Your House or Mine?. Cynthia ThomasonЧитать онлайн книгу.
“How long do you plan to stay today, Murdock?”
“Another hour or so. Then I have to get to work. I have a town to protect.”
“I know I feel better knowing you’ve left my house and are out in the community securing our safety.”
Wade chuckled and turned back to fixing the window.
Meg smiled as she went into the house. The words she’d just spoken were actually the exact opposite of the way she was beginning to feel about Wade. She’d missed seeing his patrol car in the drive yesterday. And she’d been relieved to find the car by the barn today. As much as she might try to fight it, she was starting to like the man, a dangerous and unwise reaction to a person who was trying to sabotage her dreams for the future. But, darn it, he was just easy to like.
“Keep your mind on your goal, Meggie,” she said to herself. “Find the deed and protect your rightful ownership of this house. Remember, Wade Murdock has a good job and a secure future. He'll survive the disappointment.”
Dear Reader,
This book is about special places. We all have at least one. It could be a place we’ve visited all our lives or one we’ve yet to discover, but it’s out there waiting for us to stumble upon its magic. My special place is a rambling old farmhouse in western Kentucky where my aunt and uncle lived and where I spent some of the happiest moments of my life.
It’s gone now, this house, passed to other hands, to hearts that I hope will hold it as closely as I still do. In my mind I will always remember the plank wood floors, the old wooden rockers, the upright piano and every Christmas decoration that turned this home into a wonderland each December.
In these pages you will read about such a house and two very different, wounded people who both long to cherish it forever. But only one of them can have it. I hope you enjoy this journey of a man and woman who find their heart's desire, and perhaps a miracle or two, within the walls of a very special place.
I love to hear from readers. Please visit my Web site, www.cynthiathomason.com, or e-mail me at [email protected]. My address is P.O. Box 550068, Fort Lauderdale, Florida 33355.
Sincerely,
Cynthia Thomason
Your House or Mine?
Cynthia Thomason
This book is dedicated to my best “Buddy,”
my husband and cherished traveling companion for the past twenty-six years. Thanks, Walter, for paying my admission to all those tours of old houses and never once complaining.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
MEG HAMILTON REACHED for the telephone with one hand and grabbed a pen and paper with the other. She flinched at the recurring pain in her neck as she once again held the receiver to her ear with her shoulder and said, “Colonial Auction House. Meg speaking.”
She tried to be patient with the caller. “Mrs. Winkler, as I told you yesterday, you don’t have to call every afternoon to confirm. You have an appointment for tomorrow. Our buyer will be at your home just as I explained to you a week ago when you first contacted us.”
She nodded her head several times in tempo with the nervous woman’s plaintive voice. “Yes, I promise. My brother Jerry will be coming with a truck and a helper. They’ll pick up anything you want to consign to the auction.” She blew out a long breath as the caller once again repeated what Meg had just said. “Yes, that’s right. Until tomorrow then. Goodbye, Mrs. Winkler.”
Meg leaned forward to settle the phone into its cradle. Then she put her elbows on the desk and massaged her temples. It was four o’clock, the end of an especially grueling day. Time to pick up her son at the neighbor’s house and go home, if only Jerry would get back from his last call of the day. She was imagining a tall glass of iced tea and her favorite chair when she heard the repetitious beep of the auction house truck as it backed up to the loading door. “Thank goodness.”
Moments later Jerry poked his smiling face inside the entrance of their building. “Hi, sis, has it been busy around here?”
Meg could only stare at him. It really was a rhetorical question because he darned well knew the answer. She often thought Jerry got the best of the deal in their business partnership, just as he’d gotten off easy growing up as her kid brother. He drove around in the truck all day making house calls and picking up merchandise for their weekly auctions. She was stuck in the building for eight hours answering the phone, handling drop-in customers, and inputting auction debits and credits on a computer spreadsheet, not to mention acting as the auctioneer.
She didn’t even try to hide her fatigue and frustration when she said, “If I have to answer that phone one more time…”
Of course it rang.
“Get that, will you, Meggie?” Jerry said. “I want to bring something from the truck to show you.”
She groaned once, picked up the phone, and immediately switched to her professional voice. She politely explained to the caller that a ten-year-old sofa which had coexisted with eight cats probably would not sell at Colonial Auction. She’d just ended the call when Jerry clanked and rattled back into the building.
Meg gaped at the rough-hewn piece of lumber in his right hand. It was about ten inches in diameter and nearly as long as he was tall. In his left hand he held an assortment of chains and hooks and other metal fittings she couldn’t identify.
Jerry dragged the contraption to the desk and stood grinning down at her. “Isn’t it great?”
“It might have been once,” she admitted. “But now, maybe a hundred years later, I haven’t the faintest idea what it is.”
“You’re wrong about the age. It’s more than a hundred years old.” Jerry stood the end of his worn log on the office carpet and gave the antique a look of reverence. “This probably went west with the pioneers a hundred and fifty years ago.”
Jerry imagined potential heirlooms in every cast-off piece of flotsam sticking out of a garbage can. And he was usually wrong. Meg liked old things too, pretty ones whose value could be verified in a collector’s catalogue.
She scrunched up her nose at the worm-eaten log. “You still haven’t told me its use,” she said. “If, indeed it has, or had one.”
“It’s a doubletree,” he announced, draping the chains over his shoulder and running his palm halfway down the length of the lumber. “See how it’s arched in two places…” He jerked his hand away and pulled a splinter out of his little finger with his teeth.
Meg automatically