Of Needles and Haystacks

by Ann Elizabeth Fryer

The driver shook his head. “Ain’t coming.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Wanted to stay with their papa, I reckon. He’s bad off.”

  “Oh no. Are his wounds life-threatening?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t know. Didn’t see hide nor hair of ‘im.”

  I hopped down from my perch. “Mrs. MacDonald, he’s had some sort of seizure or stroke, quite unexpectedly—several hours before the tornado hit.”

  “How awful!” Concern rose in her eyes.

  “Yes, it is.” I wanted to spew out how awful he’d really been. His anger-ridden words still clamped my heart.

  “What on earth will you all do?” I knew what she was thinking. A destroyed farm, a sick farmer. Not the best start for the season. More like a doomed one, if you ask me. But there is Ernest, and Mr. Bleu...they will set things right.

  Mrs. MacDonald shooed the wagon away with her hands. “Go back for them anyway, Joe. I’m sure the Meades don’t have enough room in that tiny parsonage.”

  “I’ll get ‘er unloaded and see to it.” He climbed down and began lifting my trunks to the porch. I confess a little anxiety about my few worldly possessions left behind.

  Helen and Kirsten had hugged me before I left, but I felt no affection. Aunt likely forced them. What has Uncle said? Someday, I hope I can talk to them about this. Perhaps this evening, if they can be convinced to leave Uncle’s side. I will put their minds at rest without giving away Mr. Bleu’s secret. They can trust me. For the first time, I knew I loved them not just for myself.

  Mrs. MacDonald led me inside. A hot bath waited behind a screen in the loveliest room I’ve ever seen. A spicy floral scent swirled about me. I couldn’t wait to drop into the canopy bed, but I dare not write in my journal there. The pure white bedding deserved no ink drips.

  Slipping into a hot tub of water is a normal, everyday occurrence. Not today. I wished Helen and Kirsten would join me in this abundant atmosphere. What fun we could have here in this unexpected blessing! And Helen would be near Chess and figure out her feelings for him. Perhaps she’d understand and move on.

  I soaked in the warm water until it grew cool and donned a simple sprigged dress with an apron. I might be a guest here, but I knew better than to behave above my station. I plan to help as much as allowed.

  Mrs. MacDonald did not refuse me! She did insist I take a cup of tea and a bowl of stewed chicken first. We spent the entire afternoon helping the cook fry doughnuts for the men working at my farm. We stacked piles of them into large newspaper lined baskets. We also brewed coffee in oversized kettles and sent the whole lot down the road.

  When we’d finished, we sat in rocking chairs that lined the large back porch. The sun would set in a few hours, and the day’s work would continue come morning.

  “How long will it take before we’ll be able to live there again?” I asked this aloud, not expecting Mrs. MacDonald to know.

  “With everyone working, I’d say a good month.”

  “I hope you know how grateful I am...”

  “Posh. We orphaned girls stick together, remember?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think it’s wonderful that you are here. Providential, if you ask me.”

  Providence. I’d asked God for a harvest of good things. His ways confuse me. How can one move past the pain if bad things keep happening? If I’m honest with myself, I do sense goodness. Like the scent of fried doughnuts that cling to my clothing, goodness is here. I cannot explain or deny it.

  I wondered where Helen and Kirsten were. “My cousins aren’t coming?”

  “No amount of begging worked. I wonder if I put them off somehow. Maybe at the gala?” She looked to me for answers.

  “No, I’m sure they would love being here. Perhaps they are overcome with emotion about their father and will show up tomorrow.” I hoped to hide my apprehension. Their actions spoke clearly.

  “Yes. You are right—that must be it. They’ll wake up sore and cramped from having to sleep on the floor rugs and change their minds right quick.” She rubbed her neck. A memory? “At any rate, you are here. Absolutely providential.”

  There was that word again. What could she mean? “Do you need me for something? Short on staff? I am as capable as any housewife.”

  “Oh no. I’ve plenty help, though we all try to help each other around here.” She paused for a moment, considering. “I’ve been lonely for a friend.”

  I wondered how such a woman might be lonely. But only briefly. Wealth often built walls.

  She continued, “You know, I never had a daughter.”

  My breath caught. She couldn’t take my mother’s place. I scarcely knew this woman except for the tea we’d shared two months ago.

  The grandfather clock chimed from within. We rose and I took refuge in my room.

  JAMES NEARLY SWALLOWED the doughnut whole. Hunger still gnawed. He’d spent the entire day sifting through anything that might be saved—and setting aside every item belonging to Dorothy. Another mound for Hammond and his family.

  Debris had been hauled off quickly and splintered wood had been stacked for reuse. Most of it only good for kindling. He mentally calculated supplies he had remaining from building his house. Not near enough to patch up this place. They’d have to choose a few trees and start from scratch.

  He bent to pick up a nail protruding from the mud.

  Ernest waved him over. His sisters drooped side by side, their sun bonnets doing little to cover their dark, sleep deprived eyes. How long had it been since they’d slept?

  Ernest gripped one hand around a shovel. “Please tell them to go on to Cedar Gate.”

  Helen and Kirsten stood with arms folded, stubborn resolve. Helen spoke. “You and Dorothy did something to Papa.”

  “Helen! Don’t talk about things you don’t understand.” Ernest’s face grew red.

  “I assure you that I’d do anything for your father. He is mistaken, that is all. Now. Why don’t you both go enjoy a month at Cedar Gate? I can’t think of a finer place to be stranded. And Dorothy’s there. She needs her family right now.”

  “No, thank you.” Kirsten murmured.

  “You won’t even go for Dorothy?” Ernest pled.

  The girls looked at each other, then back at James. “We are staying with Papa.”

  Ernest picked up a box of books. “Then get on with ya. I’ve got work to do. Make your own way to town.”

  James pitched the nail in a nearby bucket. Hammond’s accusation that he’d court Dorothy to get the land for himself had been shocking. Where had that suspicion come from? He’d never take this farm from his friend, even if he...James sucked in a breath. Those thoughts weren’t even plausible. He absentmindedly rubbed his hand over his scarred chin.

  He had done everything in his power to save this place. But Hammond didn’t know that.

  Perhaps Hammond was right to be a little afraid. What’s to keep another fellow from making Dorothy their bride? Not even she could stop what her future husband might want to do with the land.

  James turned his face to the setting sun, letting its warm rays wash over him. He couldn’t anticipate the future. But he could acknowledge his Maker and follow the path cut for him. Let go of his worry.

  He’d ride on home to Ruth’s cooking. He’d check on Dorothy in the morning—take her some things. Then pay a visit to Hammond.

  MAY 16, 1880, EVENING

  Dinner here at Cedar Gate is more formal than at the farm, or at home for that matter. I am happy to say that there is actual conversation during the meal! Philip and Chess had changed from their coveralls and into dinner jackets, though weariness hung about them after laboring all day.

  Mr. MacDonald questioned them about the damage as they ate, answering back with a grunt or a thoughtful “hmm.” His concern was endearing. This quiet, bearded man said something to Mrs. MacDonald. I failed to hear the topic but, but she nodded and lent me a polite smile.

  Philip spoke of the colts and foals. Chess agr
eed. “We’ll buy them and that will help Mr. Hammond. Bleu won’t think twice about letting his share go.”

  Mr. MacDonald raised his water glass. “They’ll bring a fair price at auction.”

  Chess grinned her direction. “What do you say, Miss Trafton?”

  “I know nothing of such things, though I am sorry they must be sold sooner than planned. Has Uncle agreed?”

  Chess cocked his chin forward. “He’ll have to. I hate to say it, but your farm’s only going to survive if the planting gets in. Tobacco’s going to be your best bet. Forget the berry crops.”

  “Tobacco?”

  Mrs. MacDonald passed around a celery dish. “Don’t forget the cattle. They are safe are they not?”

  Chess nodded. “Still, he’ll have to sell them. Fences are right torn up.”

  My first peaceful glimpses of the beautiful farm drowned in economics and numbers. And tensions they knew nothing about. I smiled and politely nodded as any ignorant city girl must of course do.

  Philip laid down his fork. “Miss Trafton, do you play cards?”

  Philip, Chess, and I played for nearly two hours. I have not laughed so much in a long time, how those two banter back and forth! I confess I enjoyed myself immensely. Their distraction did much to ease my mind over Uncle’s losses. And mine.

  The horses, as I understood it, were to butter our bread. When would that be? I wonder if there will be bread, let alone a roof to shelter us.

  I swirled the tea in my cup, watching the cyclone of leaves spin and then, finally, rest at the bottom.

  Chapter 21

  JAMES CAREFULLY LIFTED each surviving piece of furniture, loading them as gently as he could. Dorothy’s things were no doubt a link to the home she longed for. How often had he sat on a certain fireside bench and recalled boyhood days—warming his toes after hours in the snow, remembering the one time his father sat with him to roast nuts without the help of servants... Sentimental memories, for certain.

  Things could always be replaced, but sometimes special pieces rooted deeply into the heart. One day, it wouldn’t matter if he had that bench or not. But why allow a grieving lass to lose every link to her past?

  Amazing that her side of the house stood at all. To think they might have been killed. He thought of Helen and Kirsten and how they shared ill opinions of Dorothy and him. How little they understood, how little they’ve lost in life. At least Ernest believed his version.

  He hauled a braided rug and heaved her desk onto the wagon bed. There had been attic boxes as well. He’d have to get those too if renovations were going to start anytime soon.

  MAY 17, 1880

  Dear Dorothy,

  We won’t be joining you at Cedar Gate. We prefer to stay with Papa while he recovers.

  Helen and Kirsten

  How dare they write to me at all? Such a sparse and incomplete letter. I wonder how many they’d written from their true feelings and tossed into the fireplace. I’ve spent these many hours weeping. I dare not show myself at breakfast.

  I’d go to my cousins, but they do not want me. I’d seen such hope for our friendship. How quickly it slipped away! I wonder, if, with careful kindness, we may regain what we’d begun to share? That Uncle will give up his silly notions and fears...Finally deal full-face with the truth.

  A bell has rung and the family dog is barking. I looked outside the window. Mr. Bleu arrived with my things! I dressed and ran to the door to greet him.

  SHE’D BEEN CRYING. Nothing could hide that. They hauled the last piece of her meager collection into an empty stall in the barn. She’d inadvertently reached a hand out when her desk passed by. He could guess its importance.

  “Enjoying your stay here?”

  “My hosts are more than kind.” She tried to smile, but her lip turned down into an uncontrolled frown. She looked away until she’d righted herself.

  “Listen, I’ve taken care to bring as much as I figured is yours. If there’s anything missing, please let me know.”

  She nodded.

  “Oh, and there’s still the attic boxes. Easy to tell them apart since they’re all in Florida orange crates.”

  “How is Uncle?”

  “Ernest tells me he improves each day. Still won’t speak to me.”

  Panic lit her eyes.

  “I’ve talked to Ernest though...well, as much as he needs to know. He’s concerned about you. Downright angry with his sisters for not coming here.”

  She shrugged. “Need to be with Uncle for the time being, I guess. I’d go with my father if given another chance.”

  James looked to the brightening sky, the clouds being chased away by a warm, gentle wind. “He’ll come around. Hammond can’t stay angry forever.”

  “I’m glad you told me the truth anyhow.”

  “I still have your father’s box. I’ll bring it round soon.”

  She nodded.

  “Need anything? Tea?”

  “Their tea chest overflows, but thank you. My gratitude to you for taking the time to haul my things.” She hesitated as if wanting to say more. James wouldn’t push her.

  “Tell Ernest that I pray for him.” She paused. “For all of them.”

  He nodded. Her lip quivered. She turned and sped towards the house.

  JAMES ADJUSTED HIS ledgers. Losing the horses was no small loss—not that his savings suffered in the least. He tapped his pencil on his chin. For the time being, maybe it was good Dorothy held the deed. Hammond couldn’t mortgage or borrow against the land without her consent. Or rebuild with funds he didn’t have.

  Hammond had made unwise business dealings before. Nearly gambled his life away. He couldn’t stand by and watch a whole family drown because Hammond had no money sense. He’d hope to give him a fresh start when making a deal with Dorothy’s father.

  Hammond had an uncommon respect for Mr. Trafton. James knew he’d jump at the chance to keep the farm in the family and not lose it to the bank. He’d hoped the financial scare would set Hammond straight on his feet.

  How could he have been so worried over Dorothy? True, he never predicted her wavering emotions, her staunch hold on parting gifts...

  And never could he have predicted Hammond’s skewed belief of betrayal. James stood and stretched. He’d done nothing to gain his own wealth. His father had. And when his father died, he received an annual sum that would keep him comfortable for life. He was more than willing to share.

  “No handouts.” Hammond said. “Don’t want any part of your coin, David.” Then he’d spat in the dirt, sealing a promise of an unchangeable mind.

  He should have heeded Hammond’s desires. Kept his fingers out of the pie. Respect him enough. Somehow it didn’t feel like respect when Hammond had saved his life more than once.

  James poked at the fire and pulled a book from the shelf. The comforting silence soothed his troubled heart. He relished the quiet, but at times needed to be at Hammonds. Join in the bustling household full of children and their messes.

  Seeing Hammond’s shattered farm felt like a piece of his soul had forever disappeared in that tornado.

  Chapter 22

  MAY 18, 1880

  I’ve been to town to visit Aunt and Uncle. My youngest cousins were in school. Helen and Kirsten worked in the minister’s berry patch behind the cottage, tossing out last season’s trapped leaves and twigs, exposing blooms and green berries to the ever-warming sun. The two of them, heads together, barely lifted a hand and certainly didn’t smile. I had planned to go to them, embrace them, trusting they’d recall our strand of friendship and it would still hold strong. No. Now was not the time.

  Once I saw a man walk on a rope lifted and fastened tight to the highest windows in Cincinnati. One wrong step and there’d be no recovery. He made it across without plunging to his death and we clapped and cheered. There is a fearful chasm between us, they on the ground, I on the rope. Or is it the other way around?

  A man sat near the front door with a chair tipped over. Ready for repa
irs. Assorted materials lay around him—tools I can’t name, supple reeds waited for weaving. A corn cob pipe clenched between his teeth as fragrant tobacco swirled.

  He nodded to me. “Mornin’, Miss.”

  “Good morning.”

  The front door stood wide open.

  “They’s sittin’ in the parlor.”

  I supposed I should go on in. I stepped over the threshold. Chairs with sunken worn out bottoms cluttered the foyer waiting their turn.

  Soft voices floated from the parlor.

  I paused outside the door, weary of the bare reception I’d received outside. Mrs. Meade saved me the trouble of pushing myself forward.

  “Why my dear! When did you get here?” She touched my hand.

  “Only just. I’ve come to visit my family.”

  “Of course you have, you must be worried sick with all that’s happened.”

  She had no idea how concerned I truly was.

  “Come sit in the parlor with your aunt, I’ll get us some tea.” It was time to speak.

  Aunt sat on the old horsehair sofa, looking rather pale with dark shadows beneath her eyes. Wisps of auburn hair spilled from her bun. A square of quilting sat in her lap, her needle poised for tugging.

  I approached her as though nothing had happened, and honestly, there is nothing between us. Is there? Shouldn’t be. “How is he?”

  The corners of her lips clenched. “Doctor says he won’t be able to work the farm for another month, maybe. Even then he’s got to take it slow.”

  “I am so sorry.”

  “For what?” Her question was a challenge. She pulled the needle up while I debated how to answer. I doubted my side of the story would be accepted. We scarcely knew each other even after several months. Oh, we might guess at some personal preferences—but knowing our heart of hearts? Not hardly.

  “You’re right. Precious little I could do to stop a tornado.” Disbelief still tinged my days. I took a seat in a low rocking chair near the tea table.