by Janet Dean
“That’s what I thought,” Mildred said. “What a relief to get something right for a change.”
Callie sighed. “You don’t forget as much as I do.”
“That happens to expectant mothers,” Loretta said. “I remember my brain turning to mush with our two.” Loretta leaned toward Jake. “All evening, I’ve had the feeling I know you from somewhere.”
The bite of pie Jake had swallowed caught in his throat. He gulped it down. “Can’t imagine where.”
“Your face looks so familiar.”
“I’ve never been to Peaceful before. I probably remind you of someone.”
“You do, but I can’t think who.” A puzzled frown furrowed Loretta’s brow.
“Good to know I’m not the only one with a lagging memory, though I rarely forget a face, especially a handsome face.” Mildred patted Jake’s hand. “If I’d seen Jake before, I would’ve remembered. Now names…don’t always stick.”
“This house sat empty all my life,” Elise said. “Who owned it before you, Callie?”
“I’m not sure.”
Mildred smiled. “Wesley Squier, an Indiana state senator built this house, one of the finest in these parts, even in the state. Strangest thing—the family moved out in the middle of the night.”
“Why would someone do that?” Elise asked.
Frederick scooped a bite of pie onto his fork. “No good reason I can think of. Did they leave a pile of debts?”
“No, nothing like that. They were upstanding citizens.” Mildred frowned. “A fancy Realtor over in Indianapolis tried to sell the house for years, but big-city folks didn’t hanker living in what they saw as a Podunk town. And the price was bigger than Peaceful’s purses. So it sat empty.”
“Until it got into such terrible shape that the house was sold at auction for next to nothing.” Callie smiled. “I’m grateful. Otherwise Commodore and Dorothy couldn’t have bought it for our wedding present.”
“I heard gossip about why the Squier family left but that’s all it was—gossip,” Mildred said.
Commodore snorted. “People like to talk. What they don’t know, they make up.”
Elise’s gaze dropped to her lap. “Gossip’s a terrible thing.”
“Yes, it is,” Mildred said. “I make a point not to repeat it. I’m glad Callie’s giving this beautiful old house new life. And Jake here is handling the renovation.”
Why had the Squier family moved out of the house? Did they have a daughter? Perhaps Jake should talk to Mildred, see if she’d open up about the gossip she’d heard. No matter what she said, most people couldn’t resist wagging their tongues. He’d offer to do some chore. See what she knew.
Commodore rose. “This house should’ve been left to rot. You all enjoy your pie.” Though he hadn’t taken a bite of his, he left the dining room.
The front door slammed. No one said a word.
Jake supposed he could understand Commodore Mitchell’s resenting the house he blamed for his son’s death. But each time he condemned it, he stomped on his daughter-in-law’s heart.
As the tension of Commodore’s remark ebbed, conversation resumed. Yet, for some reason Jake couldn’t decipher, a whisper of questions hung in the air.
Callie and Elise hugged Loretta and Mildred goodbye. Jacob shook hands with Hal, then headed to the kitchen to start the dishes, a generous offer, but one Callie wished she’d refused. She wanted Jacob gone. Too much about him raised questions.
Callie closed the door after her departing guests and glanced at Elise. In her last weeks of pregnancy, the poor thing looked limp as a wrung-out dishrag. Callie gave her a gentle push toward the stairs, sending her up to bed, then walked to the dining room.
As she loaded glasses onto a tray, she reconsidered Jacob’s behavior. Perhaps she was unfairly suspicious, a fault of hers, when he might just be a private man who didn’t open up easily. Most people had painful circumstances in their pasts they’d rather not dwell on. Like Martin’s fall. Like Nell’s tragedy. Like her family’s destruction.
Still, she didn’t trust a man who kept to himself. If she had any sense, she’d ask him to leave and handle the dishes alone. Yet, the prospect of spending time with him sent her pulse skittering and her aching feet to the kitchen.
Jacob stood at the sink, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to the elbow, his hands submerged wrist-high in suds. The shadow of a beard defined his rugged jaw.
As he scrubbed a plate, muscles in his back rippled beneath the shirt tucked into his trim waist. Her gaze moved lower to slim hips and long legs. Gulping, she quickly looked away, determined not to give in to these wild feelings of attraction to a man she didn’t trust. Hands shaking, she planted the tray of glasses on the counter with a clunk.
“Nice party,” he said, glancing over at her with a smile.
“You didn’t look like you were having a good time.”
“Formal meals aren’t normal in my world. But I enjoyed the evening. I’ve never had better food.”
Pleased that he’d at least enjoyed her cooking, she wouldn’t argue the point. “You appear to know your way around a kitchen.”
“Washing dishes was one of my chores at the orphanage.”
“I’m sorry there are so many.” She gave a nervous laugh. “Aunt Hilda complained that I could dirty every pan in the kitchen just making toast.”
Grinning, he lifted a hand dripping suds, indicating the waiting stack. “This little batch will be a cinch.”
Martin would never have helped with what he’d called woman’s work. He never put himself in another’s shoes—especially a woman’s shoes. To have Jacob’s assistance in the kitchen left her rattled, as if her world had tilted and she couldn’t get her bearings.
Taking a deep breath, she focused on what needed doing, then proceeded to cover bowls of leftovers with plates and put them in the icebox. Then she grabbed a towel to dry the plates draining on the counter.
He turned toward her, letting his gaze roam her face. “You look tired. But pretty,” he added as if afraid he’d hurt her feelings.
“I hadn’t thought about it, but I suppose I am.” Inside her shoes she wiggled her toes and winced. “My feet hurt.”
“We can’t have that.”
He dried his palms, then took the towel from her hands, ushered her to the table and pulled out a chair, gently guiding her into it. Then he knelt and cupped her foot. Before she could protest, he removed one of her shoes, then the other.
Callie’s heart galloped like a runaway horse. “I, uh, my shoes aren’t as comfortable now that my feet have started to swell.”
Why had she said such a personal thing?
“I can see that.”
The concern she heard in his voice and the gentle, caring expression on his face heated hers. What was this man doing to her with just a look?
Moonlight filtered through the window, highlighting his features. His woodsy scent drifted closer.
“Though from what I’ve seen, ladies worry about fashion more than comfort.”
“I, uh, won’t make that mistake again. Well, at least until after my baby’s born,” she finished, not sure if she made sense.
With still-damp hands, he encircled her right foot and massaged her toes through her stockings, something far too intimate for a man who wasn’t her husband to do. She tried to retract her foot from his grasp, but his nimble fingers continued kneading her toes, sending waves of pleasure crashing through her until she almost groaned.
She should stop him. She would. “Jacob.”
“Hmm?”
“You shouldn’t.”
But her eyelids drifted closed under his gentle, yet firm touch. His hands slid down her foot to her arch. He rubbed the curve, his fingers easing her aching bones. It was all she could do not to purr like Stripes. His hands moved to the heel, then back to her toes.
When he set her foot on his knee, her eyelids flew open. The intimacy heated her cheeks and she yanked her foot out of his grasp. “
I… My feet are fine. Let’s finish the dishes.”
“Let me do something for you for a change.”
He lifted her other foot, ministering to that one as he had the first. Each stroke of his fingers eased the throbbing in her feet and fulfilled her need to be cared for. A need she hadn’t known she possessed. Since adulthood, she’d been the one to take care of others. Until now.
She reminded herself that Jacob Smith couldn’t be trusted. He might be kind, considerate and hardworking, but he kept his past secret. Why? Had he been harmed by others? Had he done something evil? No, she couldn’t believe him capable of harm. Was he simply a lonely man?
Whatever his past, something had brought him to town.
Jacob lowered her foot to the floor. At the loss of his touch, disappointment slid through her. A silly reaction.
He tugged her to her feet then handed her shoes to her. “Go on up to bed. I’ll finish here and lock up.”
His no-nonsense tone kept her from expressing her gratitude that for once, someone had eased her burden. That someone took care of Callie Mitchell, instead of the other way around.
“Are you sure, Jacob?”
“Very.” His tender gaze collided with hers, and then he cupped her jaw. His touch made her wobbly on her feet. “You work too hard. It’s the least I can do.”
He stepped closer and closer still, until he stood mere inches away. Tiny gold flecks bordered the dark mesmerizing pupils of his eyes glittering in the lamplight, and then settling on her lips. And stayed.
“I see you every day. Every day your beauty socks me in the gut. Not just outside, but inside too, the heart of who you are. And I wonder what it would be like to hold you in my arms.” His Adam’s apple rose and fell. “Do you wonder that, too?”
She couldn’t look away. Couldn’t speak. Could only nod.
“May I kiss you?”
Every rational thought fled her mind as she looked into those clear pools of jade. And saw nothing to harm her. What if… What if Jacob Smith was the caring man he appeared to be? What if she could trust and lean on him? What if God had brought Jacob here to mend more than her house? To mend her aching heart? Knowing Jacob would turn to Him in God’s time?
With all those questions burning in her mind, Callie looked at his lips—soft, full, slightly parted—waiting for her answer. The slight pressure of his hand under her jaw felt right, as no touch ever had.
She wanted his kiss. Wanted it badly. Refusing to heed the warnings churning inside her, she rose on tiptoe, the only answer she could give. As she slid her arms around his neck, her shoes clattered to the floor.
His lips captured hers. Gentle, teasing, sending shivers up her spine and curling her toes inside her stockings. He pulled her closer and she clung to him, then she raised her palms to caress the sandpaper of his jaw. The pressure of his lips grew stronger, bolder. She returned the pressure, her response to the man left her weak-kneed and wobbly.
Jacob’s breathing grew rapid, matching hers. Oh, when had she ever felt like this? His fingers splayed in her hair, sending pins to the floor, unleashing her hair—and triggering her faltering common sense.
Chest heaving, gasping for breath, she pulled away from his arms. Like a starving man, his eyes devoured her. Something passed between them, something unspoken yet powerful. So powerful it frightened her.
She took a hurried step back. “Good night,” she said, then fled the kitchen, leaving her shoes and the last remnant of her composure behind.
Struggling to control his breathing, his need for Callie, Jake planted his palms on the counter, hunched forward, the memory of Callie’s sweet lips beneath his searing his mind. Sheer torture. Nothing had prepared him for his strong reaction to their kiss.
With shaky hands, he washed and rinsed the tumblers, almost dropping the last one as he set it on the counter, then loaded the dishpan with the pots and pans. While they soaked, he dried the tumblers, peering though the kitchen window at the patch of night sky and the stars twinkling overhead, and relived that kiss. Beneath his tense fingers, the glass squeaked.
One kiss wasn’t enough. He wanted more. He wanted Callie.
He released a shuddering breath and laid the towel aside, tackling the roasting pan. Nothing in his relationship with Susan prepared him for his powerful feelings for Callie.
After sharing that kiss, a kiss that bonded him to Callie in a way he couldn’t understand, he knew he would do anything for her. He’d go to the ends of the earth to protect her. To comfort her. To take care of her.
Yet, he’d read the panic in her eyes, the resolve to keep him at arm’s length immediately before she stepped away and fled from him. The truth slammed against his lungs. She knew what he just now recognized. Callie was a strong, independent woman who didn’t need his protection or comfort. What she needed from him, he couldn’t give. Or fix. Or build.
She needed his heart.
His heart wasn’t worth having.
Shriveled from years of neglect. Frozen at the hands of Susan and Lloyd’s betrayal. Etched with the filth of prison.
Callie deserved more. So much more.
Why had he, even for a moment, believed they had a future together?
He hadn’t robbed that store. He hadn’t deserved that year in jail. What did it matter? Those who learned about his time behind bars didn’t believe in his innocence. Didn’t trust him.
If only he could tell Callie, be honest with her, but he didn’t dare take the risk. If she reacted as others had, he would be destroyed.
But hadn’t he also seen her response, that undeniable pull between them? A pull that would disappear the moment Callie knew about his past. He’d witnessed the lowest depths of man’s depravity. Freed months ago, he still felt dirty. Unclean. No matter how often he scrubbed his skin.
As he finished drying the last pot, he glanced around the tidy kitchen. Nothing more to do here.
He locked Callie’s house, about to return to the lean-to out back, then hesitated on the stoop. He should leave. Tonight.
That’s what a smart man would do. Get out of town before the ugliness of his past touched Callie. But he couldn’t leave her in the lurch. Not with all the work that still needed to be done.
Not only did the past stand between them. The future did, too. The baby Callie carried would need a strong, wise father. A Godly man. He didn’t know how to create a family. He had never experienced such a thing. Didn’t have that faith in God she prized. His past had taught him to run, to keep moving on before staying brought pain.
Better to remember why he came.
He entered the lean-to and dropped onto the cot, staring at the drawer that held those postcards. If he hoped to find his mother, he didn’t have much time. Any day now, the unwed mother from Bloomington could arrive and expose his past.
Tomorrow, he’d look at the newspapers. See what he could find. And move on.
He released a gust of air, together with the pent-up desire to get close to Callie Mitchell.
He didn’t dare. Some things were better left alone.
Chapter Eleven
Callie handed the tray loaded with plaster up to Jacob as he stood on the ladder, repairing the ceiling. In her bedroom.
After the kiss they’d shared last night, she couldn’t look at Jacob without her stomach fluttering like it held a bevy of butterflies. Every word, every glance and movement, multiplied her awareness of the man and their location.
The bed seemed to have doubled in size, her personal items scattered around the room—her hairbrush, robe and slippers—left her feeling edgier than chickens facing a dog in the henhouse.
As Jacob packed the crack with plaster, smoothing the edges as he worked, each stroke bunched the muscles in his arm and back. Callie’s mouth went dry, yet she couldn’t look away.
After last night, nothing would be the same between her and Jacob. She wanted to shrug off the significance of that kiss. Wanted to pretend that there would be no consequences from that kiss. W
anted to forget that the blood in her veins had surged with that kiss.
The truth was undeniable. She was attracted to Jacob Smith. The man was a drifter.
Without faith.
A mystery.
And worming his way into her life.
Her heart lurched. That scared her silly. She would not care about this man. Especially since he behaved as if that kiss they’d shared had never happened. Yet that kiss shouted in the silence, tightened in her shoulders and shook in her hands.
She had to do something to cut the tension stretching between them like a taut rubber band about to snap. What could she talk about? “Commodore certainly put a damper on things last night.”
“The man’s scowl could topple a hot-air balloon.”
“He’s never been an easy man. But losing his only child… That wound won’t heal.”
“Maybe it would, if he quit picking at the scab.”
“What do you mean?”
He glanced down at her. “Instead of harping at you about giving up this house, if he’d pitch in to help, he’d fill that chink in his heart.”
Good deeds, exactly as Jacob did now repairing the crack in her ceiling, fixing the porch and rails, making the house livable, doing every conceivable chore to make her life easier and in the process becoming indispensable.
Well, she wouldn’t allow herself to need him that way. Hardworking didn’t equal trustworthy. Trustworthy meant everything to her. So why did his presence make her feel more alive, more energized and eager to greet each new day?
“Commodore blames the house for Martin’s death,” she said, determined to keep the focus on her father-in-law and off all these thoughts about Jacob.
“Until Commodore lets that go, he’ll never find peace.”
Would Commodore ever find peace as long as she lived in this house? Her gaze traveled the crown molding, slid to the imposing chandelier, then dropped to the wooden floor she’d waxed until the boards gleamed. Most of the rooms in the house resembled this one—elegant, yet not fussy—and spacious, the height of the windows matching the lofty scale. The house wrapped her in a cozy cocoon of childhood memories.
