Wanted: A Family (2 page)

He met her gaze, his eyes as steely as his muscles. “Just so you know, Mrs. Mitchell, I'm no thief.”

Her hand flew to her throat. Giving a brisk nod, she hurried toward the chicken coop, glad to put distance between her and the stony-eyed drifter.

Smith was a common enough name. Her heart tripped in her chest. Too common.

Suspicious name or not, he'd come along when she needed his help. Badly. Still, she'd trust him only as far as her stoop.

 

Jake removed his hat to get a better look at the spitfire who'd hired him. The snippety woman had all but accused him of being a thief with that prickly tongue of hers. And those probing eyes, suspicious, reproachful, as if he had
burglar
stamped in capital letters across his forehead.

He sucked in a breath of free air and watched her march across the lawn, a woman on a mission. Even dressed in black, with those brown tendrils escaping her pompadour and feathering her neck, she looked beguiling. Taller than most women, she carried her delicate frame with a dignity almost disguising her condition. Surely she was heartier than she looked. Still, no matter how strong-minded, a pregnant widow wouldn't have an easy road. But then who did? No point in getting sappy about it.

What sort of a woman would risk unhitching that baby she was carrying?

A woman with no one to help her.

The haste of his recrimination pricked his conscience. He of all people should know better than to leap to conclusions. Mrs. Mitchell wouldn't have agreed to hire him if she knew he'd spent time behind bars. Framed by Lloyd, his so-called friend, vying for the affections of the woman Jake had thought loved him. He'd experienced firsthand that women were disloyal, even deceitful.

What a fool he'd been. Well, not even a fool made the same mistake twice. Jake might be a lot of things, but stupid wasn't one of them. He had no intention of trusting another woman.

Still, he'd handle Mrs. Mitchell's work for now. See that she didn't get hurt. Or harm her baby.

Perhaps in this town, several counties away from the penitentiary, he could stay a spell. One thing he'd learned—innocent or not, a man who'd done time wasn't free. He'd merely traded jail bars for barriers he couldn't see, but those invisible barriers were equally as solid. Prejudice. Suspicion. Judgment.

Not that he blamed folks, at least those who didn't know him. But those who did—

Well, after his release, except to get a reference from his boss, he didn't linger in Bloomington, the town where he'd been tried and found guilty, railroaded by flimsy evidence and an overeager sheriff. He couldn't face the skepticism, couldn't face being treated like a criminal.

But what he hadn't expected…

No matter where a man traveled, his past dogged his every step. One day, Mrs. Mitchell would look at him with the same doubt he'd seen often enough in the eyes of others. Not that he'd get close to anyone, not even to a woman with a stubborn tilt to her chin and dazzling sea-blue eyes.

He strode to the lean-to and opened the door into a room the size of a cell. A cot sat against the wall, bedding stacked at the foot, even a pillow for his head. Next to the bed a washstand held a kerosene lamp. Beside it, a chair where a man could fold his clothes at night and pull on his boots in the morning. A small window let in fresh air and a slice of the sky. Even under this roof, the moon and stars would keep him company.

He needed lodging. And whether Mrs. Mitchell wanted to admit it or not, she needed his help. He could mend a run-down house even if he couldn't repair the mess of his life.

A mess built by another.

No point harping on the past. The truth had come out. Lloyd was in jail. His treachery had cost Jake a year of his
life, but he'd done Jake a favor by saving him from a life sentence with a fickle woman. Still, that year had deprived him of his good name and destroyed the last flimsy thread of his optimism.

Before his record caught up with him, he'd try to set this neglected, regal old house to rights.

More importantly, if she lived in Peaceful, he'd find the woman he sought.

Once he did, he'd leave. Moving from town to town, exposed to the elements. Not the greatest life, but he was free. Not only from the bars of prison, but unencumbered by relationships that had given him nothing but grief. When a man got burned, it didn't take him long to learn that the stove was hot.

A lesson he wouldn't forget.

On the chair, he laid the sack, holding a change of clothes and the Bible the warden gave him upon his release. Jake couldn't fathom why he bothered hauling that tome around. Tossing his jacket on the bed, he tried out the mattress. Not bad. Everything was clean and serviceable. Mrs. Mitchell treated hired hands well—that said plenty about her. He'd give her a full day's work and then some. All he had.

Maybe in a town with the unlikely name of Peaceful, he'd find his roots. Not that the insight would give him a moment of peace, no matter what the town's name was.

He shoved the thought away. Soon he'd sit down to a home-cooked meal. The prospect brought a rumble from his stomach.

Things were looking up.

I
n Callie's large kitchen, cabinets ascended from wide baseboards on the plank floor to crown molding bordering the pressed-tin ceiling. At the enormous cookstove, Callie prepared breakfast. Hot grease popped out of the skillet and landed on her hand, bringing a hiss from her lips. That's what she got for frying side meat as if her life depended on it.

Her hands trembled. Maybe it did. She wanted Jacob Smith, if that was his real name, making repairs. Repairs Martin never got around to. Yet, within minutes of meeting her, the rugged stranger had taken charge as if he owned the place. An urge to slap his bossy face battled with an undeniable longing to savor his concern. He'd made her feel protected, cared for, as if he wanted to ease her load. When had Martin ever done that? Still, she didn't fancy relying on an outsider.

Through the window, she watched Mr. Smith haul an extension ladder from the barn. By the time she'd taken the pan of biscuits out of the oven, he'd made another trip, this time carrying an armload of shingles and a small keg of nails. The man didn't waste a minute, which she admired.

He stopped at the pump, splashed his face and neck with water, then scrubbed his hands. For a drifter, the man took responsibility and valued cleanliness. Virtues she respected.

Elise, leaning on an old cane Callie had found in the attic, hobbled to Callie's side. Her auburn hair was pulled into a low knot that failed to corral her mass of curls. “Can I help?”

“You're supposed to keep your weight off that ankle.”

“It's stronger today.” As she took a seat at the table, Elise glanced out the window. “Who's that?”

Callie set a plate of food in front of her. “His name's Jacob Smith. He's going to fix the roof and the porch.” She smiled down at her. “So you won't twist your other ankle.”

“I was more concerned about you hurting yourself than my ankle. That man's a blessing.”

“I'm reserving judgment, but I hope you're right.”

While Elise ate her breakfast, Callie poured a mug of coffee, then scooped onto a plate scrambled eggs, fried potatoes, two slabs of pork and three biscuits hot from the oven.

“Come meet him,” Callie said. “Oh, and bring the flatware, please.”

Under a smattering of freckles, Elise paled as if she wanted to refuse, but took the napkin-wrapped utensils and followed Callie to the door.

On the stoop, Jacob Smith doffed his hat then opened the screen. His hair, black as a moonless night, met his collar. Callie had an urge to grab her scissors, but introduced Elise instead.

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Langley,” he said, taking the utensils she offered.

Color dotted Elise's cheeks. “It's Miss Langley.”

Mr. Smith's gaze landed on Elise's stomach then darted away, matching Elise's speed as she left the stoop and ducked into the kitchen.

Callie fixed a disapproving gaze on the newcomer. “Elise may be unwed, but she's a sweet girl. I expect you to treat her accordingly.”

The hard set of his jaw gave Jacob Smith the look of a man ready to do battle. “I'm not one to judge.”

“Good. Lord knows plenty of folks are.” She motioned to the bench. “Have a seat, but watch the cats. They think the stoop's a feline café.”

He plopped his hat beside him on the bench. “Breakfast looks mighty fine.” He took the plate and mug from her hands then waited, as if expecting her to leave, so she did.

Glancing back, she watched him dive in. The man was hungry. Too hungry to pray? Or the action of a man without faith? Time would tell. Either way, she'd keep her doors locked at night.

As she entered the back door, a wave of light-headedness swept over her. She'd been up since dawn. The bowl of cold cereal she'd eaten was long gone.

In the kitchen, her food untouched, Elise drooped at the table, as limp as a rag doll, tears running down her cheeks.

Callie splayed her fingers over the girl's nape and massaged her muscles. “Are you all right?”

“You saw how he looked at me.”

“Don't take it to heart. You know we expectant moms can't trust our perceptions. Why, we're laughing one minute, crying the next.”

“I know I'm right, Callie. I've seen that look of censure before.”

“Well, if that's the case, he'd better keep his opinions
to himself or I'll send him packing faster than a camel can spit.”

“Camels spit?”

“I've heard they do. And I can, too, if I'm riled.”

Elise's snuffles ended on a giggle, a rainbow in the stormy ups and downs of expectant motherhood.

Callie headed to the stove, slipped an egg and a slice of pork onto her plate. “I'll see what Jacob Smith has to say for himself.”

While Elise finished eating, Callie left the house.

Across from Mr. Smith, she sat on a weathered chair with splayed legs. Her full skirts all but touched the scruffy toe of his boot.

As if uncomfortable with the contact, he yanked his foot back, then lifted the last forkful of food to his mouth. His hand was large, long-fingered. The nails were clean and he had a sprinkling of dark hair between his knuckles.

“Looks like I'm too late to ask if the food needed salt.”

“Breakfast was perfect, as is. Every bite.”

She'd missed cooking for a man, especially an appreciative man. She smiled. He smiled back. The dimple winked in his left cheek, giving his angular face a boyish look.

Bowing her head, she offered a silent prayer then cut into the pork.

Stripes wove between them, rubbing against Mr. Smith's boot. He gave her ears a gentle scratch and was rewarded with a grateful purr. The way people treated animals said a lot about them. “Where's home?” she asked.

“Nowhere in particular.”

Eyeing him, she scooped egg onto her fork. “We're all born somewhere, Mr. Smith.”

“Yes, ma'am, but… I don't know exactly where.”

Her hand stilled. “Care to explain?”

“I grew up in an orphanage.” He'd said the words in a matter-of-fact voice, with no trace of emotion, yet his eyes didn't meet hers.

The bite of egg lodged in Callie's throat. If not for Aunt Hilda, Callie would've met the same fate. Swallowing hard, her gaze darted his way.

He looked tranquil enough, but a twitch in his jaw suggested otherwise. “Not a happy experience?”

He shrugged, but the raw bleakness in his eyes confirmed her opinion.

“You got kin around these parts?” he said, deftly changing the subject and avoiding his past.

“My late husband's parents live a few blocks west.”

“I'm sorry about your husband.” Green eyes locked with hers. “Must be comforting, having his family nearby.”

She nodded. Those searching eyes noticed her lack of enthusiasm. The man missed nothing.

“So what brings you to Peaceful?”

He gave a lopsided grin. “Reckon I'm here to help you.”

“Are you saying you came to Peaceful by chance?”

“The town's name drew me.” He laid his plate on the bench. Except for a few biscuit crumbs, he'd wiped it clean. “Thank you for the meal.” His gaze settled on the lean-to. “And for the lodging.” He plopped his hat in place. “I'd say I got the better end of our deal.”

“You may think otherwise once you wrangle with the roof.”

“I'm part mountain goat.” He rose. “If it's all the same to you, I'll repair the roof this morning. Tackle the porch during the heat of the day.”

“Do as you think best.”

A flicker of surprise skidded across his face. That boss at the construction company must've been a stickler.

“I'll bring your dinner out at noon. Wait a minute.” She walked inside, grabbed a fruit jar with a galvanized lid from the kitchen. “It's going to be a scorcher. Fill this or you'll wear yourself out making trips to the pump.”

He took the jar and tipped his hat. “Much obliged.”

“Take care on that roof. It's steep.”

“Yes, ma'am.” His eyes sobered. “I will.”

He strapped on a pouch of nails and stuck the hammer under his belt, then leaned the ladder against the back of the house, making adjustments until he had it centered to suit him. Before she could steady it, he'd grabbed an armload of shingles and scrambled to the top and out onto the roof. As he clomped up the incline, she held her breath and then slowly released it, noticing his confidence and agility.

And
the way his back muscles rippled through his shirt.

At the unwelcome response to the man, her cheeks burned. With her hands full to overflowing and no idea where she'd get the money to take her and Elise through the winter, how could she keep noticing a man's muscles, a
drifter
at that?

Her father-in-law would say only a no-account man chose to work for room and board, instead of settling down with a good-paying job.

Callie shivered. Jacob Smith had been closed-mouthed. Was he running from something? Or to something?

Whatever his motive for coming to Peaceful, she didn't need another complication in her life. How long before he could get the work done and leave?

Couldn't be soon enough to suit her.

 

Sweat stinging his eyes and blurring his vision, Jake pulled a nail from the pouch and fastened a shingle in place. He yanked a handkerchief from his hip pocket, threaded
it under the crown of his wide-brimmed hat, then plunked it on his head.

Laying shingles in this unseasonable heat was hard, dirty work, but he welcomed the exertion, liked being in control. Control he'd lost in jail, but needed badly. A man felt alive when he pushed the limits of his endurance. Afterward, his muscles might ache, but nothing equaled the satisfaction of repairing something broken. If it sometimes ate at him that remodeling houses came as close as he'd get to a home of his own, he forced the thought away. No reason to expect anything more. He had no interest in forming a family.

Every half hour like clockwork, Mrs. Mitchell came out to check on him. No doubt scared he'd break his neck. Not that he blamed her, considering what happened to her husband. If she knew how at ease he felt perched on this roof, she'd worry less.

He liked the expanse, the sense of freedom, the clear view of nearby gardens with slender rows of leaf lettuce and green onions. A few patches overgrown with dead pumpkin vines and cornstalks bordered red barns, whitewashed sheds and outhouses, all tucked behind clapboard houses.

Did one of these homes hide the woman who'd given him birth?

Not his mother. A mother took care of her child. Fed him. Tucked him into bed at night.

Or so he understood.

But one thing he knew—a mother didn't toss her baby away like an unwanted trinket. Clenching his jaw, he slammed the hammer into the head of the nail, driving it in place. He wanted that woman to know the price he'd paid for her negligence. The orphanage had provided the basics to sustain life, but no affection, no encouragement, no joy, merely existence.

She sent a yearly birthday greeting to the orphanage addressed to Jacob, not even using his last name, as if Smith was a lie. Those cards didn't diminish her desertion. Merely proved she knew his location yet never bothered to see him. Never bothered to reveal his roots. Never bothered to make sure he survived.

As he pounded shingles into place, his mind drifted back to the winter he was seven. He'd fallen from a tree on the orphanage grounds. With pain searing his broken arm and emptiness branding his heart, he'd lain on the frozen earth staring at the bare branches, silhouetted against a cloudless sky. A boy surrounded by people, yet starving for love, he'd cried out for his mother. No one came.

From that moment, Jake dropped the pretense he'd clung to and faced the truth. He had only those postcards. Postcards couldn't hold him. Postcards couldn't wipe away his tears. Postcards couldn't atone for her abandonment.

At last he'd quieted, then struggled to his feet. Cradling his broken arm against his chest, he'd shuffled toward the orphanage, a vow on his lips.

Never again would he care about that woman. Never again would he deceive himself into believing that one day she'd come for him. Never again would he hold on to hope for a family.

His arm had mended. But in the sixteen years since that day, nothing had proved him wrong.

Even as an adult, when he knew circumstances might've made her coming for him difficult, even impossible, he couldn't find it in his heart to excuse her.

The postcards had been postmarked Indianapolis. Once, just once, a card had come from Peaceful. He'd kept all those postcards. Just to remember the town names. Not that they meant anything to him.

As he hammered another nail home, his stomach
clenched. In truth, he'd studied each stroke of the pen, compared the handwriting to his own, searching those pitifully few words for some connection. Never finding one.

After his exoneration and release from prison, he'd spent a month in Indianapolis, searching birth records, locating every Smith he could find, but he hadn't turned up a clue. For some reason, he had the strong feeling she'd sent the postcards from there to throw him off her trail and he'd find her in Peaceful.

Well, if she'd found peace in this town, perhaps he would, too. Once he'd given her a huge hunk of his opinion. Not charitable of him, but the best he could do with all the bitterness burning inside him.

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.