The problem with people, as far as Franklin Davis was concerned, was that they weren’t wood.
Wood was simple.
Wood did what you told it to do.
Wood would never lie to you.
But people … well, people were a different story entirely.
Ever since he was a little boy working alongside his father Tom on the family farm, Franklin had reveled in the feel of wood in his hands. Didn’t matter if it was cold or warm straight or warped, rough or smooth, because Franklin could make it do whatever he wanted.
Eventually, he followed the gold rushers west and built a modest cabin at the edge of Winter Falls where he could ply his trade and sell his wares to local businesses and settlers.
Life was sliding along just fine, alone, until one day when a newcomer came to the house with his daughter in tow to see what Franklin had to offer. But it had been a busy season, and all Franklin could show them was his favorite world-weary rocking chair.
“Rocking chairs are for old people!” the girl had sniffed, throwing her nose into the air. Franklin knew right then Cassie was going to be trouble.
And he was right, because before long they were spending time together, and he was thinking more about her than about his woodworking. There was only one way he could think of to set things straight.
So one chilly spring evening, Franklin drove his team to Cassie’s homestead and knocked on the door. He blushed when she answered, but he had come too far to back down.
Franklin motioned toward the back of his wagon where two rocking chairs stood — his own, and a shiny new one.
“I sure would like to be old people together someday,” he said.
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