Of Needles and Haystacks

by Ann Elizabeth Fryer

  Of Needles and Haystacks

  Hearts Unlocked

  Ann Elizabeth Fryer

  Published by Ann Fryer, 2021.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  OF NEEDLES AND HAYSTACKS

  First edition. March 18, 2021.

  Copyright © 2021 Ann Elizabeth Fryer.

  ISBN: 978-1393749431

  Written by Ann Elizabeth Fryer.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Of Needles and Haystacks (Hearts Unlocked)

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Acknowledgments

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  About the Author

  For Mark, my heart, my home. I love you.

  Of Needles and Haystacks by Ann Elizabeth Fryer is a beautifully written story of the challenges and perils of family life in the 1880's. Dorothy and James are characters you'll love getting to know while you eagerly turn the pages to find out if they can find happiness after the hard times they've faced. Fryer has written a historical story you won’t want to miss. ...Ann H. Gabhart, bestselling author of An Appalachian Summer

  AN UNEXPECTED INHERITANCE leads Dorothy Trafton to rural Kentucky and a family she hardly knew. And now she owns their farm. Strife and tension build to a stunning climax. Through it all, Dorothy seeks a way of peace and reconciliation in her strange new world. Of Needles and Haystacks is a heartwarming story of family and one girl’s journey to find a home.

  An excellent debut novel. Ann Fryer takes the traditional Christian romance to new heights.

  Award winning author, Henry McLaughlin

  “Of Needles and Haystacks reads like cherished memories of a time when we bared our souls in the pages of diaries and hand-written letters.” —Michael James Emberger, author of Silent Altitudes

  “Remember that there is only one important time and it is Now. The present moment is the only

  time over which we have dominion. The most important person is always the person with whom you are, who is right before you...” Leo Tolstoy

  Chapter 1

  PARIS, KENTUCKY

  February 24, 1880

  James Bleu sat beneath a barren, overgrown apple tree that stood solitary watch over the winter-browned hill. Never-pruned limbs dipped and stretched, pointing gnarled fingers in every direction in accusation of its neglect. The road to town stretched out a good piece until another hill cut it from sight. James tossed a withered apple from autumn past and watched it careen down the hill. He’d been waiting a good part of an hour, his binoculars at the ready. Dust kicked up at the bend. “There you are,” he murmured. He scooted to his feet and adjusted the sights for a closer look.

  In sharp detail he saw his friend, Hammond, politely nodding to the woman beside him. The infamous niece that everyone spoke of and nobody knew nothing about. She was fairly hidden by a cloak hood but turned just enough to make out her features. Her face plain as anything except for a delicately chiseled chin any artist would find intriguing.

  He lowered the binoculars and traced a finger down his own cheek, imagining an undamaged face. Instead he felt bumpy ridges, a too smooth patch. He stopped at his lip and jerked his hand away. No more.

  He raised the binoculars again. This girl was the Miss Trafton he’d been dreading. She wrapped an arm around her middle, clutched the other one around the back of the jostling seat. No doubt scorning every minute of the ride to her new country home. City girls. He well knew the difference. And the difference would be a fish bone in their throats.

  He blew air from his cheeks. “What kind of bumpy ride will you give us?” But he didn’t have to guess. The girl had shirked her extended family for countless summers until now they were all she had left. Somehow they would have to learn to live together. “God help us.”

  He turned towards home. He had a few days of work to accomplish before making his appearance. And doing what he’d promised Hammond.

  “If she’s like her father, we’ll have nothing to worry about. Unless...” His thoughts trailed off. One could only hope. Mr. Trafton had been a rare man.

  James broke into a run until the peaks of his house rose above the final slope. Nearly finished, this home had been a work of his hands and soul. A way to get past and sweat past any temptation to idleness. He refused to hide his manhood beneath prosperity. Or let another man build what he himself could create.

  He gave a few instructions to his overseer, grabbed a pitchfork and tossed a pile of silage into the cattle feeder, then made his way towards the kitchen for a cup of Ruth’s tea. What would he do without Ruth? The older woman had been a slave in years past, but considered kitchen work next door to heaven. Always singing, always telling him how blessed they are. And that he’d better not walk in the kitchen with muddy boots again or he’d never see another apple pie. Unbearable thought!

  The gray that topped her head came with a unique kind of wisdom. Not the kind that always made sense in his mind, but one that certainly kept her sparking with well-shod purpose. She’d truck over a snowy mountain or flooded valley to give a poor family their share of God’s good oats and potatoes. She didn’t bother about things like asking. She knew she had a Christian duty and assumed he had the same one. Be witless to shirk it.

  He’d grown up on iced cakes and candied fruits, but during the war, he felt lucky to get a fresh apple. And to see succulent fruit transformed into a pie—well heaven surely would offer nothing finer. His life had been full of contrasts...having the best of everything, to nothing; to the brink of death, to life again. Managing to move forward, though jangled by it all. To finally get on his feet comfortably and now see a precipice looming ahead.

  If only Mr. and Mrs. Trafton hadn’t up and died. He threw his pitchfork into the wheel barrow, the searing clatter made him cover his ears—allowing painful memories to crash through.

  Unwanted tension squeezed his neck and rose to his temples in a throb. His stomach rolled. He wouldn’t make it to the kitchen in time. Red clouded his vision and sweat trickled down his face. He stumbled to the water pump, dropped to his knees and pumped before he could black out. Ice cold water gushed over his neck and face. Nausea receded but left a deep, raw chill.

  He rested his forehead against the pump, breathing in and out, tired but grateful not to have been overtaken. This time. Served him right for becoming angry.

  Ruth ran from the back stoop, unknotted her stained apron and wrapped it around his neck. “You gonna make yo’self sickern’ a pickle!”

  “I like pickles, Ruth.” Wood fire and bacon scents wafted around him. Not altogether unwelcome. He stood, weak clear down to his knees.

  “Yo
u never gonna eat any outta this kitchen. Ain’t natural.” She took his arm like his mammy did when he was five, not thirty, and led him through the back door of the kitchen. “My old masah died from eating pickles.”

  He never knew when to take Ruth seriously. “Now your old master wasn’t fit to live, from what I hear.”

  She buttoned one lip into the other before curling them into a snarl. “Ol’ masah, ol’masah...he did one good thing. Jes one good thing.”

  “What’s that?

  She grew silent, and he didn’t wonder. Or press. Some events didn’t need to be relived or talked about. What mattered was that she was here now.

  He dutifully swiped his boots across the boot scrape and hung them on the rack. Thick chunks of mud still clung to the sides and threatened to drop any moment. Didn’t feel an ounce of guilt. He’d made a good effort after all.

  She snagged her apron from his neck and poured his tea. He blew against the steam, sipped, the warmth easing down into his chest. Pure mercy. “Have yourself some, Ruth.”

  “You know I already did.” The lines in her face softened.

  He grinned. She was good medicine. He carried his cup to his study and burrowed into his favorite chair. A sunlit glimmer burst in at the edge of the window, highlighting towering bookshelves filled with treasured friends.

  He propped his tired feet up on the cushy leather footstool and shut his eyes—tried not to recall the slight woman perched on Hammond’s wagon seat. She seemed harmless enough. What, I wonder, are her plans?

  Chapter 2

  FEBRUARY 24, 1880

  I have arrived, though the tiresome lurch of the train and wagon wheels have not yet left me. A man watched my passing from the top of the hill. I suppose new people are of some interest in this rural place. I confess myself quite taken aback by the staring. Uncle didn’t wave, though it seems he is a neighbor.

  My reception was far grander than I had dared anticipate. Indeed, I had not a single sure notion what to expect. Aunt and Uncle, their letters so full of kind approbations and earnest entreaties, might have been weary or even cynical on the other side of the pen. They had to fulfill an obligation, of course. I knew that. So did they.

  I had not expected Aunt’s wedding china to be out in all its fineness and a buffet table laden with tea, cake, and sugar-powdered doughnuts. Nor had I anticipated such genuine bright smiles from all my cousins. As if they’d wished me here my whole life and I’d finally given in and come. Well, this may be in part, true. I had been invited numerous times to spend summers here in rural Paris, Kentucky. I had always declined. I feared farm life would shackle me to sweaty labor rather than the cool trips to the lake I usually enjoyed.

  I can’t believe I am about to admit this: I may have been wrong all these years. This place has all the charm of a pastoral painting, with gentle slopes and cattle gathered in the distance. The wide, pale blue sky sweeping down over them with an ever-present, gently blowing peace.

  Mother had emphatically argued that farm life would do my character much needed good. To be sure, it was all she’d known for her first nineteen years. That’s what scared me. In retrospect, I wish I had pushed back my selfish fears and listened, if only to give her the pleasure of my trust. Instead, I drove her to tears over this insignificant detail. Now they are both gone. Why must the good die this side of His glory? God may spend my life answering this irksome question. Their departure seems such a waste.

  And so I am here, and not on summer vacation— avoiding difficult queries from Aunt and others. Perhaps for good, unless someone of noble character deems me worthy to wed.

  Miraculously, I have my own room! With three girl cousins plus four boys, I hardly expected this honor. The farmhouse is itself large, but my room is small. The wallpaper is fresh, though, sprinkled with tiny bundles of yellow flowers and bluebirds. The furnishings are all my own, having arrived ahead of me by a few weeks. Feels good to be surrounded by familiar bedstead, rug, and deep-cushioned rocking chair. Aunt has added extra blankets to the end of my bed. Most of ours had to be burned. Ours...as if we were still we. As if they yet live...

  My childhood world tilted and forced me to leap off its surface and into the revolution of another. I feel I have landed in a good space. Safe and I hope more certain. My clothing may be midnight, but my heart has lightened in this glowing, busy household.

  Most girls in my situation would have ended up working at a dreadful cotton mill somewhere, in an overcrowded boarding house cooking for fifty hungry, rough menfolk. I am thankful for this, my best and only option. This place is neat as a pin, though little Ruby’s pinafore is patched and stained. Not her fault, of course. I shall rectify that situation and make her a new one. I hope Aunt doesn’t mind.

  I am here on charity, and that’s a fact not to be ignored, though I did hand Uncle a few hundred dollars in crinkled bills for taking me in. His eyes grew wide, his cheeks burned as if I held hot coals over his head. I can say that I felt the same way. Money has a way of burning people through to the soul—an awkward showdown between fear and desire. For a split second, neither of us were certain who would win. It is best to walk away from the choice.

  Honestly, I had already spent what I wished and all on myself: Though I had a new wardrobe only last year, I added a few sets of leather gloves and two extra sweaters, next came a load of books I haven’t yet cracked open, and finally a rather large old spice box of sweets that everyone else believes are my keepsakes. I dare not disabuse them of the notion. I locked a variety of peppermint sticks, jelly babies, and clove discs within. Before coming, my gyrating imagination ran toward panic. I envisioned being miles from any decent sort of shop and feared the impact of residing in the constant company of so many sour spirits. I believed these sweets would dispel the malady of my situation. They would provide me both refuge and relief. Certainly, this has been a childish expense, though I can’t say I’m not glad to have them.

  Now that I’ve seen the place, I will carry the box down to Aunt to use as she wishes. I might—no, I shall—save just a few for myself...for emergencies.

  Poor Uncle. He is missing an ear and limps when he walks. Reminders of the War between the States. I wonder if his leg still bothers him. He has mother’s sharp, dark eyes. Both share the same dimple in the left cheek when smiling. His hair is like pepper in contrast to mother’s dark blonde. When he met me at the train station this afternoon, he wept. When I pushed the money into his hands, he fumed. The dimple disappeared.

  I have a little money after settling Father’s accounts, including the bit I salted away. I wanted to share as he was sharing. The two hundred meant that I might now converge my singular household into his, for the benefit of all. He handed it back to me with mumbled words. “No, Dorothy... keep it for your dowry....” and “what a finished girl might require...” I smiled so that he might. The dimple returned. With a gentle arm around my shoulder, forgiveness came quickly.

  Aunt seems always busy. She wears a high auburn bun—to give her short stature height, I imagine. I can hear her in the kitchen with my cousins, preparing my first supper here. She is scolding with hushed tones, for my sake, no doubt. I failed to mention sweet, quiet Toliver. His appearance surprised—no, shocked me. Seems Aunt and Uncle have adopted a little brown child of three years. Perhaps they intend to give reconstruction a helping hand and educate him for this nation’s uncertain future. He clung to Aunt’s apron when I was introduced, then hid behind the sheer covering, blinking at me.

  My numerous cousins blend together for now—except for the little ones. The older ones are all amiable, or at least I believe them to be. They smiled a great deal, some sheepishly, some rather forced. They spoke little. Time will tell what kind of friendship we shall enjoy...and time will teach me to tell them apart! I am accustomed to only my parents. No siblings for pals or pestering. New experiences for certain...

  To placate the whims of the gods, ancient Romans made sure to visit the temple of Janus before starting a new ve
nture or journey. A sacrifice made, a prayer repeated, and one’s fate was left to a glorified, two-faced statue surrounded by columns and empty, hopeless silence. Have I not done the same thing to the One who is before everything and who holds all things together? The unbound God that needs neither statue, nor temple since the world cannot hold Him? I have been dutiful but know I have cheated Him of my truest worship. My grief transmutes to anger as I again confine my thoughts of Him—as if whispering foolishly to an unfeeling stone being that can offer no real help after all.

  What a sweet-salty feeling it is to sense hope here. I can even smile at this generous family. But towards God, I have grimaced one time too many. I wonder if my parents have seen me from their great distance, wincing and grimacing at God? I’ve bitten a nail clean-off pondering this.

  The dinner bell sounds. I am summoned to play the part of rescued niece with humble smiles. I shall not shirk my duty.

  Well, that was interesting. No one said even a single word at the table. Not murmur, a giggle or whisper. Not even Aunt and Uncle broke the silence, though I saw they passed more than one look at each other. The little ones absentmindedly spilled as consequence for staring me down, my older cousins focused on their meal as if they weren’t certain about breakfast the next morning. No matter what I tried, I failed to catch their eye.

  I far prefer the little party we enjoyed earlier to this stifling silence. Oh dear. I hope my cousins do not chance upon this journal. How I would blush. Thankfully, some are not yet reading. They must understand that I am used to hearty conversation at supper. Father liked to linger over pie and coffee, read to me from the newspaper and asked my opinions. Mother brought her pencil sketches out and we added details together. I usually revealed my arithmetic lesson over hot cocoa—to sweeten the challenge. Mother would slip away while father and I put our thinking caps on.