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?”
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Watch for book 2, "Sarah's Dilemma" coming in April!
