A Bride For The Asking -- (on hold)

Prologue

Dear Readers--This is the first draft of this book.  I hope you will enjoy reading it despite the errors, and the rough state of the manuscript.  Comments and/or suggestions would be greatly appreciated.  Thank you.   Alora

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Rose kicked the library door shut with her foot while balancing a load of logs in her arms, still fuming at Lucretia for ordering her to do Jim’s job. The draft scattered wood dust everywhere, causing her to sneeze, which, in turn, jarred a log loose from the precarious pile in her arms, that dove straight for her feet.

A small black dog, following behind Rose, gave a yelp of surprise and tucked his tail between his legs, looking up at Rose accusingly when the log whacked the dog across the back, instead of Rose’s foot

“Sorry, Shadow,“ said Rose trying to see around the logs. 

Shadow wasn’t really her dog.  He had belonged to Miss Clara, who died last Spring.  Shadow had adopted Rose after her death and followed Rose everywhere like a little black shadow, hence his nickname.

Rose staggered across the room and dropped the heavy load of wood onto the hearth.  Catching her reflection in the mirror over the mantle, she frowned at the face staring back at her.  Freckles, she thought in disgust, staring at the woman in the mirror.  Millions of them.  She resented every single one.  They were all she saw.  Not the dark lashed, tip tilted green eyes, long, straight nose, or the perfect bow shaped lips.  She couldn’t see the oval face surrounded by a halo of auburn hair.  She couldn’t see the whole effect was strikingly beautiful.  No, all she saw was freckles. 

Stooping down, she began cleaning out the fireplace.  “This isn’t my job,” she grumbled, scooping the dusty ashes from yesterday’s fire into the ash bucket. “Where in the world is Jim today?” Rose wondered aloud, picking up the old newspapers she’d brought and began tearing the pages in half.  She quickly scanned the pages before crumpling them, then threw the wads of paper onto the grate with an angry toss. 

She stopped her destruction of the newspapers, however, when she spotted the want ads.  She rocked back on her heels and propped her elbows on her knees to read them. “Three new ads this week,” she thought aloud.

The little dog, hearing her voice, came close and nosed at her apron pocket.  Rose smiled and pulled out a scrap of bread for the dog.  “What a little shadow you’ve become.  You missing Miss Clara, aren’t you, boy?”  Rose petted the dog on the head.  “I miss her, too.”

Oh how Rose missed her.  Nothing was the same since Clara Farthingham had died.  Even if she was a Yankee, she had been good to Rose.  She understood how hard it was to work at a Plantation house where she once had been an invited guest--before the war. She would never have allowed Silas, Miss Clara's husband, to make advances towards her.  While Miss Clara was alive, Rose had been safe from Silas’s nefarious pursuit.  

The dog licked the last of the crumbs from her hand and sat back on his heels to stare up at Rose with worshipful adoration in his protruding little eyes that spoke of his bull terrier ancestors.

“Let me get this finished now, and I’ll get you something better when we get back to the kitchen.”

With a last pat, Rose turned back to the fireplace.  The dog, seeing no more treats were forthcoming, laid down near Rose, head on paws, with a sigh.  Rose began piling the logs on the nest of wadded paper.  The clatter of the logs was loud in the quiet room.  One rolled behind the grate and Rose had to get down on her knees to reach in behind the grate to retrieve it.

A warning growl from the dog was the only warning Rose had before a pair of hands grabbed her  from behind.  Raising up in alarm, she banged her head on the inside of the fireplace.