HAPPY SWEET ST. PATRICK’S DAY!

Today I’m sharing something I’ve been working on for a long time. In fact, it’s the first romantic historical I wrote. It’s not published — mainly because it needs a LOT of work yet. But I’m hoping to finish the revisions this year. Anyway, here’s a sweet snippet.

Michigan, 1895

“What in heaven’s name—oh. Oh, no.”

Libby slowed to a walk and winced at every loud hammering jolt. Stacks of wood planks lay in piles on the empty lot, and rectangular wood frames waited to be nailed together. She’d heard rumors in spring of someone seeking an acre in or near the village. Talk had died down. Now the evidence was clear. A thin stoop-shouldered man in brown trousers, a white shirt and vest chose planks and pounded them together, then set them aside to select more wood.

Today of all days, when she was already late for the Ladies’ Aid meeting. Libby needed sugar and a few other groceries, too. The wind had a bitter chill. Who was this stranger? She didn’t recognize him, and her brother failed to mention a possible buyer.

For her parcel of land.

She crossed the plank road, aware of the clothes flapping on the line behind the nearest white-frame house. Trees had blocked her view until now. Yesterday at noon the field stood barren. Now this unknown carpenter must have started at dawn and thrown together a basic foundation for a house plus framing for walls. The nerve of him! And her brother—Ben should have consulted her before agreeing to sell land deeded in her name.

Libby marched across the uneven ground. She had to know who this man was and why he’d chosen Cady Corners. His collarless shirt was soaked with sweat, his trousers’ backside sported a patch, but a flat-crowned straw hat shaded his face. He pounded away with abandon. Clearly unaware of her approach, he continued to work with hammer and wood. Align planks, select and pound nails, set aside the joined angles of wood, lift two more pieces into place, repeat. The soothing rhythm had a life of its own.

She hated to interrupt his focus, but had no choice. “Excuse me, sir—sir!”

The man veered around, eyebrows raised. “Morning, ma’am.”

“Yes, it was a good morning,” Libby said and frowned. “I live across the road in that small house, next to my brother’s brick one. With the ironwork fence.”

“Nice sturdy house.”

“Yes, thank you. I have a few questions for you.”

“Oh? What might that be, ma’am?”

He pushed his hat back, revealing deep brown eyes beneath dark eyebrows. A shock of gray hair fell over his wide forehead. His face looked too young—Libby shook herself. First of all, it wasn’t her business how old he was. Second, why was she flustered by his slight Southern accent? She breathed in and out, trying to calm her racing heart and gather her wits. It didn’t mean anything. It shouldn’t.

Or did it?

THANKS FOR STOPPING BY — HAPPY ST. PATRICK’S DAY!

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