The Carpenter’s Unlikely Bride (Preview)

Chapter One

The mayor’s office smelled faintly of lemon oil and tobacco. Rosie sat upright in the chair across from Mayor Edmund Langston’s desk, hands clasped in her lap. Behind him, the window framed the spire of the town church and the straight lines of the rooftops of Central City. A far cry from the sagging shingles of the orphanage.

The mayor leaned back, the creak of his chair loud in the silence. “You’re doing good work at Fairplay Orphanage, Miss Harper.”

“Thank you, sir,” Rosie said, lifting her chin. “But we’re reaching a point where good work and charitable donations just aren’t enough.”

He tilted his head, clearly intrigued. “Is this about the roof again?”

“It’s about everything,” Rosie replied. “The roof. The boiler. The mattresses, which have needed replacing for two winters. We patch and repatch, but there’s only so much we can do with our dwindling funds. I’ve been over the books. If we don’t increase funding, we’ll be forced to cut back.”

Mayor Langston steepled his fingers. “On what? Children?”

Rosie lifted a brow, not sure from his expression whether the mayor was kidding or not. She’d always found him a bit off-putting, with his oily hair and slick attire.

“Food. Supplies. Maybe staff hours,” she continued, thinking it best to ignore his remark. “The church can’t keep giving us paper and pencils for free. And the children shouldn’t have to share threadbare blankets to keep warm.”

A flicker of something passed through his eyes, annoyance, maybe, or calculation. “You’re here to ask for more money.”

“I’m here to ask for more support.”

He smiled thinly. “You’ve grown bold.”

Rosie recalled Margaret’s words that morning, “You’ll need more than kind eyes and a clipboard if you want men like Langston to take you seriously.”

So she had chosen her best blouse, braided her hair twice to keep it from frizzing, and walked into the mayor’s office determined to succeed.

With her heart pounding and her spine straight, she took a deep breath. “If being bold gets the children what they need, then yes,” she stated, her voice remarkably calm.

The mayor leaned forward slightly. “You’ve turned down offers before.”

Rosie blinked. “Offers?”

“From other gentlemen in town. You’ve kept yourself separate. Focused. It’s admirable. But it doesn’t build alliances.”

Her jaw tightened. Of course, he would bring that up. As if a woman running an orphanage needed a husband to keep the walls standing. She thought of Mr. Brody, who had withdrawn his offer to supply books after she said no to a dinner invitation. And Pastor Willard’s nephew, who had never said boo to a goose, had made a surprise proposal at the Harvest Supper and then refused to meet her eye in church after her polite, but gentle, no. Both men had meant well, but neither wanted her strength, only her obedience and her gratitude.

She held his gaze. “I’m not looking for alliances. I’m looking for action. A chance to keep that orphanage running the way Miss Mary intended.”

“The old lady trusted you.”

Rosie moved her purse over her hands so he wouldn’t see her clench them to hear Miss Mary talked about in such a way.

Careful, Rosie. Don’t blow it now.

“She gave me a home when I was in need, sir. I’m not about to let her legacy slip away because of my own inaction.”

The mayor rose, walking to the window. “The Spring Festival is coming. There’ll be opportunities. Visibility.”

“I’m not asking for parades. I’m asking for a funding increase.”

He turned. “I’ll see what can be done.”

Typical. Non-committal as ever. Not a yes, not a no.

Rosie stood. “Thank you for your time.”

He smiled again, warmer this time, but she didn’t trust it. “I admire your passion. I hope to see you at the upcoming Spring Festival, Miss Harper.”

She hesitated, then nodded once. “If funds allow, Mayor Langston.”

She turned to leave, her footsteps quiet against the polished floor. As she reached the door, his voice followed her.

“You know,” he said, almost casually, “not everyone would be so brave. Coming in here alone. Demanding change.”

She paused, hand on the doorknob and turned her head toward him. “It’s not bravery, sir. It’s necessity.”

The mayor chuckled low in his throat, as though amused. “Call it what you will. Just be sure you know how the game is played.”

Rosie offered no reply. She stepped through the door and closed it gently behind her, holding her breath until the latch clicked shut.

As she stepped outside, the weight of the meeting pressed hard on her shoulders. The breeze off Main Street did little to ease the tightness in her chest. Every conversation like that chipped away at her, tested her resolve, but she couldn’t afford to let it show. Not with the children counting on her. Not with Margaret quietly worried behind her eyes.

***

The chalkboard still bore the ghost of yesterday’s lessons as Rosie moved through the schoolroom, collecting forgotten pencils and dog-eared books. The children’s voices drifting in from the yard outside. She could hear Theo yelling something about pirates, while Maggie was insisting she was a princess.

She paused at the window to watch them. For all her issues with the mayor, it was these moments that mattered most.

Margaret’s footsteps creaked behind her. “You look like someone who either won or lost a fight.”

“Neither,” Rosie said. “I requested help.”

Margaret crossed her arms. “And?”

“He didn’t say no.”

“But he didn’t say yes.”

Rosie turned from the window. “We’ll find another way, if we have to.”

“Stubborn.” Margaret smiled.

“I learned from the best.”

“Maybe.” Margaret said, her tone filled with humor, “but I’ve got cookies to bake for the Ladies Benevolent Society, and you’ve got a class to teach.”

Margaret sighed, then looked back out to see Maggie stringing a daisy chain while Ruthie chased Alfie through the sun-drenched yard. Their laughter was infectious, and she smiled, but it didn’t cover the soft groan of the porch as she heard Margaret step outside.

Fairplay Orphanage had always been Rosie’s home. First as a child under Miss Mary’s care, then as its reluctant heir after the old woman’s passing. Rosie didn’t complain. She couldn’t. These children were hers now, as surely as if she had carried them herself.

Sometimes she wondered what it would have been like if Miss Mary were still there. Would she have managed the roof repairs with a single letter and a freshly baked pie? Would the mayor have dared to withhold funding if it were Miss Mary sitting across from him instead? Rosie wasn’t trying to fill the woman’s shoes, no one could, but the weight of her memory was also a beacon of light for her. One she must follow.

She pressed her hand against the windowsill, steadying herself. This place was more than bricks and beds. It was proof that love could be chosen, built, and fiercely defended.

Rosie exhaled, gathering herself for whatever came next.

A shriek tore through the afternoon air and Rosie flew out of the building, skirts gathered in one hand, mind sharp.

Cassie stood near the yard gate, fists clenched, glaring toward the street where a freckled town boy twice her size stood, smirking.

“You don’t know anything,” she spat. “Just because we don’t have parents doesn’t mean we ain’t a family.”

“You’re just leftovers. Nobody wanted you,” he said, loud enough for half the town to hear.

The words sliced through Rosie, sharp and familiar. Years ago, the undertaker’s son had said the same to her. Called her gutter trash. Said she must have done something terrible to be dropped off at an orphanage like a parcel nobody claimed.

I’m really not in the mood for this, not today.

She stepped to Cassie’s side and gently laid a hand on her shoulder. “Take a deep breath for me, Cass. You remember how we practiced when the world gets too loud?”

Cassie hesitated, then inhaled slowly, her chest lifting.

Rosie leaned close, brushed the dust off her skirt. Then she slipped a folded handkerchief into the girl’s hand.

“Use this next time. Not your sleeve, all right?”

The girl nodded, eyes downcast. Rosie saw, just for a moment, the tiny thing she’d been when she arrived. All elbows and nerves, wiping her tears, her nose, and anything else on her sleeve.

Rosie straightened and turned. Her boots clacked as she marched through the gate and into the middle of the street.

The boy stiffened when he saw her coming.

“Paul Miller! You apologize to her right now, or so help me…”

“Miss Harper.”

The sharp interruption came from his father. Mr. Miller stood near the general store, arms folded, tone stiff. “Might be best if you kept your urchins in line. They could stand to learn some manners.”

Rosie narrowed her eyes. Her tone dropped to ice. “Perhaps if you taught your son some manners, or disciplined him once in a while, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

Paul’s face flushed scarlet, and he took a half-step back.

Mr. Miller’s lips thinned. “Mind your tone.”

“Then mind your boy,” she replied tersely, her eyes leaving the boy to look directly at his father.

A hand slid gently into hers, and Rosie looked down to see Ike at her side.

One of the oldest boys at the orphanage, Ike had been under the orphanage’s care since he was less than a day old. Broad-shouldered and steady-eyed, he was wise beyond his twelve years, the kind of boy who carried more weight than he let on.

“Miss Rosie,” he said quietly, his voice calm. “There’s folks watching. Pick your battles, isn’t that what you taught us at Bible study yesterday?”

She glanced at Ike, before looking around, and sure enough, a few townspeople lingered nearby, some shaking their heads, others deep in conversation.

Her jaw clenched. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears, and she took a deep breath to relax the knot of tension in her stomach.

I’m supposed to be their example. If I can’t keep my temper, what message does that send?

She squeezed Ike’s hand gently, and they turned and walked back through the gate, closing it behind them, as if closing out the town.

Rosie turned to Cassie, who had waited in the yard. “You are right, Cassie. Family isn’t about blood. It’s about who shows up for you. That boy, Paul, doesn’t know anything about us. Or about true family.”

Cassie clutched the handkerchief. “I don’t care what he says. I got Alfie and Ruthie and Maggie. And you.”

Rosie smiled, though her throat tightened. She tucked a curl behind Cassie’s ear. “Then you’re richer than most.”

Alfie hopped onto the fence, grinning. “I vote we make that boy eat cabbage for a week.”

Ruthie puffed out her chest. “I could scare off any bully. Just give me a stick.”

The smaller children burst into laughter.

Maggie trotted over with a fistful of crushed daisies. She pressed one into Cassie’s hand. “This’ll make you feel better.”

Cassie smiled and Maggie turned to offer another to Rosie. “This one will make you smile.”

Rosie took the flower, curling her fingers around its stem.

These children see more than I give them credit for.

She would not let the children fret over money or fear for their future. That burden was hers to carry.

The children scattered again, their joy spilling out like sunlight, and Rosie pressed the flower to her chest.

No more cracks. No more slipping.

She would stretch every dollar. Fight every fight that mattered. Stay strong when they needed her to be.

Because this wild, stubborn, beautiful group of children was her family.

Miss Mary never let me down, and I’ll do whatever it takes not to let them down either.

Chapter Two

Wiping his hands on a rag and stepping down from the ladder, Harry Tate looked over the wood frame he’d just secured into place, noticing how it gleamed under the late afternoon sun.

As he folded the rag and tucked it into his back pocket, he caught the sharp scent of cologne on the breeze. He knew who it belonged to and turned to see Mayor Edmund Langston was already halfway across the road, strutting as if the street belonged to him. His boots gleamed. His hat, carried rather than worn, was tucked neatly beneath his arm. The waistcoat hugged his frame a little too snugly. His oiled black hair didn’t shift in the breeze. The man was shorter than most but walked like he’d never noticed.

Harry didn’t frown, didn’t smile. He just waited.

“Mr. Tate,” Langston said, reaching the curb in front of the shop. He didn’t extend a hand. Just stood there with that familiar, measured posture and a tight smile.

“Mayor,” Harry replied, his tone flat.

Langston glanced up at the work Harry had just finished, then back at him. “Heard you’re between contracts.”

“Just wrapping this one up.”

“Good timing, then. Got a place that needs attention. Orphanage. Roof’s sagging like a hammock, porch is near caving in, and from what I’ve heard, the supports underneath are rotted clean through. Windows rattle in the frames. Chimney leans like it’s about to drop. Whole thing’s probably one stiff breeze from toppling.”

Harry nodded slowly. “What kind of materials are already on-site? Or am I sourcing everything myself?”

Langston waved a dismissive hand. “Might be a pile of old boards somewhere. But if I were you, I’d bring what you trust. We’ll reimburse you, of course.”

“Reimburse?” Harry asked, straightening. “Materials aren’t cheap.”

The mayor smiled again, too quick. “We’ll sort the details once the job’s underway. You’ll be doing something good.”

Harry studied the man carefully. There was always something a little too slick about Langston. The way he filled a room without raising his voice, the way people stepped aside when he approached, like he was the sun and everyone else was orbiting. Central City wasn’t a big city, it was in fact more of a town. Yet Langston acted as if he were mayor of St. Louis or Chicago. As if the railroads ran through there because of him, and the post came on time just to please him. A man like that didn’t talk in half-measures. And he only made promises that were self-serving.

Langston turned slightly, surveying the street like a king surveying his lands. “The orphanage matters to this region. It reflects the values we hold dear. Fairplay is just one of many little towns under my watch, Mr. Tate. My support there sends a message.”

“Fairplay?” The little settlement, as Harry thought of it, sat just a few miles outside town. He didn’t say anything more, and let the weight of silence hang.

Langston continued, almost idly, “And of course, the orphanage is in capable hands. A young woman’s taken it on. Rosie Harper. Seems determined.”

Harry clocked the shift in his tone. Not just business. There was something behind it. Something proprietary. The way he said “young woman” clung a little too long in the air. His expression hadn’t changed, but something in his voice had softened around the edges.

Harry fought the twitch of his jaw. He’d seen men like Langston before. Smooth, proud, convinced their interest was a compliment. The kind of man who offered favors with one hand and expected gratitude with the other.

Did Miss Rosie Harper know what she was getting into? She might just as well make a deal with the devil than accept favors from someone like Langston. A man who ran entire towns with a smile and a ledger. Who considered charity a favor and expected his name on the wall in return. Did she know that whatever Langston gave her would come with a cost?

She probably thinks she can handle him. Maybe she can.

But Harry had been in the world long enough to know that power didn’t play fair. Langston didn’t offer help. He offered leverage.

He crossed his arms, boots planted squarely on the ground. “And payment?” Harry asked again, more pointed now.

Langston offered another shrug. “You’ll be compensated. Just focus on the work.”

The way he said it made Harry’s stomach tighten. He’d heard that tone before. From builders who cut corners and foremen who paid late. From men who said, “Trust me,” and meant, “Let me get away with it.”

Still, a job was a job. He’d learned long ago that when opportunity knocked, it usually brought trouble, but you didn’t keep your roof intact by turning it away.

“I’ll head up tomorrow,” Harry said. “But I’ll want to speak with Miss Harper myself before I get started. Want to be sure we’re in agreement.”

Langston blinked, then nodded. “Of course.”

Harry nodded once. Conversation over.

Langston turned on his heel and strode off without a backward glance. Harry stood there a moment longer, watching him disappear down the street like he’d already forgotten the conversation ever happened.

He rubbed the back of his neck, the weight of the exchange clinging to his skin like sawdust. He didn’t like being maneuvered, and he didn’t trust a man who smiled too much. Still, something about the job tugged at him.

Maybe it was the mention of the children. Maybe it was the thought of someone like Rosie Harper standing between that place and collapse. Either way, it felt like a place where a good man might matter.

“Looks better than it did ten years ago,” came a voice from behind him, interrupting his thoughts.

Harry turned. Davy Goodrich, owner of the dry goods store, stood with a thumb hooked into his belt and a cup of coffee in his hand. He was grinning like a man pleased with what he saw.

“You say that every time I finish a job for you,” Harry replied.

“That’s because every time, it’s true,” Goodrich said. “That corner post you replaced last spring? Held up through the last two storms without a creak.”

Harry gave a modest nod. Praise was nice, but results were better. He didn’t do the work for compliments. He did it because anything less than solid craftsmanship left too much room for regret.

“I’ve had three customers today ask who did the trim,” Goodrich added. “Told ’em it was you. Told ’em you don’t take shortcuts, and you don’t slap on paint to cover bad joints.”

Harry smiled faintly. “Appreciate that.”

“You heading out soon?”

Harry nodded. “Fairplay. Got a lead on some repair work. Orphanage.”

Goodrich’s smile faded slightly. “That place has needed help for years. Shame nobody stepped in sooner.”

Harry folded the rag and tucked it into his pocket again. “Maybe now’s the right time.”

“If they’ve got you coming, it just might be,” Goodrich said. He took a sip of his coffee, then added, “You’re wasted on shopfronts, you know. Not that I’m complaining. But you’re built for more than shingles and signage.”

“It’s honest work,” Harry said simply.

“That it is. But I gotta hunch this job’s gonna be different.”

Harry didn’t answer that. He didn’t have to. He offered a nod, then turned to gather the last of his tools.

As he secured the toolbox to his wagon, he glanced once more at the storefront. His work. His reputation. The kind of craftsmanship people remembered when their roof held firm in a storm, or their window didn’t rattle in the wind. Central City wasn’t his hometown, but after seven years of careful, quiet work, it felt close enough.

He didn’t own land. He didn’t keep company. But he had a name people trusted, and that was worth more than a title or a badge. It meant something. At least, it did to him. He glanced up at the storefront, with its polished glass panes and fresh white trim.

Someone else’s name was painted in gold leaf across the windows. It was the kind of finish most clients in Central City asked for nowadays. Clean lines. Fancy edges.

Not like his own place, tucked around the corner, where rough-hewn timber met honest work. His small cabin and workshop doubled as his storefront. No frills, just function. A plain sign with his name, carved and painted by his own hand, hung above the door.

I don’t suppose there’ll be anything fancy about this orphanage in Fairplay either. Suits me just fine.

***

By first light the next morning, he’d packed his tools and hitched the wagon. The road north bent through hills and trees, leaving Central City behind.

The wagon creaked and rocked beneath him, its wheels biting into the dirt path. Pine trees gave way to wide meadows, and morning sun filtered through thin clouds, painting golden stripes across the landscape. With each turn of the wagon wheels, the noise of the city faded. The scent of sawdust was replaced by wild grass and damp earth. Harry breathed it in.

He liked travel. Liked the rhythm of hooves, the space to think. Out here, time slowed just enough to give a man room to breathe. He caught himself wondering what kind of person Miss Rosie Harper really was. Apparently, she was the kind of person who would take on a crumbling orphanage in a small town with no guarantee of support… that alone said something. Still, he didn’t know anything concrete.

She could be seasoned and practical, or young and learning as she went. Maybe she came from Fairplay, maybe she didn’t. He wasn’t one to form opinions on secondhand words or a mayor’s smirk. But his curiosity had been stirred, and it settled in the space between each creak of the wagon wheels. She hadn’t walked away. That fact alone meant something. What exactly, he’d find out soon enough.

He passed a mile marker carved into stone and checked the road ahead. Fairplay was only a few miles out, a familiar stretch of road he’d taken before, though not often. He knew where the turnoff was, and he knew Matilda Abbott had land nearby. It wasn’t the middle of nowhere. Just far enough from Central City for things to move slower, quieter. He’d stop at the general store first, ask a few questions, maybe get a feel for the town. Small towns always had opinions, and the store clerks usually knew them all.

A gust of wind kicked up dust beside the wagon. Harry pulled his scarf over his mouth, eyes narrowing as he squinted toward the horizon. The little town rose slowly into view, nothing fancy, just rows of weathered buildings and a church spire reaching above the rooftops. Chickens wandered freely across the road, and a dog barked from somewhere behind a fence.

Fairplay.

He eased the wagon to a stop at the edge of the square, the orphanage just visible through a line of trees.

He didn’t know Miss Rosie Harper from Adam, but he would soon enough. If she was anything like the work he’d been told to expect, she’d be tough as nails and twice as stubborn. Good thing he wasn’t scared of hard work.

He sat for a moment longer, letting the quiet seep in around him. His hands, scarred and calloused, rested on his thighs; every nick and groove a reminder of the work he’d done. Harry didn’t rush jobs. He measured twice, cut once. He believed in lines that met true and joints that held without complaint. He could work fast when he needed to, but he never worked sloppy.

The tools in the back of his wagon weren’t polished or pretty, but they were solid, every handle worn to fit his grip, every blade kept sharp. He oiled them weekly, sharpened them himself. They were, in some ways, his only real possessions. Not many men could say they built something with their own hands and knew it would last.

He didn’t know what shape the orphanage was in, not really. But whatever it needed, beams, shingles, nails or care, he’d give it. Not just enough to get by. Enough to make it right.

Because when Harry took on a job, he finished it. And when he fixed something, it stayed fixed.

Chapter Three

Rosie rushed down the stairs, her skirt catching at her ankles, one hand trailing the banister. It wobbled beneath her grip, a fresh crack at the base. Of course. Another thing to fix. She pressed her lips into a hard line and pushed through the frustration as a knock sounded at the door.

“Rosie,” Margaret called from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel, “if that’s another donation from the church, tell ’em we don’t need anything else with holes. I’m up to my ears with darning our own clothes, let alone anyone else’s.”

“It’s probably the workman,” Rosie called back, pausing with her hand on the doorknob. “The mayor said he’d send someone this week to start the repairs.”

Margaret’s head appeared around the kitchen doorway. “Let’s hope he sent someone who knows one end of a hammer from the other, and not one of those puffed-up types who spends more time talking than working.”

“We’ll soon see,” Rosie muttered. “Fingers crossed he’s not afraid of splinters.”

She swung open the door. A tall man stood on the porch, tool belt low on his hips, sleeves rolled, a pale scar cutting across his cheek. He looked more like a gunslinger than a carpenter.

This wasn’t what she expected. Someone older, surely. Grayer. Maybe with a paunch and a limp. Not broad shoulders and quiet confidence.

“Harry Tate,” he said. “Sent by the mayor.”

Her hand tightened on the edge of the door. The mayor had said he’d send help, but she hadn’t expected it to look like this. He was there for the work, not for her to get flustered by a good-looking man with a voice like the weight of well-worn boots on old timber.

“I thought you’d be older.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Funny. I thought the same about you.”

He said it with such a straight face that it threw her off balance. Just a little. But she didn’t let it show. Not much, anyway.

Don’t go acting like a silly schoolgirl, now, Rosie Harper.

“Been working since I was twelve,” he added. “Framing, roofing, siding, finish work. Ran my father’s crew by sixteen. That count for something?”

Rosie crossed her arms. “I’m sure you’re handy, Mr. Tate, but patching a banister and restoring an orphanage are two different things. You sure you’re not just here for easy coin and a letter of thanks?”

He blinked, then let out a short breath. “You always greet help with suspicion, or am I special?”

“You’re here on the mayor’s dime,” she said, lifting her chin. “Forgive me if I ask questions. This place needs more than hammer swings and good intentions.”

Something flickered across his face, respect, maybe. He gave a short nod.

Rosie held his gaze a moment longer. She had made the choice to go to the mayor herself, to take a seat in that stuffy office and lay out her case without flinching. If that meant she had to sniff out any nonsense from the people he sent, so be it. She wasn’t going to apologize for fighting for her home.

Breathe, Rosie. You asked for help. You don’t have to be impressed. Just focused.

Then she gave a short nod. “Alright then, I’ll show you where to start.”

She stepped out onto the porch, and then shifted her weight to avoid the soft board near the edge. His gaze landed on it too, then swept across the rest of the porch.

“How long’s it been like this?” he asked.

“Long enough to make me worry every time the children run across it,” she said. “And short enough I still think we can save it.”

He nodded, unslinging his tool belt and crouching by one of the posts.

“What’s the rest of the job? Just porch and roof, or something more?” Harry asked all that without looking up.

She blinked. His questions were direct. Not unkind, but businesslike… practical.

She drew a breath.

Be clear. Be specific. He needs to know what he’s walking into.

“The floorboards upstairs creak so loud they might wake the dead, and one of the back windows won’t shut tight. The chimney leans a little, but it’s holding for now. The banister’s coming loose on the stairwell, and one of the pantry doors won’t close all the way, for starters.”

Children began to gather. Theo hovered near the doorway, his eyes glued to the hammer at Harry’s hip. His fascination was clear. His eyes followed every movement as Harry unrolled a bundle of tools and began inspecting the boards one by one.

Jack burst into the yard with a whoop, declaring himself a cowboy-carpenter and swinging his invisible hammer through the air, running circles around the porch until Rosie caught his eye with a raised brow that made him freeze in place.

Evan stood nearby, quiet as a shadow, his gaze fixed on Harry’s hands as they moved with calm, practiced rhythm. He didn’t speak, didn’t shift, just watched, absorbing every detail.

Maggie wandered over from the garden with a fistful of daisies. She gingerly stepped forward, then walked right up to Harry, stopping just short of his knee. She held out a single daisy, her fingers trembling slightly. Without a word, she placed it quietly beside his boot and darted back behind Rosie’s skirt.

He glanced at the flower, looked right at Maggie and gave a short nod, then got back to work with calm, methodical precision that came from years of practice. His hands moved with a quiet rhythm, measuring, tapping, checking.

He doesn’t waste time. Doesn’t waste words. I need that right now. So why do I feel like I’m holding my breath?

Something stirred inside her; a cross between relief and unease.