Jean Joachim

Thursday, March 25, 2021

Have you heard about my new sweet historical romance, "Abigail's Journey"? It's book 1 in the Catskills Saga, takes place in Colonial America, and is being read faster than you can flip a page in Kindle Unlimited! Reviews are glowing, with the book achieving a 4.6 overall rating. How about an excerpt?

First, a bit about the book:

Abigail Chesney has it all; a husband more loving than she could have dreamt, three healthy children, and a house on thriving farmland. She’s happy in her little world until it crashes down around her.

Losing almost everything tests Abby in ways she never expected. Can she learn to accept what she can’t change and trust those she loves? Relying on help from the people of Fitch’s Eddy, a tiny Catskill logging town, Abby discovers her own strength. Will Fate’s cruel blows crush her? Or will love give her a new reason to go on?

Abigail’s Journey – travel back to Colonial America, 1786, with this heartfelt, sweet, historical romance, where the flavor of the past leaps off the page.

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EXCERPT

May 1786

“Pack up and get out, Chesney. I’m moving in.”

No sooner were the words out of the scoundrel’s mouth than George Chesney hit him square on the jaw. The man exploded in rage and landed two on George before bystanders pulled him away. Chesney had never been much for fighting to settle a dispute. However, when the welfare of his beloved family hung in the balance, he’d gladly trade fisticuffs with the devil himself.

Leaving the Danbury Inn, he wiped the blood off his nose. Tramping through town, he breathed deeply. The bell of the town crier stopped him.

“Seven o’clock and all is well.”

He compressed his lips together as bitterness soured his mouth. It might be seven o’clock, but all was not well, not for the Chesney family. Old Luke Morton had gambled away the deed to their farm. He had been Morton’s tenant, working the farm for the past ten years. He figured to own it outright in another five. Luke’s one whiskey too many and his losing hand at cards smashed George’s dream to bits.

Laughing in his face, the winner had dashed any hope of staying to farm the land. So, he’d lashed out at the man who’d threatened his future but had come out the worse for it in the end.

Fear spiked in George’s chest, slowing his pace. For once, he dreaded returning home. Since he was late, his beautiful wife would have kept a plate of dinner aside for him. She’d be wondering where he was. How could he tell her Morton didn’t own their farm anymore and they had to pack up and leave?

As he struggled to find words, his heartbeat sped up. Sweat poured off his forehead and soaked his shirt. He wiped his face with his sleeve and shivered in the chilly May wind under the cold light of a full moon. The sweet smell of freshly turned earth met his nose. Crops were already planted, but he’d not be around to harvest them. Where would they go? Farming was all he knew. How would he make a living and feed his family?

It didn’t help that his face had swelled and the flesh around his eye throbbed. Gently, he fingered his nose and flinched in pain. He grew angry. It wasn’t his fault Morton was an old, drunken fool.

Seemed like bad luck had dogged his steps lately. They’d lost a goat through a hole in the fence. Fox killed two chickens. He figured it was timing. He’d had the best fortune in the world to win lovely Abigail’s hand. And the three wonderful children she’d given him had brought him much joy. Now he was thirty-six years old, maybe his luck had turned.

As he drew near to the little farmhouse he’d called home, emotion choked him. How could he tell his family they’d have to leave the life they loved—the only life they knew?

Smoke curled up from the chimney and the aroma of burning logs drifted his way. Yep, his son, Samuel, had remembered to bring in wood. He could almost taste his wife’s fine stew and smell the freshly baked bread his daughter, Sarah, had put up in the afternoon.

George directed his gaze upward and uttered a prayer as he approached his home. He stopped halfway up the path to swallow hard and wipe his cheek. The wetness wasn’t blood, but tears. He took a deep, shuddering breath. No nice way to break such bad news. They were losing their home—he’d come right out with it.

He pushed the door open.

“George! I’m so glad you’re home. Where were you? We were worried.”

Speech eluded him. He stood, solid, feet spread slightly, and reached for words that wouldn’t come. His gaze hopped from his wife to each of his children in turn. They stopped what they were doing. She approached and put her hand on his arm.

The smile faded from her face. “You’re bleeding. What happened? Are you all right?”

He shook his head. “No, I’m not. And nothing is going to be all right again for a very long time.”

Her eyes widened. “What?”

“Sarah, put Lizzy to bed then come back. You and Sam are old enough to hear the truth.” He ran his palm over his face then sighed, sinking into a chair. His wife picked up a dish towel, removed a plate from the warming oven and placed it on the table in front of him.

“Hungry?” She raised her gaze to his.

“Not really.” But the aroma of the stew set his mouth to watering.

“Eat. Whatever it is will wait.” She poured a cup of tea for him and one for herself.

“You deserve better,” he mumbled, picking up his fork.

“Better?”

“Better than me.”

“Hush, George Chesney! I don’t know what happened today, but I married the finest man in all of Danbury. And don’t you dare disagree with me.” The fire in her eyes, and her high spirit turned her cheeks a becoming rosy shade.

“If you aren’t the prettiest woman in all of Connecticut, I don’t know who is.” He leaned over to plant a gentle kiss on her lips then took her hand and raised it to his. “And you make the best stew in God’s creation.”

His daughter returned. She joined Samuel on a bench across from their parents. Sarah fiddled with her long hair, while Sam tried to twirl a penny on its end.

“What is it, Papa?” her young voice squeaked. The children raised their gazes to meet his.

He poured out the story. Shame filled him to admit he’d struck the first blow and yet had still come out the worse for the battle. When he finished, silence blanketed the room. The only sound was the scraping of his spoon against the plate as he finished the last drop of gravy.

“Don’t worry. We’ll be all right,” she said.

“How, Mama? How?” The boy’s eyes filled with fear.

“Your mother’s right. We’ll be all right. Go on to bed now. We need you to be ready to help at sunrise.” He stood.

The children hugged him and left the room. When he turned around, Abigail fisted his shirt and pulled him toward her. Gently, she cleansed his face then brushed her fingers through his hair.

He drew her into his embrace. “I’m so sorry.”

“Stop apologizing. It’s not your fault.”

“We’ll manage.”

“Yes. We will. “Get some rest. You look all in.”

He trudged off to their room. “You coming?”

Get your copy here, free in Kindle Unlimited:

AMAZON U.S.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08KWGRBWF/

AMAZON U.K.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B08KWGRBWF

AMAZON CANADA

https://www.amazon.ca/dp/B08KWGRBWF