by Janet Dean
He didn’t wish her harm. He didn’t even want to disgrace her. He merely needed her to know the penalty he’d paid when she’d swept him under the rug of her life.
The beat of his heart pounded in his temples with the rhythm of his hammer. If there was a God and He was the Author of Life, as some claimed, He hadn’t gone out of His way to lend a hand to Jake’s life story.
Not in the circumstances of his birth.
Not in those years in the orphanage.
Not in the injustice exacted in that courtroom.
He sighed. Why not admit it? He wanted to see his mother with a desperation he couldn’t fathom, yet couldn’t deny. He wanted to meet her. See if they shared a resemblance. Learn the identity of his father. Maybe then he could move on with his life. If only he had a way to make his search easier, a sign with an arrow pointing in the direction to turn. He huffed at such absurdity. What would the sign say? This way leads to Jake Smith’s mother?
“How’s it going?”
Whirling around, Jake scrambled for footing, scraping his knuckles against the hot shingles.
Mrs. Mitchell looked up at him, eyes wide with alarm. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you, but dinner’s ready.”
“My fault, I didn’t hear you coming.” He forced his lips into a grin that pinched like ill-fitting shoes. “Your timing’s perfect. I just replaced the last shingle.”
Her eyes lit. “Oh, now I won’t have to cringe at the first peal of thunder.”
Forcing his gaze away from that sparkle in her eyes, that sweet smile on her lips, he tucked the hammer into his belt. She drew him like a mindless moth to a candle’s flame, a lure that would prove as lethal.
“Any damage inside?” he said, barely able to concentrate with her peering up at him.
“My bedroom ceiling’s cracked. I moved the bed to ensure that I won’t awaken one morning blanketed in plaster.”
Knowing the danger of entanglement, yet unable to stop himself, he said, “Can’t have a chunk of ceiling marring that pretty face of yours.”
The apple of her cheeks colored, but her eyes turned wary. “You men know the words a woman likes to hear.”
Why didn’t an attractive woman like Callie Mitchell appreciate a compliment? “I’ll take a look at the ceiling when I’ve finished the porch.” Jake pivoted out onto the ladder, descending the rungs two at a time, the ladder vibrating with each footfall.
By the time he’d reached the bottom, she’d dashed over and gripped the sides. He all but bumped into her coming off the last step. Wide-eyed and obviously shaken, she quickly moved aside. When had anyone worried about his safety?
“I’m accustomed to ladders and this one’s sturdy.”
“Even a careful man can meet disaster, Mr. Smith.”
No doubt she referred to her husband’s fall, but her remark summed up his life. “Your words don’t give a man much hope.”
Her eyes narrowed, as if trying to see inside of him. “Hope doesn’t come from words of mine. Hope comes from God’s Word.”
A man couldn’t manufacture something he didn’t believe. “I don’t see a point in opening a Bible.”
“Without God’s Word to point me in the right direction, I’d lose my way.” Mrs. Mitchell looked at him with eagerness. “You might give the Bible and church a try.”
“From what I’ve seen, churchgoers aren’t likely to offer clemency.” The words shot out of his mouth before he could stop them. What about this woman made him bleed his innermost thoughts?
Her gaze bored deeper. “Do you need clemency?”
Jake removed his hat and slipped the handkerchief stuffed inside into his hip pocket then swiped the sweat off his brow in the crook of his elbow. It didn’t take a genius to recognize prying. “Reckon we all do.”
A flash of remorse traveled her face. Her eyes lifted to the roof, filling with anguish and self-reproach that pushed against his core. If he didn’t know better, he’d believe Mrs. Mitchell shoved her husband off the roof. Well, he had no interest in getting involved with her or her problems. Yet she looked so fragile standing there fighting back tears.
An overpowering urge to tug her to him, to tell her everything would be fine, mounted inside him, yet his hands remained at his sides.
Everything had never been fine.
He couldn’t promise such a thing.
To her.
To anyone.
“I’ll get your dinner.” She headed to the house, shoulders bent, as if carrying a heavy burden.
No doubt she did. A burden he could ease by repairing this house. But the rest—unwed mothers, babies, grief over her husband’s death—he’d stay clear of all that.
At the pump, Jake stuck his head under the spout. Cold water sluiced down his throat and into his sweat-soaked shirt. Perhaps the dousing would cool his empathy for the young widow.
The woman tried to shove God and church down his throat, a prescription Jake couldn’t swallow. She’d indicated that the Bible would point a man in the right direction, as if the road ahead lay with God. He’d more likely find that arrow he wished for earlier than answers in an ancient gilded book.
And as for prayer—
If God existed, He didn’t give a fig about Jake. No matter what Callie Mitchell said, God wouldn’t be helping him. Jake would need a sensible way to find his mother.
Wielding a crowbar, Jake pried a rotted board from the porch floor, easy to do with the missing or inadequately set nails. He’d make repairs and ignore Mrs. Mitchell’s attempt to get him to church. Yet, he could feel himself getting drawn into her life. Worse, drawn to her. That scared him silly.
The faint scent of roses drifted through the air. Mrs. Mitchell stepped onto the porch, a straw boater perched at a jaunty angle on her head, wearing a high-neck white shirtwaist and gored skirt that rustled at the hem as she moved.
Jake sat back on his heels and drank in the sight of her, the gentle arch of her brows, her almond-shaped aquamarine eyes, her thick tresses the shade of rich coffee.
“Hello.” He’d sounded like a smitten schoolboy instead of a man who’d been burned.
“Hello.” She smiled at him. “Lovely afternoon.”
“It is.” Especially since she’d appeared, but he wouldn’t say that. If he had one speck of control over his addled brain, he wouldn’t think it, either.
“I’ll try not to get in your way.” She edged across the porch to check the flower boxes of pansies.
“You aren’t bothering me.”
When had he told a bigger lie? He could barely keep his eyes off her as she nipped off some dying blooms.
He clenched his jaw and pried up another board. What had gotten into him? The woman might be pretty, might even have a good heart, at least if her desire to take in an unwed expectant mother meant anything, but she was a woman after all.
If he could read her thoughts, he suspected her motive for helping wasn’t as pure as it appeared. Most people had an underlying scheme for everything they did. He’d figure hers out eventually.
“Does Miss Langley have family?” Jake asked.
“Her parents live up the block.”
“Then…why is she living with you?”
Mrs. Mitchell hesitated, as if deciding what to say. “Her father insists that she give the baby up.”
Jake’s stomach tensed. “What would he have her do? Dump it in an orphanage?”
She sighed. “Either that or put the baby up for adoption far from Peaceful.”
An urge to tell Elise’s father what kind of a life his grandchild would have in such a place gripped Jake, holding him firmly in its clutches, then tightening like a vise. “Nice and tidy for everyone,” he said in a voice as rough as sandpaper.
Why was Callie Mitchell getting involved with such ugliness? “If Miss Langley had thought of the consequences, she wouldn’t have gotten involved with a no-account man.”
Her eyes flashed. “Your censure doesn’t solve anything. What’s done is do
ne.”
“I’m sorry.” He swallowed against a sudden lump in his throat. “I’m just…angry.”
“I’m sorry you spent your youth in an orphanage.” Compassion filling her gaze, she reached a hand toward him.
He’d revealed too much. He took a step back, avoiding her touch. “As you say, what’s done is done.”
That morning she’d tried to pry into his past, tried to see inside of him. He knew better than to let anyone get close.
Mrs. Mitchell sighed. “If only Mr. Langley could see that an orphanage isn’t the solution.”
How many kids had Jake seen tossed into that orphanage from every situation or circumstance imaginable? Few thrived. If he tried to tell Elise’s father anything, he might resent Jake’s interference enough to dig around in his past. Perhaps discover his stint in prison. If word got out, he’d be forced out of town before he had a chance to find the woman who’d given birth to him.
Avoiding her penetrating gaze, he turned to his task. He’d repair this house, look for his mother and avoid more than conversations about the weather.
“Oh!” Mrs. Mitchell’s hand darted to her stomach.
Jake leaped to his feet. “Is something wrong?”
Like a rosebud opening, her smile unfurled. “Something’s very right,” she said, her tone laden with wonder. “I think my baby just moved for the first time.”
Of its own volition, Jake’s hand moved toward her middle, hovering inches away. Had his mother reacted like this when he’d moved inside her? No, if she had experienced Callie Mitchell’s joy, she couldn’t have tossed him out like yesterday’s garbage.
“In four more months, I’ll have a child.” Her voice trembled with emotion. “A family of my own.”
Behind the emotion, Jake heard Mrs. Mitchell’s determination to create a family with her and her baby. Family.
The word conjured up birthday cakes and bedtime stories, kisses on small hurts and hugs after a nightmare. All the things he’d never had. “Not every woman would want to raise a child alone.”
“I have God and my baby. I’m never alone.”
Her eyes reflected a faith so bright, so pure, Jake felt filthy in comparison. The idea that he could have such a woman in his life ricocheted through him. He tamped down the ridiculous notion. Callie Mitchell grieved for her husband. He grieved for his past. Not a foundation for second chances.
Chapter Three
Callie cringed, heat blooming in her cheeks. How could she have shared with Jacob Smith, a man, a stranger, the first movement of her baby? An intimate detail too personal to share with anyone but her doctor, her friends and the baby’s father, but Martin was gone and she hadn’t been able to contain her joy.
Worse, Mr. Smith appeared as overcome and delighted by the news as a prospective father. This would never do. Her breath caught. Jacob Smith was turning her world upside down.
Across from her, he took a long drink of water from the fruit jar, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each swallow. His sweat-soaked shirt clung to his torso, a surprisingly broad chest on that sinewy frame.
Martin had been soft, pudgy. The unkind comparison of her deceased husband to a drifter knotted in Callie’s stomach. “I’m going to town for my mail,” she said, eager to be on her way.
“Mind if I join you? I could use a break.”
At the thought of walking side by side with this man, a shiver snaked down Callie’s spine. Why couldn’t he have stuck to the task at hand? She ought to make an excuse and hurry inside, but she heard herself say, “I’d enjoy the company.”
He smiled, flashing that fascinating hollow in his cheek. “Give me five minutes.”
Looking pleased, as if accompanying her mattered, he vaulted over the railing to the ground with the grace and the quickness of a deer. Callie’s belly flopped like one of Martin’s landed fish. She tamped down such silliness. Mr. Smith merely needed a breather, exactly as he’d said.
Slow-moving clouds threw shadows on the house, pulling Callie’s eyes to the turret rising in the sky. Her family home had resembled this old Victorian, except the upper-story windows had worn stained-glass crowns, throwing splashes of color on the walls, delighting her little-girl heart. From those windows, donned in the cloak her mother had sewed and a beaded cardboard crown, the princess of her domain, she’d surveyed her kingdom—the fertile valley nestled in the foothills of Tennessee.
But the dam had been compromised and rushing water had whipped through the valley, sweeping the house and her family along in the flood.
She’d survived their loss. She’d survived Martin’s death. She’d survive whatever life threw her way. Her faith would keep her strong. But the deep ache of loneliness stirring within left her vulnerable. Vulnerable even to a man she knew nothing about.
Hadn’t she learned anything from her marriage to Martin?
Alone and adrift after Aunt Hilda died, Callie had soaked up Martin’s cheerful disposition and affectionate nature like parched ground and missed his lack of responsibility.
The minute he proposed, Callie had said yes. They set the wedding date for less than a month away. When the old Victorian came up for auction, Martin coerced his father into buying it as a wedding gift, insisting that the large family he wanted wouldn’t fit into Aunt Hilda’s tiny house. Once Callie sold the house, they used the proceeds to purchase furniture and had enough left over to put some money in the bank.
On her wedding day, Callie had never been happier. Martin had a secure job at his father’s store. They had some savings. His parents had accepted her with open arms.
It didn’t take long for the glow of marital bliss to fade. With Martin’s penchant for guns and fishing gear and the cost of supplies needed to rebuild the house, they tore through their savings. The more that Commodore did to keep them solvent, the more he expected to run their lives.
Not that anyone could control Martin.
Perhaps with a baby on the way, he would have stepped up to his new role. She’d never know.
But she’d learned a hard lesson. A man wasn’t always what he appeared.
Mr. Smith strode toward her, his hair damp under his hat, wearing a clean shirt and a contented smile that set her pulse racing. She folded her arms across her chest, vowing that she wouldn’t let him have this effect on her. No matter how much she admired his responsible nature and impressive accomplishments, she wouldn’t care about another man, especially a drifter.
When he reached her, their gazes locked. The yearning in his eyes lodged in her heart. They were two people cramming their days with meeting the needs of others, yet hungering for closeness. Every single bit of logic and misgiving vanished like dew on a summer day. Replaced by a pull towing her to him with a power she couldn’t explain.
A pull she wouldn’t heed.
Yet, her feet took her toward him. His eyes flared. Something meaningful and disturbing passed between them. Callie quickly looked away, breaking the hold this man had over her.
As she strolled beside him along the tree-lined walk toward town, she was all too aware of his height, the firmness of his stride, the power and energy he barely contained.
That first day she’d suspected he wasn’t a believer. How could she be drawn to such a man?
Martin had possessed faith, well, faith of sorts. Not much for combing Scripture, he’d left his edifying to the preacher at those times he didn’t snooze in the pew. In the two years they’d been married, they’d never shared a spiritual discussion.
Yet within hours of meeting, she and Mr. Smith had touched on their faith. From what he’d said, the man needed God. She would not get emotionally involved with a faithless man, but with God’s help, she could try to fill more than his stomach. She could nourish his soul. Help him find the answer to the pain she sensed lurking beneath the surface.
Callie gulped. As long as that answer wasn’t her.
Aunt Hilda had said Callie possessed a keen intuition about others’ feelings. Except for that one terrible
exception with Nell, Callie had found her assessment true. She’d learned to observe people. Saw what they needed, how she could bring a smile or ease a worry. Perhaps she could give that strategy a try with Jacob Smith.
As they approached a hump in the walk, he took her arm. “Watch your step.”
A jolt shot through her. The startled look in Mr. Smith’s eyes said he’d felt that same wild reaction. She quickly released her hold on his arm, yet felt strangely bereft. She groped for a safe topic. “You’re an excellent carpenter.”
“Carpentry comes easy to me,” he said in a husky voice, “like building a nest comes easy to you.”
“Building a nest?”
“Yes, making a home, a welcoming place for friends like Elise, even an outsider like me.” His eyes warmed. “That’s a gift. I’ve seen my share of places and the people who live there. Your hospitality isn’t something I encounter often.”
Everything inside her turned to jelly. Why did he have such an effect on her? The answer came. He understood what she valued, the importance of home and family.
“My house is a gift from God and way bigger than I need. I want to share it with others.”
As if he doubted that God gave gifts, he didn’t respond. She’d do what she could to share her faith. And leave the outcome to the One who controlled the universe. In the meantime, she’d focus on the arrival of her baby, on giving refuge to unwed mothers and ignore this transient man at her side.
As they passed Elise’s family home, Callie’s steps slowed. In the shadows of her porch Sarah Langley sat on the swing. She was a good Christian woman and Callie always thought the same way about Mr. Langley, but Elise’s decision to keep her baby called for strong support from her father, not opposition.
Sarah waved. “Callie, can you spare a minute?”
Callie glanced at Jacob Smith. “Elise’s mother may have something important to say.”
“I’ll walk on ahead.” He strode off, his lanky, easy gait eating up the distance to town, leaving a baffling void. A void she would ignore.
