Daddy, He Wrote. Jill Limber

had a magical look to it.

      The meteorologist on the local weather channel had announced there was another storm coming in behind this one. They could expect more snow tonight.

      He wished the inside of his house was as quiet and peaceful as the landscape. He’d bought the farm as a retreat, to be alone so he could write. He had anticipated having the house all to himself. Now he was sharing it with a woman, a baby, a cat and a dog.

      What had surprised him more than anything was he had been able to write last night. In spite of the chaos inside the house he’d written two chapters that pleased him. He was never pleased with a first draft.

      The book he was working on was important to him, more important than any of his best-sellers. It was the book he had always wanted to write. The book his agent and publisher had steered him away from. They kept telling him it wasn’t what his fans wanted, what they expected. Ian thought his fans would understand. And if they didn’t, he thought sourly, they could skip buying it.

      He suspected that was the reason everyone was having a problem with this project. His agent and editor were afraid it wouldn’t sell well and make the big money his other books had.

      He didn’t care what they thought. The time was right for him to write this story, and he was going to finish the book. He would like to blame his writer’s block on them, but he couldn’t. He wanted so much to do a good job on this book he was pretty sure he was the one standing in his own way.

      He forced his thoughts away from the book and back to the practical. He needed to make sure they had enough gasoline for the generator so they could stay warm. From the looks of the refrigerator, they didn’t need to worry about food for a month. His housekeeper cooked like a madwoman.

      And what was he going to do about her? She couldn’t continue to do all the work around this place. It was too much for one person, especially a slender little thing like her. He wondered how old she was. She looked about seventeen.

      How long had she been married? How had her husband died? There were so many questions he wanted to ask. The need for answers surprised him. He never wanted to get involved in other people’s private lives.

      He’d have Joyce tell the property manager to find someone to help around the farm with the grounds. Trish could still do the housekeeping and live in the stone farmhouse. The caretaker would have to be a day job.

      He bent down to jot a note to himself to ask Joyce to look into it the next time he talked to her. Then he wrote a note to himself. “Ignore the housekeeper. She’s none of your business.”

      He straightened up and scowled at his own handwriting.

      He crumpled the piece of paper and tossed it in the trash. Since when did he need to remind himself of something like that?

      Chapter Five

      A scraping noise drew Ian out of his manuscript. Annoyed at the interruption, he glanced at the computer and was amazed to find he was well into the middle third of the draft.

      He hadn’t had a creative streak like this for months. He’d been sure he wouldn’t be able to write until his housekeeper moved back to her house, but he’d been wrong.

      He stood and stretched, then looked at the time display in the upper corner of the screen to discover it was well past lunchtime.

      No wonder his stomach was growling for food. He’d been working since early this morning on nothing but coffee.

      He opened his office door and found out where the scraping noise was coming from. Trish was on the landing on her hands and knees, totally absorbed in hand sanding the floor. Her blond curls bounced as she ran the block wrapped with sandpaper over the boards.

      He could see how red and chapped her hands were from where he stood. “What the hell are you doing?”

      She jumped at the sound of his voice. Her head jerked up, and a look of panic crossed her face, then was gone as quickly as it had appeared.

      She scrambled to her feet. “Is it bothering you? I don’t have to do this now,” she said in a rush of words.

      She was wearing another of those ratty flannel shirts. He wondered how many she had, then chided himself. His housekeeper’s wardrobe was none of his business.

      “I’m hungry.” He rubbed his hand over his growling stomach.

      She looked relieved at his statement. “I made soup. And sandwiches. Is that okay?”

      “Fine.” Now that she mentioned it, he could smell the soup. He started down the steps, then stopped. “Is it okay to walk on these?”

      She nodded and her curls bounced. “Oh, yes. I’m going to do a half at a time, so you can still use the stairs.” She spoke quickly and gestured nervously to the steps.

      He looked down at the steps. “What exactly are you doing?”

      With a shrug she said, “They were getting scratched, so I’m refinishing them.”

      Refinishing? They looked fine to him, but she seemed so nervous he wasn’t going to mention it.

      He followed her down the steps. She stopped at the bottom to pick up a wastebasket covered by a thin towel.

      He watched her balance the basket carefully in her two hands. “Is the baby in there?”

      Her expression softened. “Yes. She’s sleeping. I put the towel over her to keep the dust off while I sanded.”

      “Do you ever let her out?” He was amused by the way she carted the baby around like a load of laundry.