by Lisa Carter
Miss IdaLee led her platoon around to the hay wagon Jake had attached to the tractor. Not Callie, though. She returned to the Apple House. Technically, Maisie was under Miss IdaLee’s charge for a couple more hours.
IdaLee could have single-handedly run the Normandy invasion. Jake stuck his tongue in his cheek. Who knows? At her age, perhaps she had.
His daughter’s eyes lit at the sight of the purring green tractor. Such a farm girl.
Jake helped the moms and their children climb into the straw-filled wagon. But when it was Maisie’s turn, she shied away from him, clinging to Miss IdaLee.
Maisie wasn’t afraid of him anymore. Callie had made sure Maisie was clear about that. But she was angry with him. And he didn’t know what to do to change her mind. He didn’t know what to do to convince her to forgive him.
Why should she? His conscience niggled at him. He hadn’t forgiven Maisie’s mother. Like father, like daughter?
Miss IdaLee, stronger than she looked, hefted Maisie into the wagon and into the arms of one of the waiting moms.
The old lady’s violet-blue eyes softened. “I so admire a man who doesn’t give up easily.” She took his hand, her skin parchment-thin in his grasp as he handed her into the wagon. “Don’t quit trying.” Her gaze flitted toward the Apple House. “With either of our girls.”
Was she talking about—His mouth dropped. She couldn’t possibly mean—
He climbed onto the tractor. The matchmakers were nothing if not tenacious. Delusional, too, if they imagined a fine woman like Callie Jackson would ever consider a nobody like him.
She’d made herself quite clear on the terms of their arrangement. Even by Thanksgiving, he’d be fortunate to work up to “friends” when it came to the arm’s-length redhead.
His parents. Tiffany. Now Maisie. He didn’t understand why, but people found something inside Jake unlovable.
Jake headed into the orchard grove. No need to give the usual farm talk with IdaLee along for the ride. Going into teacher mode, she expounded on the life cycle of Buzzy the Honeybee.
“May-zee a bee,” his daughter piped.
His lips quirked.
“Maisie is a McAbee, not a honeybee,” IdaLee corrected, but he could hear the smile in her voice.
In the Jackson household, Maisie was definitely queen bee. And everyone, including her, knew it.
Steering between the rows, Jake enjoyed listening to the curious questions the two-year-olds lobbed at Miss IdaLee. Questions she volleyed with ease.
Jake was more than a little proud his own daughter appeared to be one of the brightest of Miss IdaLee’s students.
“Honeybees are our friends,” Miss IdaLee continued. “They help our food, including apples, to grow. But their cousins the yellow jackets...”
Jake veered around the meadow.
“They look a lot like Buzzy the Honeybee, but if you bother them they can sting you many, many times. Some people get sick from the poison in their stingers. The yellow jackets are not our friends.”
Gripping the wheel, Jake seconded that. Not his friends, for sure.
Returning to the Apple House parking lot an hour later, Jake helped the children and their mothers disembark. When it was Maisie’s turn he backed away, unsure what he should do.
Mrs. Fielding, owner of a nearby dude ranch, came to his rescue. Sizing up the situation, she lifted Maisie off the wagon and plunked her on her feet, thus averting another scene. She gave him a sympathetic pat as she headed off with her grandson in tow.
Jake blew out a breath. By now everyone in Truelove knew what a terrible father he was, how his own daughter couldn’t stand him.
Putting distance between himself and this latest reminder of his innate inadequacy, he went to check the air pressure on one of the tractor tires. In deep conversation, Callie and Miss IdaLee lingered near the back of the wagon.
IdaLee appeared to be doing all the talking and Callie the listening. His cheeks burned when Callie flicked a guilty look his way. Was IdaLee talking about him? About them? He wished there were even a remote possibility there could be a them.
Whoa. He stopped short. Where had that come from?
Rounding the tractor, he came face-to-face with Maisie. She was just standing there, contemplating the big-wheeled tractor, unrequited yearning on her sweet little face.
Jake moved slowly, as if approaching a ready-to-bolt forest creature. Making sure she saw him coming. Giving her ample time to run if she chose.
She didn’t. Run away, that is.
“Maisie...” It felt so good to say her name and not have her freak out.
His daughter’s eyes darted to him, then to the tractor.
“Maisie...” He swallowed. “Do you want to ride the tractor?”
Her forehead puckered. She looked at Jake and then at the tractor once more, torn between tractor love and her determination to stay as far away from him as she could get.
Jake’s heart sped up. Would she trust him? Would she come to him?
He opened his arms. “Maisie, do you want to ride the tractor with me?”
It seemed to him that, for a second, time stood still. That, for a moment, the birds fell silent. Miss IdaLee and Callie stopped talking. Like him, they were holding their breath and waiting for Maisie’s next words.
Maisie’s lower lip quivered, but she shook her blond tangle of curls. “Pop-Pop.”
So Jake let her go. What else could he do? Arms outstretched, she ran to Callie.
A boulder weighed on his chest. Callie, not he, lifted Maisie. Frustration and pain caused his eyes to well.
Would it always be this way?
His shoulders hunched, he climbed aboard the tractor alone and drove toward the barn.
Chapter Seven
Last week after the field trip, Miss IdaLee had made a few wise observations about the situation between Jake and Maisie. Upon reflection, Callie had come to believe that she was right.
Because of his past, Jake would never push forward where he wasn’t wanted. He just wasn’t wired that way. And if Callie waited for Maisie to make the first move, they’d be waiting forever.
Clutching the camera strap slung around her neck, Callie led Jake down the church corridor toward Maisie’s preschool classroom. Brightly colored art projects—variations on a theme of autumn—adorned the walls.
She would need to be proactive in putting Jake and his daughter together at every opportunity. He had become such a big part of the orchard—like he’d lived here his entire life. Like he belonged.
Her heart clamored. What felt like a hundred monarch butterflies fluttered in her chest. That was exactly what just the thought of Jake McAbee did to her, and even more when he got within ten feet of her.
She cut her eyes at him, striding alongside her with his hands stuffed in his pockets. He was focused on the doorway at the end of the hall. Under the brown canvas jacket, his broad shoulders hunched. Preparing to do battle once more in a war to win his child’s affections.
Lately, she’d caught herself wondering how his dark blond hair—slowly growing out—would feel in her fingers. Bristly? Or silky like Maisie’s?
Her heart thundered. What was wrong with her? She ran her hand down the side of her jeans. If only the yearning were as easily erased.
Over the past six weeks, she’d spent a lot of restless nights thinking about him. About him and Maisie. About the way he made her feel.
Jake came to an abrupt halt at one particular picture on the blue-painted wall. He pointed at the clouds of green on thin brown stilts and the blobs of red. “Maisie?”
She looked closer and nodded. “Maisie’s rendition of the orchard.” Then she frowned.
Among a cluster of red-dotted trees, Maisie had drawn three stick figures. A man, a woman and a little girl. Callie’s heart sank. Jake didn’t need her
to tell him he wasn’t included in Maisie’s depiction of home.
His gaze dulled. “Maybe it’s better if you attend Parents Day without me.”
She caught hold of his sleeve. “But you wanted to see her schoolroom. Meet her friends.”
He stared down the empty hallway. “I wanted...” He sucked in a quick breath. “I just wanted a picture in my head to take with me.”
Already mid-October, the weeks were rushing by. In little more than a month—per their agreement—he’d leave for good. As would any hope that he could ever be more than Maisie’s long-distance dad.
Wasn’t that what she’d wanted? Her stomach twisted. The thought of saying goodbye—of never seeing him again—brought only a sense of impending doom.
Now, after a lifetime of rejection, he looked ready to bolt.
She tugged on his sleeve. “We have to keep trying, Jake. Please.” And no longer able to deny herself, she took hold of his hand.
Jake’s gaze fell to her fingers twined in his. “Callie?”
Heat suffused her cheeks, but she didn’t let go of him.
Frankly—and this was part of what kept her awake at night—she was beginning to wonder if she ever could.
His work-hardened, calloused palm fit like a glove around her hand. Strong and warm against her skin, his hand felt right in hers. Right where she belonged.
Callie’s pulse leaped. This wasn’t supposed to be happening. Not with Maisie’s father. Not with the man Tiff had betrayed.
She took a deep breath. She needed to get herself together. No matter what he did to her nerve endings, this was about Maisie. She had to keep this about Maisie. “Parents Day, Jake.”
A quizzical look in his eyes, he searched her face for a second before squeezing her fingers. “Maisie.” He exhaled.
Callie pulled him into the classroom, but he hung back behind her. At several pint-size tables, children worked on a pumpkin craft with their dads. He scanned the room looking for a certain small blonde with a head full of curls.
Maisie listened with rapt attention as Deirdre Fielding read from a book about Johnny Appleseed.
“See how they’re sitting?” Callie motioned to the children on the big green rug. “Criss-cross applesauce.”
Jake’s mouth curved. “What else?” He leaned so close his breath brushed a tendril of hair at her earlobe.
She fought a shiver at the sensation on her skin. She tried not to be too obvious as she breathed in the masculine, woodsy scent of him.
At the refreshment table, several moms called out their greetings. Miss IdaLee came forward with a welcoming smile. “So glad you both could join us.”
But when Maisie spotted her father, she went stiff as a board.
“Stubborn as a mule,” Callie murmured under her breath.
With her defiant little chin raised, Maisie stood up. Jake let go of Callie’s hand, to her regret. Catching hold of the hem of Callie’s black sweater, Maisie firmly pulled her to the other side of the small classroom. Basically, as far from Jake as she could manage.
From the dress-up box, Callie watched him survey the room—the shelves of picture books, the little tables and chairs, the paint easel. Memorizing everything he could about the life he’d never get to live with his daughter.
That awful realization and the guilt that accompanied it momentarily robbed Callie of breath.
Eyes blurring, she helped Maisie step into a princess costume. Fumbling to raise the bodice to her chest, Maisie scowled as Jake approached. “No Daddy, Cawee,” she grunted.
He scraped his hand over his face. “I think it would be better if I wait for you over at the café.”
“Jake—”
He held up his hand. “Stay. Enjoy the party.”
“But—”
“Staying in Truelove, I’m being selfish.” He scrubbed his neck with his hand. “The last thing in the world I want to do is make her unhappy.”
Fear lanced her heart. Was he thinking about quitting? Leaving Maisie...them?
“Jake...”
He shook his head. “It’s okay.”
But it wasn’t, not by a long shot.
“You’ll w-wait for us?” She couldn’t control the quaver in her voice.
His blue eyes darkened. There was more to what she was asking about than today, and they both knew it.
“I’ll wait for you.”
“Cawee...” Maisie tugged Callie into a crouch.
Tilting his head, Jake gave her a crooked smile. “She ought to call you mommy, don’t you think?”
Callie sat on her heels. “But I’m not...” She bit her lip. “Tiff is her mother.” Her gaze cut to Maisie, but losing interest, the little girl had wandered over to select a tiara.
“Tiffany is dead, Callie. You’re the only mommy Maisie will ever have.” His eyelids drooped. “Soon she’ll start wondering why everyone else has a mommy. Start wondering if something is wrong with her.”
Had that once happened to Jake?
A hole opened in her heart. She longed to reach out to him. To touch him. To comfort him. But she dared not in this room full of parents and their children. In front of a Truelove matchmaker. Besides, she didn’t have the right.
Not with the secret she was keeping.
She moistened her lips. “Maisie will have a Callie.”
“Take it from someone who knows.” His chin dropped. “A Callie is pretty great, but a mommy is the best.”
“Maybe when she’s older. When it feels natural—”
“I trust your judgment, Callie, to always do what’s best for Maisie.”
His words pricked her heart, sparking guilt for not trusting him with the most fundamental of issues. But before she could frame a reply, Maisie took Callie’s face between her small palms.
“Look me, Cawee.”
By the time she wrenched free and turned toward the door, Jake had gone.
* * *
Bells jangled as Jake pushed into the crowded diner. The buzz of conversation died for a moment as every head turned in his direction. The flatlander. That was what locals called people “not from around here.”
After spotting an empty booth along the outside wall, he eased onto the cracked red vinyl seat. Conversations resumed as the people of Truelove went back to their business. Judging from what he’d observed, minding their own business was not something anyone in Truelove was accustomed to.
Welcome to Small Town, USA.
He pulled the plastic-covered menu from between the salt and pepper shakers, then laid it on the slightly sticky Formica tabletop. Aromas of bacon and eggs permeated the cheery café. On trips to the hardware store with Nash, he’d passed The Mason Jar many times. But the orchard had kept him too busy to stop by until now.
A favorite town hangout, according to Callie. An unofficial community center. GeorgeAnne and ErmaJean hunkered at a table in front of a large wall-mounted bulletin board. He grimaced. The Mason Jar—operation central on the busybody grapevine.
Miss ErmaJean fluttered her plump hand at him. Miss GeorgeAnne raised her eyebrow. No doubt she was wondering why he was a no-show for Parents Day.
She needn’t worry. Her sources were far-flung and accurate. Within the hour, he felt sure she’d learn the entire sorry debacle of his first visit to Maisie’s preschool. Especially since their missing third compadre was Miss IdaLee herself.
They meant well. He’d learned that much about them. They were genuinely rooting for him and Maisie.
Which he appreciated. Almost as much as the sense of sanctuary he felt in the little chapel. Attending services with the Jacksons, the longing within him to know more only grew stronger with every passing Sunday.
And thanks to a few conversations with Nash, Jake was learning more about what made the Jacksons and the folks at the chapel so different from anyone
he’d ever known.
There was a flurry of activity in the diner this morning. A waitress bustled around, refilling coffee cups. Through the swinging door, another waitress hustled out of the kitchen, a platter of steaming-hot pancakes balanced on her shoulder.
At the cash register, in the same casual jeans as the other waitresses, Amber Fleming gave him a distracted wave as she rang up a patron’s bill, letting him know she’d be right with him to take his order. Callie had introduced them at church.
Behind the long white counter and cherry-red stools, the short-order cook passed plates through the cutout window for pickup. Tables and chairs lay scattered throughout. Through the plate-glass windows, booths overlooked Truelove. The town square. The post office. GeorgeAnne’s family hardware store. The library. The bank.
Nothing much to write home about—if he had a home or anyone to write to. But strangely, Truelove was enough. Satisfying something deep within himself he’d never known was there until now.
Amber stopped at his table, removing the pencil she’d tucked behind her ear. “What can I get you?” Her long-sleeved navy T-shirt bore the words, Bless Your Heart, superimposed over the outline of a Mason jar.
He didn’t feel like eating, not after what had happened with Maisie at Parents Day. But he was occupying a booth and he supposed he ought to order something. “Coffee.”
She stopped writing, pencil poised over the pad. “That’s all?”
He nodded.
She tapped the eraser against her cheek. “Cream?” She nudged her chin toward the sugar packets beside the ketchup bottle. “Sweetener’s on the table.”
“No, thanks.”
She pushed off, her blond ponytail swinging. “Black it is, then.”
Amber returned with two porcelain mugs. Setting one white cup in front of him, she slid into the other side of the booth across from him.
“Thought we ought to get better acquainted, seeing as how you’re Maisie’s father.” Her sky blue eyes regarded him with an unexpected shrewdness. “And since you’ve become such a special part of my best friend’s life.”
