Fire in the Night by Linda Byler Read Free Book Online Page B

black and navy-blue broadfall trousers topped by shirts of every color of the rainbow, wearing golden yellow straw hats, black felt hats, or no hats at all. They were set against the yellowish brown of the fresh cut timbers with the blue sky in the background, the verdant growth of trees and pastures, the dark loamy soil tilled and waiting for crops to be planted.
    To Sarah, it was more than visual. It was a feast for the heart as well. Nothing could chase away the gloom of fear and uneasiness like this picture before her. It was the sunshine of brotherly love and caring, standing together through anything and everything that God handed to them.
    Like the soaked but still smoking pile of black debris, the dread had to sit on the sidelines like an injured player as the game went on, played out by the goodwill of all these men who had come because of their caring, heartfelt willingness to help.
    When the first rafter went up and was fastened in the way of the forefathers, with mortise and tenon, Sarah swallowed. How often had she seen the wooden pegs firmly pounded into the holes drilled into the heavy beams?
    They were holes and pegs, so solid and indestructible. But to Sarah, it was a part of her life, her childhood. When she and her siblings had swung from the great old rafters, sitting on the black rubber tire attached to the heavy jute rope, it had never once entered their minds that the centuries-old beams joined by those wooden pegs would give way.
    As a teenager, Sarah had helped stack the heavy, prickly bales of hay, so pungent and sweet smelling, clear up to the rafters. She’d reached out a hand and touched the mortise and tenon, wondering at the craftsmanship.
    Who had built this great barn? Did the people in the 1700s and 1800s look just like us? Was there, perhaps, a handsome young man, married to his first love, who had pounded the peg into place?
    It was enticing, this imagining and wondering. Somehow, the hay stacked so tightly, the alfalfa rich in nutrients for the milk cows below, spoke of the agelessness of this great old barn, housing the fruits of the earth, the animals, a way of life.
    The barn had held through the howling winds and snows of winter and the claps of thunder and sizzling lightning during welcome summer thunderstorms that sent them to seek shelter. They threw open the great doors to let the moist, cool air rejuvenate their tired and sweating bodies. The elements were friendly, even in their extremes. Who could know that one tiny flick of a lighter would bring this majestic barn to its destruction?
    So Sarah was thrilled as each rafter was firmly pegged in the old way. She was comforted by the sight and gathered hope to her heart.
    Rose sighed, a dramatic expression intended to evoke questions. “Oh, that Matthew is something else. He’s so cute!”
    She clasped her hands rapturously as she watched him, steadily keeping her eyes on his dark, muscular figure. “Look at him, just hanging onto that timber, pounding away! Supposing he’d fall? Oh, I can’t stand it!”
    Clearly, Rose did not see the barn or the men or feel the emotions Sarah felt. But then, Rose hadn’t experienced the night of horror and the ghoulish fear threatening to overtake common sense.
    “It does look like he’s barely hanging on,” Sarah agreed, laughing.
    “I hate barn raisings. They’re so dangerous.”
    Sarah bit down on her lower lip, staying mercifully quiet. She watched the men, heard their shouts, observed their willingness to obey, and marveled at the scene before her.
    Chainsaws whined and buzzed, their biting teeth sending fountains of sawdust spraying upward. Tape rules snapped as men measured and then set into place another heavy beam, an accurate piece of the huge jigsaw puzzle unfolding before their eyes.
    It would be nice to have a special friend in her life like Rose did, Sarah thought. She yearned to have the sense of belonging Rose had. Sometimes she felt as if, at age nineteen, there was a