Hold on My Heart Read Free

around the corner of the old schoolhouse, followed by the six-foot-plus-something man who came with it.
    Libby gasped and flopped like a fish on a hook as she tried to twist and stand up while simultaneously pulling up her resistant shorts.
    He caught sight of her, his brown eyes going wide before he turned away and blocked his vision with his hand. “Holy—Oh, uh, sorry. Are you okay?”
    Libby managed to scramble to her feet and yank up her shorts, but she could feel bits of gravel and weed fragments stuck to her ass. Her face burned with humiliation. Couldn’t a girl get a moment to herself around here?
    The man glanced through his splayed fingers. “Are you okay?” he asked again, his voice solicitous but edged with humor.
    “I’m fine!” She smoothed the waistband of her shorts. “I just fell down. What are you doing back here? This is private property.”
    “Not that private,” he murmured, a smile tugging at his mouth.
    “Excuse me?”
    “I, ah… nothing. I was just looking for Peter Hamilton. Is he here?” His cheeks flushed under tanned skin.
    She slipped her hand inside the back of her shorts discreetly to dislodge a pebble ingrained in her skin. “That’s my father. He’s inside.”
    He looked at the door, then back at Libby. “Should I just go in?”
    “Oh, come on,” she said with more growl than she intended. “I’ll show you.”
    It couldn’t have been some sweet little old lady with bad eyesight who found Libby splayed out in the weeds without her pants. Oh, no. It had to be a guy like this. A macho type… with wavy chestnut hair and shoulders as wide as a doorframe.
    A little smirk played around the corner of his mouth. She frowned. That smirk was at her expense.
    “Dad,” she barked as they stepped inside. “There’s somebody here to see you.”
    Her father appeared from a doorway, wiping a cobweb from the front of his shirt. “Oh, hello there!” He extended his arm. “Are you Tom Murphy?”
    Peeping Tom was more like it.
    The man nodded and shook hands with her father. “You must be Mr. Hamilton.”
    “I am. Proprietor of this fine establishment. I see you’ve met my daughter.”
    The man nodded once, not meeting her eyes. “Sort of.”
    Libby sighed audibly. “Dad, you didn’t mention you were expecting someone.”
    “I wasn’t sure when he was coming. But how lucky that you caught us here,” her father said.
    Libby winced. She was the one who’d been caught.
    Her father continued, the smile on his face bright. “Tom, this is my daughter, Liberty Belle Hamilton.”
    Insult, meet injury.
    It wasn’t bad enough this stranger had seen her floundering with her pants down next to the Dumpster, now he also knew the full extent of her ridiculous name, courtesy of her history-loving father.
    “Just Libby,” she corrected.
    Another single nod and a fast flick of the man’s big brown eyes completed the introductions.
    “Tom is a builder. And a restoration specialist,” her father said. “He’s going to help us get this place back to her former glory, isn’t that right?”
    Tom tipped his head. “I’ll try. Let’s have a look around and see what we’ve got to work with.”
    The men started walking toward the other side of the room, leaving her behind.
    “There’s a lot to be done, but I’d love your ideas on where to start,” Libby heard her father say.
    The man chuckled as he answered, “I think I’d start with a Porta-John.”



CHAPTER
two
    T he Hamilton clan, minus one, was gathered in the sage green dining room for their once-a-month-you’d-better-not-miss-it Sunday dinner, the invitation for which was as binding as a subpoena. Beverly Hamilton, Libby’s mother, sat at one end, presiding judiciously, her red-gold hair held back from her face by a brown barrette. A sturdy platter piled high with succulent roast beef surrounded by steaming vegetables was in the center of the table, smelling delicious and ready to be eaten, but as usual, they were