Of Needles and Haystacks

by Ann Elizabeth Fryer

  Dorothy stepped farther back. James exhaled in frustration.

  “Oh, I see how it is.” Chess chewed his bottom lip, nodding his head. “Coming to supper? Both of you?”

  James reached toward Dorothy. She slid her small hand there, and quietly went with the men.

  Chapter 27

  JUNE 1, 1880

  Mr. Bleu is not pleased with my decision. Clearly. His opinion shows even through his polite attempts to appear understanding. His lingering silences say everything. Hurt like everything else. I only hope I sold the land for near the amount Father had given—fair play. I still haven’t gone through the box again, as busy as I’ve been.

  Though I know I must, I haven’t wanted to pray for Uncle or Aunt. Or anyone who has cast me aside based on a false belief. A pathetic pursuit to retain what is lost to them. I aim to smooth this over one day. I do. Perhaps when Helen and Kirsten come around or when Uncle can see me on my own—for who I am.

  ‘Til then, I’ll not hazard going near the farm. I’ll eye it from a distance. Check in with Ernest if he visits. As for praying, I can only offer up the pitiful facts to the One who sees all. His will be done. Amen.

  I truly feel for Mr. Bleu. His words: “I’ve lost my best friend...and only family I’ve had in a while...” I do not understand what it means. What of his parents? I recall that he does not visit home or even talk about such a place. I wonder why.

  I loathe Mr. Bleu’s displeasure. It sinks deep like a bramble thorn, hard to soothe the sting until it’s gone altogether. I hope he can bring himself to understand me.

  My pleasure is dimmed, but workers arrive at the cottage tomorrow! How fortunate that Mr. MacDonald was able to find men ready and willing so quickly. He is about the only one not thoroughly taken aback by my shocking plan.

  The day grows hot, yet I need to go to town and special order my stove. Not too keen on cooking over an open fire. Even if I’m cooking just for me.

  JAMES PULLED BACK THE vulcanized rubber strap and released the rock. The bottle on the fence post shattered, leaving a jagged neck. He pulled another stone from his pocket and aimed. He’d not miss. Crack! A third green-tinted bottle caught the sun. Drums and pipes beat in the distance. His stomach clenched. He shrugged it off, pulled back and released. Quite a weapon. Small and primitive, its sum of parts but few. It’s ability to knock tall men flat, undisputed.

  “I hope you be the one gonna clean dat mess.” Ruth quipped. “Or I’m gonna be pulling glass outta somebody’s sore feet afore long.”

  “I’ll get it.”

  “Why you want to mess up perfectly good bottles like that?”

  He slid on a leather glove and bent to pick up chunks and slivers, heaping them onto old newspaper.

  “I needed to see if I still could.”

  “I reckon you can. You trainin’ to kill a giant mayhap?”

  James grinned. “I’ve been asked that before.”

  “I gots to go down the valley. The beans and ham are done cooked. You can eat yesterday’s cornbread.”

  “Thank you, Ruth.” A hearty meal sounded good.

  She nodded and slung a heavy sack over her shoulder.

  “I’ll drive you down if you wait.”

  “Ain’t waitin’.”

  “Ruth, give me fifteen minutes.”

  “Ain’t waitin’.” She repeated.

  If everyone would just slow down and wait. Think about how best to handle situations. “Suit yourself.”

  “I aim to.” And she was gone.

  He shoved his sling shot into his back pocket and headed inside. Sopped his cornbread in the hot beans and ham, ate in silence. Swallowed a half gallon of water in more silence. He shoved the dishes aside and bent his head over his arms and let the day’s frustration roll off his shoulders.

  He rested for some time in that position, sleep slipped around the edges of his consciousness. The back door slapped shut and shook him out of his reverie. He jerked his head toward the sound, but saw no one. He looked out the door. Dorothy. Running like a frightened rabbit. He wanted to call out to her, but her name caught in his throat. She must’ve been embarrassed to catch him snoozing. Was there an emergency?

  He’d catch up with her right quick on his horse. He mounted within five minutes. Sighted her quickly—not far off. She sat on the side of the road atop a smooth rock jutting from the land. Her chin rested on her knees tucked deep within her voluminous skirts. He didn’t miss the blood- stained apron. His heart quickened.

  “Dorothy?”

  She peered up.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She held up her trembling hand as far as she dared, her palm was sliced through and oozing. Her cheeks grew pale. “I was trying to help around the cottage—clear up some of the debris so the new flooring can be put in.” Her eyes fluttered.

  “Don’t you own a pair of work gloves?” he smiled, hoping to encourage. He slid from his horse.

  She shook her head.

  He drew nearer and knelt in the dusty gravel, leaving his horse to graze on the tender grass. “Didn’t anyone tell you it isn’t proper for you to be hanging around those men all day?”

  She covered her hand with a soaked handkerchief. “There’s another woman there. Don’t know who she is—won’t talk to me one bit.” Her lips pursed.

  He understood the ache of loneliness. Why hadn’t that other woman helped? “Let me take a look at that.”

  “Will it make you ill?” She tried to hide her hand under her stained apron and swayed.

  “I’m fine.” He commanded his stomach to stop squeezing. He would not lose himself in front of her again. “Now let’s see.” He looked at her small hand, grimy from a little labor. A might proud to see it, though she really should have been wearing gloves. Hard to tell how deep the gash was, there was so much blood. She winced and turned her head away from him.

  “Ruth’s gone out—not back until tomorrow.” Cedar Gate was too far. She needed attention. “Come, get on my horse. We’ll go back to the house and patch you up.”

  She looked down the road uncertain.

  “Can’t help the fact that you need assistance. No one need know.”

  She lightly nodded.

  He held out his hand and brought her to her feet, lifted her with ease onto his horse, guilt swirling. He’d ripped up the rotten flooring in the old cottage—just to blow off steam. Didn’t think anyone would notice. Never expected Dorothy to be living there. Since Ernest didn’t dare ask him back, and his overseer managed everything else exceedingly well. He’d needed something to do. He’d taken his old sling shot and had a little fun that day, popping deserted bottles and possum bones.

  Back in his kitchen, she lay with her head slumped as his had been an hour earlier. Her hand rested in a bowl of warm water. James worked quickly, averting his eyes. He mixed sugar and bourbon for when the bleeding finally stopped. If only Ruth had stayed today! He bit his tongue to keep from gagging. Too much blood. He lifted her hand from the water to pat it dry. Such a nasty cut.

  He reached for box of sterilized cloth bandages, took a square and pressed it tightly against her wound, cradling her small hand in his much larger one. “Are you alright?” His steady voice hiding the inner struggle.

  “I’m going to be sick,” she whispered.

  “Hang in there.” He propped her hand on the table and rifled around in the cabinet. Ginger candy was never far away. “Here, open up.” Her eyes blinked and she reached with her left hand. “Suck on this.” She did as she was told. He gathered her wounded hand back into his and pressed the cloth tightly. “You take a little rest.”

  Her shoulders heaved slightly. She sniffed. She cried softly in the very place he’d boiled over with discouragement. His eyes smarted at the thought. He bent over her hand, marveling that he’d not keeled over before he could help. Thank God.

  Her breathing slowed down and hair spilled out from her braided bun. Had she fainted? He gently placed her hand back on the table.


  Startled, she lifted her head, looked at him with blurry eyes. “Life is terrible.”

  He pondered the statement. At her age, life ought to be unstifled hope. Laughter and smiles. Ought to be. “This is going to sting.” He gave the sugar bourbon a little swirl and began spooning the mixture onto the cuts. She grimaced. “Throbbing, is it? Here. Drink the rest.”

  She choked down the strong alcohol that burned a path down her throat. “How did you ever bear your wounds?” She bent her head again. “This is nothing compared to yours.”

  “I didn’t bear them. Screamed like a baby.” The soldiers told him there was no shame in it. He’d heard hollerin’ aplenty when limbs were removed.

  He snatched a ginger candy for himself and took the stitching needle between his thumb and forefinger. “Keep your head turned, please.” God help me. He made a few tiny stitches. A calm surrounded him and held him steady, even when she whimpered.

  He exhaled when every stitch was perfect and tied off neatly. “There now.” He wrapped layers of cotton around her hand.

  She blinked slowly and asked, “How long did your wounds take to heal?”

  He gave her wrapped hand back to her. “Forever.”

  No more questions. He went to the stove, thankful the boiling water was ready. What she needed most was a perfect cup of tea. How else to show he cared? He feared she hadn’t believed him the other night. Losh, he didn’t want to think about it. Hammond had yet to find out. He’d sworn the MacDonald’s to secrecy until he could find a way to let the rest of them know.

  He’d take Dorothy home, and slip over to talk with Ernest. Give him warning. Pray for peace.

  JUNE 1, EVENING

  Mr. Bleu saw me back to Cedar Gate. How humiliating to arrive with bloodied apron and bandaged hand to such worried, curious glances.

  “They said you ran off to the doctor in town!” Chess threw his hands up. “Looked all over creation for you. Didn’t imagine you’d be at Bleu’s.”

  “I didn’t tell them which way I was going.” Why did he make me feel so guilty? Am I not the wounded one?

  Mrs. MacDonald questioned Mr. Bleu’s work. “Hmm. You sure it’s cleaned out well enough?”

  James gave her an affirmative nod. “I’ve a little experience, if you recall.”

  “Well yes. I suppose you do.” She wrapped her arm around me. “You poor girl. Let the workers handle the dirty jobs, alright?”

  My hand throbbed as I wrote. Mrs. MacDonald brought medicine to help me sleep. Suffice it to say, I will not go to the cottage again until it is finished. In a few days, I will board the train to Cincinnati and stay with dear friends. If they’ll have me. I need to see my old home again. I need to regain something of my old self...

  HE’D NEVER SEEN ERNEST get so mad. He hoped this happy-go-lucky young man would take it in stride, think before speaking, because Hammond would not.

  “Maybe Pa’s been right about her all ‘long.”

  “Now hold on. Can’t you see how she’s been backed into a corner?”

  Ernest drew his back up. Defending his family. For once. “You know it ain’t right.”

  James nodded. “No. I don’t like it either. But none of us have a choice. If Hammond hadn’t spoken to her like he did...”

  Ernest kicked a rock with his thick boot. “Pa’s not right either. But that land, I kinda had plans for it. Hoped that one day, I’d move on. Build myself a spot out there. Be close but not too close. Have my own family.”

  “That’s all Dorothy wanted, you know. Me too. We all have dreams. But now?” He shrugged. “I guess neither blood nor water is as thick as your farm mud.”

  He left Ernest to his fate, as much as he hated to do it. He’d not be the despised bearer of any more tidings, glad or otherwise. Let people speak for themselves. Find truths out on their own.

  He raced home and cleaned the mess he’d left in the kitchen, all the while thinking of her small hurting hand nestled in his. God had been with him. God was with him now. How often he failed to remember this.

  Chapter 28

  JUNE 4, 1880

  Cincinnati felt empty and hollow without my parents to welcome me home, though as always it remained bustling and noisy. Memories accosted me at every turn. I walked by my old home, now occupied by someone else who knows nothing of our lives. Or cares. The shutters are now green. Geranium pots line the steps, which I noticed have not been scrubbed in some time. Mother would’ve set it right for certain.

  I knew that most of my friends were encamped at the lake and wouldn’t be around to receive me. I am staying at a hotel, alone, since Mrs. Smith is also away. I might get around to Mrs. Dearberg, but she will ask too many questions. Frankly, I am glad to be here alone.

  Before leaving, Chess and Philip tried their best to talk me out of my plans. I emphatically refused their insistence. I do believe Mrs. MacDonald has a more authentic view of my personhood now. She might not, perhaps, like to have so stubborn a daughter-in-law.

  I hope to make it to the bank in the morning and have a chat with Father’s closest associate. Perhaps he’d help me go through Father’s box and understand the details. Mr. Bleu still kept to himself on the matter. Still, I wanted to know exactly how much Father paid out and then bury the box beneath some of his old things. Maybe I’d even make a bonfire of the papers. My first night in the cottage, I’d toss the slips of paper right into my stove, and set the tea kettle to heat by its flame.

  My hand is frightfully uncomfortable, though healing. The doctor says Mr. Bleu knew what he was doing and the stitches may come out before I travel back to Cedar Gate. From there, I’d go directly to the cottage. My new home.

  I wonder how he fares? Mr. Bleu... Silly thoughts, I’ve only been out of town for a few days, but I can’t forget the way he patched me up, setting aside his own discomfort for mine. Clearly he cares. Cradling my hand as though sacred...

  My Uncle is foolish to toss his stalwart friendship aside.

  Am I foolish to think of him so often?

  Father’s friend was also away on summer holiday, such was my fate. I tried to get some sort of assistance, but the offices had enough to do without assisting their co-worker’s daughter. Was I in financial trouble? Far from it. All papers appear to be in order as they were a few months ago. I am not to worry. A kindly hand pat and I was ushered to the door.

  Leaving the countryside for a few days had seemed such a pleasant idea! A step back from my warring feelings with regard to most of my acquaintances in Kentucky. Except Reverend Meade and his wife. Their special lot in life is to be agreeable and understanding to everyone and never to take sides, though they treat me with equal parts remorse and helplessness. What else can they do? I know very well it is not their special duty to see me settled. It was my choice to reject Uncle’s home and Cedar Gate.

  I went to see Mrs. Dearberg after all. She welcomed me and pronounced that I should live with her. On the positive side, there are not as many cats as before. A few left and returned with mewling litters of their own. Mrs. Dearberg, her wide frame and rosy cheeks drooped in bewilderment when she recalled how the neighbors had complained and sent the law to her doorstep. They carried off most of her dear ones. Left her with five, and a small litter. Perhaps the law had been overly kind. The smell would have been unbearable if the windows had not been thrown open.

  I couldn’t resist. She gave me one, for the cottage. I accepted the tiny orange-striped thing. Change this city kitten into a country creature as I have become, strange as it seems. I hadn’t noticed the quiet I’d enjoyed until coming back here. All rattle and shouts, this place.

  The kitten hid beneath my bed. I shall leave her playing until she is ready to face the ride home. Home...

  JAMES WATCHED FOR THE train, anxious every moment since Dorothy left. That girl had absolutely tangled his brain. What was he to do? Appear a suitor, waiting for her at the station? Or appeal to friends for help? He chose the latter and loitered around the back of the station, scuffing
his feet.

  Charles and Kate Birch had been all too eager to help. They’d noticed her friendless state. “Do you really think she wants to see us?” Charles said. “She seemed terribly apprehensive of our family connections—the way things are.”

  “You aren’t the ones being unreasonable about that tiny parcel of land, are you?”

  Charles shook his head. “Heavens, no. Don’t know what Grannie would do with it. We’ve got enough land between us cousins.”

  Kate piped up. “I’m glad she’s putting that old rat trap in order, but are you sure? Does she really want to see us?”

  James nodded firmly. “She may not realize she can trust you yet, but she does need friends. Family life isn’t too good right now, you could say.”

  “We heard.” Charles glanced at his sister. “Can’t say we blame her for what she’s done.”

  Well, that fact still galled him. James inhaled fresh air.

  “We’ll be there. Charles’ll bring one of the pups. A welcome home present.”

  James smiled. A dog. Why hadn’t he thought of that? “Perfect.”

  James grabbed a ham sandwich from the boarding house and stood munching, waiting for the locomotive’s steam to announce her arrival.

  Kate and Charles sat on the bench. He held the rope tight, keeping the prancing pup safe from the tracks, Kate held a modest wild-flower bouquet. A kinder pair of siblings he’d never met. He hoped Dorothy would warm up to them.

  Too bad Ernest hadn’t come.

  The train whistled its imminent arrival, moving steadily in with a loud, lurching halt.

  The subsequent scene played out over and over in his mind as he later tried to get some sleep.

  Dorothy appeared, flushed from the heat, and descended amid hot steam. Satchel in hand and basket over her arm, she stepped onto the boardwalk looking, no doubt for the MacDonald’s familiar wagon. It wouldn’t be there. He’d taken care of that.

  Her gaze swept right to left, then stopped in surprise when Kate and Charles stepped forward. A small smile lit her face. In response, Charles and Kate’s welcome grins grew wide with enthusiasm. Yes, they were indeed there for her. To tote her back to Cedar Gate. It was their pleasure—he lip-read the conversation from his place behind the station.