They chattered on back and forth about the locals, their school days. As I raised my fork to my lips, a heavy knock sounded.
Mr. Bleu stood on the other side of the door, a small smile lifted—of course I had to invite him to dine. He seemed pleased. I followed his gaze to the mantel piece, to the arrangement I’d accidentally left there. I wondered why he’d come. I had to wait until Charles and Kate left for home.
“Kind of you to invite them.” He gazed after their disappearing backs.
“Well, it was the least I could do.” I untied my apron and laid it over the handrail. “Why did you come?”
He grinned. “To make sure you’re still alive, of course.”
“Didn’t an old great aunt live here alone for years on end? She survived.”
“She wasn’t raised in the city.”
Ah. That.
“I heard you bought a horse. Old Becky’s been around awhile, but I think you made a decent purchase.”
Did I require approval for every decision made? I feel as though everyone is keeping up with my doings and then gossiping. A subject of much discussion. Except by the people that matter. Aunt, Uncle. “Wait...her name is Becky?” The horse is a female. Maybe I did need some guidance.
“Why don’t you let me keep her in my stables until you get something fixed up.” He slipped a thumb behind a suspender. “She’s gonna need a good deal more water than that small bucket you’ve got over there.” He grinned again.
“Alright.” I agreed, “For the sake of the horse.”
“Right. For the horse.” He looked at the side of my house. “Do you need some wood brought in?”
“I suppose.” My heart beat fast, full of emotion. He’d come to check on me and generously offered help. Should I say what’s in my heart?
His strong arms lifted as many loads as filled the bucket by the stove. For propriety’s sake, I stayed outside. The heat of the day had mercifully passed. I’d not make a fire tonight, though the sight of a warm flame makes me feel a little less lonely.
Mr. Bleu replaced his hat atop his head and lightly bowed a good night.
That’s when small inner screams began. The ones that hadn’t surfaced since I’d moved from Cincinnati. Gripping, squeezing heart-ache that shouted after him to hold me in his arms as my Father had done. As my beloved might. I didn’t want to be left so utterly alone.
He waved to me at the turn off, I choked and ran inside. The candle glow emanating from the dinner table distracted my thoughts, as a hypnotized moth. I allowed it in, reflected on things. Knew I needed to pray.
Light of God, help me, help me, help me before I drown. Raise me from death. Soften my heart. Help me forgive. Amen.
JAMES LATCHED OLD BECKY in a comfortable stall. A low lamp flickered in the kitchen and scents of Ruth’s roasted chicken still permeated the air. He’d eaten his fill before he’d left for Dorothy’s. He had to admit, her spread made the perfect pairing, if only they’d been consumed at the same time. He chuckled. Never had so many baked goods filled a table.
He wound the leading rope and hung it on a nail—and stopped short. Movement by the second story window, near his study.
He’d left his pistol where it should stay—hidden in a footlocker beneath his bed. His rifle stayed loaded in the kitchen pantry. No time to retrieve it. His sling shot should do.
He snatched it from his toolbox and slipped around the side, eyes never leaving the front of his house. There. A large man edged along in the darkness. Hammond?
Sickness crept in his gut, fierce anger threatened. He breathed deeply, evenly. Steadied himself. He raised his slingshot to aim. “Oh God of love and forgiveness...” he lowered his hands. Let the man go. Now was not the time.
But tomorrow would be. He’d pay them all a visit. Find out why Hammond had come. Disbelief rocked his hopes for reconciliation.
He went inside and found Ruth hiding behind the draperies clutching a fire poker and shivering like a wet kitten. “Don’t know who dat man be, come slippin’ through my open windas ...he ain’t gonna take Ruth. Ain’t gonna get ‘er.”
He helped Ruth to the kitchen for a cup of chamomile tea—prayed her fears away. Reassured her. He locked up for the night and made his way to the study. Nothing out of place. Each drawer filled the same way as before. Except for some dried mud evidence where Hammond’s heavy boots had stepped.
What had he been looking for? Mr. Trafton’s box?
He made a quick dash back down the road to Dorothy’s, hid behind a cluster of trees, watched and listened for hours. No sign of Hammond. He wearily made his way home. He’d have to visit her again tomorrow afternoon. Convince her to hide her Father’s box—but how would this keep Hammond from trying to break in and find it? What had happened to this gentle father, the man that kept a firm hold on his respect?
HELEN MET HIM AT THE new screen door off a much smaller kitchen than what had been lost. Foundation stones jutted about as though forgotten. “Pa’s sick again.”
“I hate to hear that. Can I talk to him for a minute?”
“I guess.”
Her youthful spark had diminished as though everyone had been struck ill with the same disease. Except Ernest. He hoped the young man was immune to what ailed his father.
“David.” Hammond spoke before he saw him. The parlor hadn’t changed. Hammond sat in the old horsehair rocker, footstool at his feet. A light blanket covered his large body to his neck.
James broke into a sweat. “Did you come by yesterday? Anything I can do for you?”
His head jerked, he looked away. “No, nope didn’t come by. Don’t need a thing.”
The man was a bad liar. “Helen says you’re sick again.”
“Not a relapse, thankfully. Worked too hard too soon, I guess.”
At least he was talking to him. That was something. Guess he’d take it. “Sorry about the words we had between us.” If he’d stayed true, there’d be nothing to patch up.
Hammond grunted, blinked, and looked at the ceiling. “That’s not the worst of it. D’ya hear what Dorothy’s gone and done? Irresponsible. Just as we expected.” A cough wracked through his chest. When had it begun?
“I heard.” Should he try to explain?
“MacDonald’s always wanted my back parcel. Said he was just helping a girl in need.” He jerked his head side to side. “Nuts.”
“I think you scared Dorothy—the day you became ill.” And Ruth, last night.
Hammond’s eyes narrowed.
“You sure you didn’t come by my house last night?”
“What are you trying to dig up, Davy-boy?”
James shrugged, “Saw you walking away.”
“Wasn’t me. Haven’t had good reason to come your way lately—with all the extra work to do ‘round here.” His accusation sang clear.
James stood, ready to leave. “Let me know if I can do anything for you. You’re in my prayers.”
When the kitchen door slammed behind him, he exhaled. Could have been worse. But would it ever be better?
Chapter 31
JULY 12, 1880
I’ve been alone in this quiet place for a long stretch of days, not even my journal seemed a proper companion. I suspect the summer heat has kept everyone away from me, tending their own farms as though future dinners—and full stomachs—depend upon it.
Honestly, I’m ignored. Chess does not continue his earnest addresses— Charles and Kate have not returned. Nor has Mr. Bleu given me any special notice. Reverend and Mrs. Meade must be busy about the town. Certainly haven’t had the pleasure of my own family’s company. Likely won’t.
I’ve held a secret, these hot unending days. If any of them had stepped over my threshold, they might have mistaken me for a wild woman, so unkempt I’ve been. Some days, I hadn’t left my bed except to eat and feed the animals. Why did Mrs. MacDonald believe I would prosper here? All the charming details, the pretty, unstained walls only mock me. Had I accepted the truth sooner—what would have be
en my choice? The same mistake or some entirely different one?
I’d seen the receipts for what they were, back at Cedar Gate. I’d wanted to find a different, more acceptable answer.
I didn’t find it, only more painful truth.
Father, what would my life be like if you hadn’t been so kind? So merciful. Mr. Bleu, what would my life look like if you had not been an even kinder man? These questions are purely selfish. As if they were the ones who’d made a mess of me.
How did these noble gentlemen fail to grasp Uncle’s character? I debated selling the farm. Yes, a worse idea than the twenty acres. But it would be out of my hands, no longer a painful chasm separating us. I don’t want it anymore. Mr. MacDonald would be a good landowner—make utmost use of the ground and turn a profit from the fallow waste. A terrible, unrighteous plan. I knew I couldn’t go through with it.
I only knew one, proper thing to do. But it will never be enough.
True, Father had helped Uncle freely. With gambling debts. I’d finally pried open the last box of household what-nots. My purpose only to find and use Father’s silver rowing team trophy as a flower vase.
Wound in tight folds, I found incriminating receipts—paid IOU’s all of the same date, close to the letters and receipts found among Father’s business papers. He’d even written out a sum to Mr. Bleu, for any future debts incurred. That borrowed money Mr. Bleu had told the truth about back in March.
But that’s all he’d paid. Not one penny of Father’s paid for the farm that sits in my name. I was sick at first. Sick for days. No wonder Mr. Bleu had been more apprehensive about my coming than Uncle. Truth is, I’ve clutched my inheritance, secretly liking the idea of being a station above my family. A recompense of sorts for my great loss. Life and a living seem to be forever slipping from my fingers.
Now Mr. Bleu has all of my well-earned respect. I must have pained them both greatly when I sold the twenty acres to Mr. MacDonald
Now. I’d go now. No more waiting.
Rosie and Lad have abandoned me again. I hope wherever they are, they are safe from the coyotes. I’ll walk this path alone.
DOROTHY LOOKED A MIGHT uneasy, sitting in the rocking chair. Her hand stroked the large envelope as though it held something precious. James noted the dark circles under her eyes, her slight frame. Her posture. Had she been eating?
“I came to bring you this.” She handed him the packet.
He slid the contents out. “Is something out of place?”
“No. I believe it’s all there.” She leaned her head against the back of the rocker, relaxing. “I have figured every slip of paper, every receipt. As far as I can tell, you paid for Uncle’s farm in Father’s name. Every cent. That land rightly belongs to you.”
He knew it wouldn’t be long before she figured it out, if she bothered to search. The consequence of honesty—after dishonesty. He slid his fingers over the paper where hers had touched it.
“I’m right, aren’t I? You paid for every square foot, every acre, and fence post.” She pounded her knee with the palm of her hand. “My only question is how much more will you help him? What else did you do that no one else knows about?”
He bit his tongue. Out of the question.
“I know Father paid off some kind of gambling debts. A goodly amount—but nothing compared to what you’ve dished out. I’m giving it back to you. I can’t carry this burden anymore.”
“No.”
She snapped up, pushing the documents toward him.
He tossed the papers back in her lap. How could she do this to him? Hand a gift back that had cost him dearly?
“What do you mean? You never wanted me to have it anyway, you and Uncle.”
Fury and panic raced through his veins. If he held the deed, Hammond would know what he’d done. An irreparable future lay ahead, farming side by side with an open abyss between them. “I can’t take it back.”
She stood and shook it in his face. “I’ll go with you to town in the morning. We will get my name off this deed.”
“No.”
Tears raced down her face. “What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to live with myself?” She threw the documents to the floor and ran outside.
He gathered them up, tears forming around his eyes. He hated these papers. They marked his failure. Failure to see that sometimes a man, even a friend, needed to be left to his own devices and consequences. And that obedience to God was better than a sacrifice, no matter how noble it seemed.
He stuffed the papers back into the envelope and found Dorothy in the stable, stroking Old Becky’s nose.
Her voice trembled. “As long as that farm is in my name, Aunt and Uncle will despise me. Helen and Kirsten too.”
He pursed his lips, hoping that wouldn’t be the case, but knowing otherwise.
She looked so pitiful, standing there in brown calico, her hair in a loose braid grown wild by the summer breeze.
How could he have guessed the outcome of a single act of kindness? Would he sacrifice her family life for his? His heart broke. Had already been broken. His friendship with Hammond may never completely mend. When she’d gone and sold those twenty acres, he knew she was so very scared for herself. Did no one else notice? The failures went full circle. But none so deep as Hammond’s...or his.
“Keep it for now. Pray about it. I don’t know what else to tell you. I do know I’m not supposed to have this deed.” He couldn’t go back on this conviction. Sank too far, right down to his bones.
He held out the papers, she reluctantly took them and left, without turning her head or waving goodbye.
He watched her hike down the dirt road, not even stopping to admire the clump of white daisies at the gate post.
Ruth sidled near his elbow “She ain’t got no real family. She needs one.”
“You know who that is, Hammond’s niece. Dorothy.”
Her bottom lip turned up, but she closed her eyes and swayed to an unspoken pain.
Ruth was right.
“I’m gonna be her family.”
James started. “What’d you say?”
“She can’t be alone.” Ruth’s head swayed from side to side. “I knows it. I knows.” She trotted away, but returned with on overstuffed satchel. “You can tote me on down there.”
Of all the hair-brained—but that was Ruth, chasing kindness.
JULY 13, 1880
I awoke in the most frightful manner. I’d taken myself to bed as soon as I returned from Mr. Bleu’s, though the night had yet to fall. I slept as I hadn’t in days—some relief. There beside me, beneath my quilt lay another body! As shocking as Ruth was to Boaz, was this Ruth to me. How and why had she ended the day in my bed?
She awoke soon after I did, her large brown eyes blinked in the red sunrise. Lad jumped atop the bed, all a-sniff. Some watchdog. When had he come back?
I realized then, that I hadn’t latched the doorway. Anyone might have entered. I feared that Ruth had become drunk and disoriented. How disconcerting that I did not notice!
I stared at her for several moments before she bolted upright, swung herself out of bed, and made her way to my cook stove. She showed no sign of sickness. I followed, hoping to get some answers to my queries Mr. Bleu must be missing a hot breakfast this morning. “You let the fire go out, missus.” I expected her to wag a finger.
“Um, yes. I believe I did.”
She snatched a wooden spoon and waved it in my face, “Don’t you never let yer fire go out, chile. Where’s yo lard bucket? And flour? I make us a breakfast to live on t’day.”
I pulled out the ingredients with a quick prayer to God. I’d never had a stranger in my home quite like this. How did one ask an old lady to leave you be?
She started singing songs I’d never heard before, her voice raising and lowering in rich alto tones, making herself at home. Completely.
She noticed my reverie in the corner of the room and waved me over. “Git on over here an’ help me. You fry up the bacon.”
In no time, the biscuits rose high in the oven, bacon crisped, eggs scrambled, and corn grits cooked and buttered. Not to mention a jar of jam she must have brought along. Were more people joining us in my home?
She tossed a fresh blue gingham cloth over my table and set it carefully. “Open the door, chile. Let the morning ride on in afore it storms.” She smiled.
After obeying, I sat down, obedient to this very awkward circumstance. I managed to finally ask a question, “How did you come to rest here?”
“James brought me last night.”
“He did?” Why on earth?
“Yes’um.” She handed me the biscuit platter, though it sat within reach.
“If he ordered you to help me, I assure you, I’m quite capable.”
“Oh, he didn’t sen me,” she laughed. “I come of my own.”
But why? I scarcely knew the woman. I ate a slice of bacon, savoring the saltiness. The farm deed lay atop the bookshelf. A painful reminder of Mr. Bleu’s latest rejection. I’d been so certain he would want it and know exactly what to do with it. Save me from the pressure that crushes my heart.
I was wrong. I opened the hot biscuit and slathered on butter, added a spoonful of Ruth’s jam—divine. Heavenly. Might be sacrilegious, but I thought of communion. So much hope found in a bite of bread.
Ruth bent over her food, showing the tight black and gray-speckled braids that fitted her scalp. Her eyes took in the mess. “We got us some work to do.”
Cobwebs clung to the corners of the room, soiled dresses had been cast aside in a heap. The ash bucket overflowed. “You don’t have to help me—I am cap—
She stood, arms akimbo. “Nonsense. Now you wash up. Where’s y’ broom?”
How to get her out of my house? I’d walk to Mr. Bleu’s and demand he remove her. But I plain don’t want to see him right now. Couldn’t bear it. I gobbled another slice of bacon instead.
Of Needles and Haystacks Page 22