and nervously wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.

James’ blood grew hot. “What are these?” He knew without asking what they were—what they might contain.

“Dorothy’s not gonna need them. Her pa’s business and the like.” Hammond shoved the handkerchief in his back pocket

“I don’t know that I have any business going through this.” That was the honest thing to say. But anticipation gripped him to the core. He needed to see. And Hammond, thank God, did not appear to have looked through them yet. Some things were better left unknown.

“You have at them. Dorothy’s just a gal. We must look out for her.” Hammond’s face appealed with honesty. “She might need us to help out with something else. Maybe an unpaid bill? Who knows.”

James nodded in agreement.

“You know I’m not good with numbers. She deserves better than who she ended up with.”

“Not true. But I’ll see what needs attention, if any.” He nodded, giving Hammond the security he needed. The security he always needed.

What an odd pair they’d made during the war days. One boastful, overly sure-of-himself twelve-year-old rich runaway and this easygoing farmer with more bravery than anyone could have predicted. If only others could see him, know what he did, know the real man when worst came to worst.

Days of fire and smoke. Blood and prayer. Drum and fife, forward and onward to victory. He shuddered and forced himself to breathe slowly. He pasted a grin on his face, remembering the frog he and Danny had put in Colonel West’s boot—and in a flash, Dorothy’s stunned face came before him. Her shock and sadness.

A different kind of war, he’d expected. But not complete ignorance as she’d convincingly displayed. Still, she owned the land, and further still, she had control over those ten acres he needed. Unless control could be slipped from her frail female hands. Not by a long shot. He’d fought too hard, worked too hard to let a mere girl control his destiny.

Her open grief tore at him. She didn’t dash away to hide her face, but let them all see what this news did to her. Bravely, she did the dishes any way. He felt like a heel the whole time. He had been too hard. Brutal even. He’d heard a version of his father’s voice come rolling out of him, demanding truth.

Well, she’d told them the truth. She wanted her old home back. Her parents to hold her. Their sustaining presence. He himself had run from a firm hold, right into war. When he’d run back home three years later, the arms of his father were open wide, though it was hard to take comfort. His disbelieving mother had grown stone cold.

Dorothy’s emotions were raw. Unstable. They needed to be careful, or she might blow like an undetonated cannon ball.

He heightened the fire in his oil lamp and set to work. Heart in his throat, he went through every account, each piece of mail. In the very bottom, tied in a string were the letters and receipts. Dear God! What if Hammond had found them instead? What then? He’d begged Dorothy’s father to destroy them, why did he keep them? Do not let the left hand know what the right hand is doing. They were nobody’s business...and yet...he held them in his hands, considering. These letters could be useful, if worst came to worst. If Dorothy could be trusted. If...

He bundled everything back into the box and tucked it safely in his sack. He released a long breath. The Lord was indeed looking out for him. Always.

Chapter 7

FEBRUARY 29, 1880

A knock sounded at my door. I did not want to answer. I knew I looked awful. I failed to braid my