by Janet Dean
“Ma’am, I’m Robert Lovell, attorney with the Indianapolis law firm of Lovell, McGahan and Lovell.” He replaced his hat. “I’m looking for Martin and Callie Mitchell.”
At the mention of her deceased husband, Callie’s grip on the door tightened. “I’m Callie Mitchell. Martin’s widow.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Mitchell.”
“What’s this about, Mr. Lovell?”
“May I come in? I’d rather explain my business in the comfort of your parlor than out here in this storm.”
“Please excuse my bad manners. Come in.” As Callie led the way, her stomach roiled like a vessel on a storm-tossed sea. What business would a big-city lawyer have with her?
She felt an urge to ask him to wait for Jacob, but that was silly. Whatever this was about, it had nothing to do with Jacob. The time had come to stop relying on that man.
They took seats at the parlor table. After an apology for dripping water on her carpet, the attorney reached inside his case and pulled out a ream of papers. He glanced through them, then met her eyes. “Just to verify, I’m at 7133 Serenity Avenue in Peaceful, Indiana.”
“That’s correct.”
“This house was previously owned by Senator and Mrs. Wesley Squier.”
“My father-in-law, Commodore Mitchell, purchased the Squier house at auction two years ago this month.”
“The senator and his wife died in a trolley accident that same year. Their daughter, Irene, preceded them in death.”
Something tightened in Callie’s chest, pressing against her lungs until she could barely breathe. If Irene was Jacob’s mother, she was dead. How could Callie break the news to him? “I had no idea. What a tragedy.”
He cleared his throat. “Indeed. Senator Squier and his wife had moved back East. At the time of their death, as their attorney, I had a copy of their Last Will and Testament. Or so I believed.” He mopped his brow. “As it turns out, not all their legal papers were in my possession. Recently, a safe was uncovered containing a later will, written in Wesley’s own hand with the seal of a notary, negating the earlier one. A judge in Maryland has ruled that the later will is binding.”
Through the window, lightning flashed, casting eerie shadows in the room. “What does this have to do with me?”
“Mrs. Mitchell, the house Commodore Mitchell bought shouldn’t have been up for auction. The Squiers left this house to someone else.”
Callie’s pulse throbbed in her temples with the rhythm of rumbling thunder overhead. “I don’t understand. Commodore paid for the house.”
“I can appreciate your confusion. But, as I said, the house should not have been sold. It was left to Irene’s son, Jacob Squier Smith.”
All these years Jacob thought he had no family, but he did. He had a family that had looked out for him, left him in their will… That meant—
The room tilted then righted. Callie knew, in that moment, nothing would ever be the same again. She was losing her home, her baby’s home and the refuge for unwed mothers. Lord, help me handle this trial.
“Could this be a mistake?”
“No mistake. I’m sorry.”
Her body went cold. She shivered.
“A letter attached to the updated will explained that after Irene died in childbirth, Senator Squier placed the infant in an orphanage, giving Jacob an alias, the surname Smith to protect his daughter’s good name. These documents were found weeks ago, but we haven’t been able to locate Jacob Smith. The orphanage had no address for him. As you can imagine, we wanted to make sure Jacob Smith survived before we broached this rather sticky situation with you.”
Should she get Jacob from Mildred’s? He needed to hear the news, had a right to know. But to hear something this devastating from a stranger seemed cruel. “Mr. Smith is here in town, but not available at the moment.”
The attorney smiled. “That’s good to hear. I’m staying at the Liberty Inn tonight. Please give him my business card and ask him to meet me there tomorrow.”
She nodded, taking the card.
“I suspected that he was in the area. A few days ago, Mr. Smith spoke to a friend of mine in Indianapolis.”
Callie’s head snapped up. “What?”
“Mr. Smith came to inquire about the Squier family. The state senator he talked to, David Davis, is a friend of mine. David knew I represented the Squier family and was looking for their heir. I’d never given David the name of the man I sought, but he thought Jacob Smith’s inquiry might be important.” He smiled. “It was.”
“Jacob came to Indianapolis, asking about my house?”
“I’m not privy to every topic of their conversation.” He handed a copy of the will to Callie. “You can rest assured that these documents are legal and binding.”
The name Jacob Squier Smith leaped off the page. Callie’s hands trembled so badly that she laid the document on her lap.
“Do you have the deed in your possession, Mrs. Mitchell?”
“Yes.”
“Would you get it, please? I will make the necessary change of ownership in the recorder’s office in the Marion County courthouse.”
Callie’s head pounded, fire filled her veins. Jacob Smith had lied to her again. Even his name had been a lie.
No wonder he’d been willing to make repairs without a wage. No wonder he’d worked from dawn to dusk to restore her house. No wonder he’d been reluctant to tell her about his past. Jacob Smith had manipulated her.
For two years, she’d lived in the shelter of these rooms, more shabby than stately, but home. Wasn’t possession nine points of the law? “I will fight this, Mr. Lovell. I have no intention of turning over the deed to this house.” She shook the papers. “This document could be a fake. I don’t know you or your law firm.” She rose. “Good day, sir.”
Mr. Lovell’s jaw jutted, but he got to his feet. “I assure you, these documents are legally binding. There is no mistake,” he said, his tone steely.
“I assure you I won’t be fooled again. I will look into this with an attorney of my own.”
Not that she had an attorney or the money to hire one. She’d find a way. Perhaps Mildred would lend her the money. With the bond between Mildred and Jacob, the prospect of telling her neighbor about his deceit sank inside her like a stone.
She showed Mr. Lovell to the door, bracing against the wind then closed it after him.
Now she understood why Jacob told her he wasn’t best for her baby. His reason wasn’t some concern for her baby’s welfare or a lack of faith. No. He knew he’d set up this betrayal.
What a fool she’d been.
Jacob Smith—no, Jacob Squier, a man she’d trusted, a man with a horrific past dominated by loneliness and injustice. She’d made his burdens her own. For this? Once again she’d missed what lurked beneath the surface of a man.
Yet that didn’t eradicate Jacob’s image from her mind, didn’t block those intense green eyes, the dimple in his cheek, that chiseled jaw—
Something Commodore once said stuck in her mind and came back to her now: A drifter has something to hide. As soon as someone gets close to his secret, that’s when he leaves.
Jacob Smith hid secrets. But Commodore had been wrong about one thing. Jacob wouldn’t be leaving. Not when he expected to move into the main house.
Jake had managed to get the tarpaulin in place before the brunt of the storm hit. The wind practically blew him from Mildred’s to Callie’s. Thankfully, the rain had let up enough to make the distance without getting drenched.
Callie opened the door to his knock. He brushed the rain off his hat, smiling. “I’ve battened down the hatches at Mildred’s.” He took another look at her. “Everything all right here?”
She moved aside to let him in. “How nice of you to take an interest in your house.”
“What do you mean?”
She glared at him. “How could you do this to me?”
Her icy tone stopped him cold. “I don’t know what you’re talking
about.”
“I’ve had a visitor.”
“In this weather? Who?”
“A Mr. Robert Lovell, an attorney who claims this house doesn’t belong to me.” She took a step toward him. “That it was wrongly sold.”
“What?”
“A more recent copy of the Squier Last Will and Testament was found. How convenient to find that will after you’ve increased the house’s value.” She gave a choked laugh, verging on hysteria. “But then you know all about that.”
Lightning struck nearby. Thunder shook the house. Callie never flinched. She didn’t appear to notice the storm, but Jake could see by the glint in her eyes, the rigid set of her jaw, she had one raging inside of her.
He reached for her, but she batted his hand away. “I don’t understand what you’re saying. Callie, talk to me.”
“You lied. How could you? I trusted you. I cared about you. Even thought, I lov— What a fool I’ve been!”
Another bolt of lightning, a clap of thunder. He pleaded with her, his composure crumbling. “Lied? I told you about my time in jail, the reason I came to Peaceful. I’ve told you everything.”
“You’re quite the actor.” She poked a finger into his sternum with surprising force, as if wanting to give him pain.
What was going on?
“Don’t pretend! I had all the deception I could stomach with Martin. Always pretending, always telling me what I wanted to hear and hiding what I didn’t.” She poked again, harder. “I trusted you! You and Martin are cut from the same cloth.” She thrust the papers at him. “This proves you’re lying!”
With an unsteady hand, Jake took the paperwork, never taking his eyes off Callie.
Her chest heaved. “Read it!”
Jake glanced at the page. Phrases jumped out at him. The house at 7133 Serenity left to Jacob Smith. Why?
“This doesn’t make sense.” The sneer suffusing Callie’s face forced the air out of his lungs.
He read on—Jacob Squier, also known as Jacob Smith, son of Irene Squier, born to her on May 21, 1877.
His pulse ratcheted. The date of his birth. “Irene Squier’s my mother.” His gaze leaped to Callie and he looked into eyes as turbulent as storm-tossed seas. Unable to bear the coldness there, he dropped his gaze to the papers in his hand. Irene Squier died in childbirth.
Dead? She was dead? Died giving birth to him?
Again and again he read the same words. With each reading the horror of them shuddered through him. As he read them one last time, the pieces came together in his mind. Comprehension slammed into him, doubling him over. He sucked in air. All the time he’d resented his mother for not coming to him, she’d been dead.
Tears filled his eyes. He’d never get to know her. Never get to see her face. Never get to tell her he was sorry for years of blaming her for deserting him.
“I thought you were an answer to my prayers. How wrong I’ve been.”
Jake straightened, tried to focus on Callie’s words. But she didn’t make sense—nothing made sense. He tried to tug her to him. Maybe in his arms, she’d listen. “I didn’t know about this.”
She laughed. The eerie sound slithered along Jake’s spine.
“Do you expect me to believe that your coming here to Peaceful, to this house looking for work was a coincidence?”
“The waitress at the café suggested you—”
“Lies. All of it. Lies!” Her voice broke. “You were living in my lean-to, waiting like a vulture for the pickings.”
“I’m not lying!”
“Do you deny that you went to Indianapolis?”
He frowned. How did she know about that? “No, but—”
“You set all this in motion!” Battling tears, she flung a card at him. “You’re supposed to meet the attorney at the Liberty Inn tomorrow.”
The anguish on her face tore at him, clawed at his heart, ripped it to shreds. Instead of thinking of Callie and what this meant to her, he’d been focused on his mother, on his loss. Callie was losing her home. To him. He wouldn’t let that happen. He picked up the card: Robert Lovell, Attorney at Law. Tomorrow he’d contact the lawyer and get this straightened out.
Callie pointed a hand toward the door. “Get out of my house. I won’t be moving, not until I’m forced. Stay in the lean-to tonight.” She snorted. “I couldn’t send even a dog out in this storm.”
With that she turned on her heel and stomped off.
Callie was tossing him out. The closest thing he’d had to a family had been destroyed while he’d stood there holding that card in his hand, powerless to stop it.
The family he wanted and thought he’d found was exactly like that foster family so many years ago.
A figment of his imagination.
Jake slapped his Bible shut and stretched out on the cot, his back propped against the pillow. The storm had passed, but that hadn’t eased the storm raging between him and Callie.
At first, her accusations had baffled him, then filled him with shock. Shock turned to anger.
That Callie believed him capable of treachery when all he’d ever wanted was to help, not harm, churned inside him. But he’d moved past his own pain and had seen hers. Everything between him and Callie lay in ruins.
Yet, even knowing that, he still listened for her footsteps outside, hoping she’d come to him. That she would admit she knew he’d never wrest the house she loved from her. She hadn’t come.
No matter. He’d go to her. Surely, she must be calmer now. Together they’d work this out. If the will was legitimate and the Victorian did belong to him, he’d sign the house over to Callie. He’d ensure that she and her baby had a roof over their heads, as well as all the unwed mothers and their babies, both now and in the years ahead.
He leaped to his feet, striding to the door and opened it. Dusk had fallen but he could see Callie, standing at the back door, talking to a woman heavy with child. Then she ushered her inside. Callie had gone on with her life while he could barely function. She’d settle the newcomer in, as only she could do, and give the woman a sense of belonging.
As she once had him.
He closed the door and dropped to the mattress, tucking his hands under his head. Something about that woman nagged at him, hung on with the tenacity of a gorging tick. He’d seen her before. Where?
He jerked to his feet. With the turmoil of the afternoon, he’d put the incident out of his mind. Until now.
That morning he’d gone into Mitchell Mercantile to buy work clothes. He’d seen that same tattered cloak, that same disheveled woman, a furtive expression on her face, shoving something in her pocket as she slipped out of the store. No one appeared to notice anything amiss.
Most likely she was a downtrodden woman, down on her luck. He’d give it a few minutes then knock on Callie’s door. Make sure the newcomer wasn’t a problem. Then he’d tell her his plan to set things right.
First thing tomorrow, he’d talk to that attorney. They’d work this out. Everything would be fine. Picturing Callie’s reaction, he grinned. If he handled it right, she might even let him give her a hug.
By now, Callie would’ve settled the woman in. He shoved on his boots, crossed the lean-to floor in a few strides and opened the door.
He found himself staring into the remote eyes of Sheriff Frederick, his hand raised as if to knock. Or break down a door.
“Money’s missing from Commodore’s cash register. He’s thirty dollars short. He saw you in the store. Know anything about that?”
Jake shook his head. “I didn’t take any money. Not from the Mercantile. Not from anyone.”
“Mind if I check your room?” Not waiting for an answer, Frederick rummaged through Jake’s bedding, his clothes folded on the chair, rifled through his Bible, as if a man would hide evidence of his sin in that book. Then jerked open the drawer and pawed through his personal items, his boss’s reference, the fragile postcards, ragged from scrutiny and age.
The only connection he had left of his mother.
A powerful urge to knock the sheriff into the next county seized him. But that satisfaction wouldn’t accomplish anything except to give Frederick another reason to haul his hide to jail.
He slammed the drawer shut. “Where’s the money?”
“I told you—I didn’t take that money.”
“Maybe cooling your heels in jail will improve your memory.”
Jail. Reflected in the sheriff’s eyes, Jake saw his guilt. Reflected in the tone of Frederick’s voice, Jake heard his guilt. Once again, he was facing jail for something he didn’t do.
Frederick wrapped a beefy hand around Jake’s arm.
“Let go of me,” Jake said, his tone rigid, “I’ll come of my own accord.”
Anyone seeing the two of them on the walk to the jail would’ve thought they were taking an evening stroll. But for Jake, each step relived another walk. A walk he’d taken from the courtroom to a cell, his fate sealed by a jury. He’d been no guiltier then than now, but innocence didn’t keep a man free.
The prospect of being caged like an animal shoved against every nerve, every tendon, every muscle. A compulsion seized him—to run, to fight—to stop the inevitable clank of that barred door. But he kept moving, kept putting one foot in front of the other, holding tight to his control. The only thing he had.
Inside the jail, Frederick threw open the door of a cell. Jake flinched. Then with sheer strength of will, he took the last steps inside.
The door closed with a bang that ricocheted through the block of cells and echoed with a familiar finality that made his stomach heave.
Mere months before, he’d been in another prison where an innocent bump could send a man into a rage. And someone could end up dead. He’d learned to watch his back, always prepared for trouble. Trouble was a daily visitor in jail. Conditions made that inevitable. The bullpen, that dim, airless exercise room with inmates herded together like doomed cattle in the stockyards. The stench of unwashed bodies and urine invaded his nostrils. The slime of spit, slippery beneath his feet had him gulping for air. He couldn’t survive that again.
