Callie possessed a keen intuition about others’ feelings. Except for one terrible exception, Callie had found it to be true. She’d learned to observe people. And saw what they needed, what she could do to bring a smile or ease a worry.

As they strolled along the tree-lined walk toward town, she decided to give that strategy a try. “You’re an excellent carpenter, Mr. Smith.”

He took her arm and a jolt of electricity shot through her. “Watch your step,” he said in a calm voice, but the gaze he shot her said he’d felt that same wild reaction. “Carpentry comes easy to me,” he said, “like building a nest comes easy to you.”

Once past the hump in the walk, he released his hold on her, leaving her feeling strangely bereft. “Building a nest?”

“Yes, making a home, a welcoming place for friends like Elise, even a stranger like myself. That’s a gift.” His eyes warmed. “I’ve seen my share of places and the people who live there. Hospitality like yours isn’t something you see every day.”

Everything inside her turned to jelly. Why did this man have such an effect on her?

JANET DEAN

grew up in a family that cherished the past and had a strong creative streak. Her father recounted wonderful stories, like his father before him. The tales they told instilled in Janet a love of history and the desire to write. She married her college sweetheart and taught first grade before leaving to rear two daughters. As her daughters grew, they watched Little House on the Prairie, reawakening Janet’s love of American history and the stories of strong men and women of faith who built this country. Janet eagerly turned to inspirational historical romance, and she loves spinning stories for Love Inspired Historical. When she isn’t writing, Janet stamps greeting cards, plays golf and bridge, and is never without a book to read. The Deans love to travel and to spend time with family.

Wanted: A Family
Janet Dean

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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And be ye kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ’s sake hath forgiven you.

—Ephesians 4:32

To Karen Solem, my savvy agent.

Thank you for overseeing the business end of my career. To Tina James, my gifted editor and Shirley Jump, dear friend and talented critique partner these past thirteen years. Thank you both for your insights that make me a far better writer. To my readers. A huge thank you for your encouraging words, a blessing I never take for granted.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Letter to Reader

Questions for Discussion

Chapter One

Peaceful, Indiana, April 1900

How long before someone got hurt? How long before she couldn’t pay the bills? How long—

Lord, help me find a way to keep my house and make it safe. For Elise. For my baby.

Automatically, Callie Mitchell’s hand cradled the swell of her unborn child. Martin had been gone a few weeks when she realized that she was pregnant. She wanted this baby with an intensity that stole her breath away. In less than four months she’d hold a tiny infant in her arms. Soon she’d be too clumsy to make repairs herself.

She swiped a strand of hair clinging to her damp skin and let her gaze roam the old Victorian, the house where she and Martin had lived the past two years. Once majestic, now the house’s peeling paint demanded another coat, the rickety porch begged for solid boards and rails, the roof pleaded for shingles. The house looked like a princess down on her luck.

Her breath caught. Martin had called her his princess, usually when he sought her forgiveness for some infraction. Those infractions usually involved skipping work or spending money they didn’t have. But how could she not forgive that happy-go-lucky charmer almost anything? Her throat tightened. Especially now?

Of their own volition her eyes traveled the steep gabled roofline, to the spot where Martin had lost his footing in November and tumbled to his death.

The words she’d said to him that morning echoed in her mind. If you don’t repair the leak, one night the ceiling’s going to fall on us while we sleep.

Her gaze darted away. She wouldn’t think about that now.

She wouldn’t remember how he looked lying there.

She wouldn’t.

Tightening her grip on the milk pail, she trudged toward the small barn at the back of the property, the prospect of tearing out and replacing each board on the porch slowing her steps. Lady needed oats. Bossy needed milking. The garden needed hoeing. That much she could do.

But the list of chores she couldn’t handle grew longer every day. The roof leaked. The window casings on the north side of the house had rotted. The staircase railing wobbled.

Inside the barn, she fed and watered the mare, then moved to the open stall where Bossy waited. Callie pulled up the stool, giving the jersey a pat. Laying her forehead against the cow’s wide side for balance, she closed her eyes, taking a minute to inhale the familiar scent of livestock, hay and manure. Across the way, the mare snuffled her ration of oats. As always the serenity of the place soothed her and eased the weight of her responsibilities.

The cow placidly chewed her cud, paying Callie no mind. As the first stream of milk hit the galvanized pail, she prayed for strength and wisdom to handle the needed repairs. To rally around Elise and regain harmony with her father-in-law, a strong-minded man she didn’t usually buck.

Callie had grown weary of Commodore fussing about her dilapidated house, yet not lifting a finger to help. Instead he pressured her to move in with him and Dorothy. He blamed the house for his son’s death. And though he’d never said as much, he blamed her, too.

Sometimes lying in bed at night, sometimes rising at the dawn of a new day, sometimes at the cemetery standing before Martin’s headstone, she blamed herself more.

But nothing would stop her from giving Elise and other unwed and pregnant women refuge. Her home would be a place for them to live, free from judgment.

Not long after she and Martin moved into the house, she’d talked to him about that very thing. He’d rejected the idea, citing the cost as the reason. A valid concern, but Callie suspected his main objection centered on the work involved and the lack of privacy, something she’d understood.

Now she had only her baby to consider and a large, empty house. Once she completed the repairs, she’d seek funds and community support and make her dream of an unwed mothers’ home a reality. God would work it out in His time. A blessed sense of peace stole over her, renewing her awareness of God’s provision.

Stripes trotted over, tail high, and rubbed against her skirts, purring like a well-oiled engine. “Where are your kittens?” No doubt on the back stoop waiting for breakfast.

Bossy’s tail swished Callie’s way. A signal the milking was done. “Thanks, girl.”

Accompanied by her strutting cat, Callie hauled the pail to the house. In the kitchen, she skimmed cream off the top and poured the rest into two pitchers. She crumbled day-old bread into an iron skillet, soaked it with milk, and then stowed the pitchers in the icebox.

Outside, Stripes and her offspring crowded around the pan, lapping the meal with dainty pink tongues. The male of the litter shoved one of his sisters aside and stuck in his paw.

“Mind your manners. There’s plenty for all of you,” Callie said.

Finished with her morning chores, Callie gathered tools from the barn and walked around the house to the front porch. The fistful of nails she’d driven into the boards a few days back made no difference.

With one gloved hand clutching Martin’s toolbox, the other gripping the crowbar and her dyed-black skirts, she climbed the wobbly steps, careful to avoid the rotten wood. Once she removed the deteriorating planks, she’d replace them with the lumber stacked in the barn.

She forced the tip of the crowbar under a board and pushed down with all her might. Instead of coming up, nails and all, the plank splintered, pitching her forward. Gasping, she staggered, dropped the tool, but remained on her feet.

Heart pounding from her near fall, she knelt and used a hammer to knock off the remaining pieces of wood until she’d removed one board. At this rate, the task would take weeks. Callie wiped a hand across her moist brow and let her gaze roam the neighborhood.

Up the street, a stranger strode up the walk to Mildred’s house. He was not a salesman. He carried a sack, not a sample case, and looked strong enough to handle this job. But if he sought work, she couldn’t spare a penny to hire him.

She repositioned the crowbar and shoved again. Nails squeaked in protest, then slowly the board lifted. A few more shoves and it pulled free. Smiling, she tossed the plank aside.

The screen door creaked. Elise Langley, just eighteen, her family home a few doors down, stood in the opening, resting an arm on the bulge beneath her apron. “That job’s too hard for you. Why not hire someone?”

From a family with money to spare, Elise wouldn’t realize that Callie didn’t have funds to hire anyone. Nor would Callie tell her, lest her houseguest feel unwelcome.

“It’s good exercise.” Callie grinned.

“I’ll help.” Before Callie could stop her, Elise, heavy and awkward with child, stepped onto the porch. The boards sagged and she stumbled, lurching sideways. “Ouch!”

The crowbar clattered to the floor. “Are you hurt?”

Elise hobbled to the door, pushed open the screen and lowered herself to the threshold. “I twisted my ankle is all.” She lifted her skirts and rubbed the injured spot.

Callie picked her way to Elise’s side and took a look. “It’s already swelling.”

Wrapping an arm around her middle, Callie helped Elise shuffle inside, settling her on the parlor sofa, then removed Elise’s shoe and elevated her foot on pillows. She hurried to the kitchen, returning with chunks of ice wrapped in a dish towel and propped it on Elise’s ankle with more pillows.

“I’m sorry, Callie. You warned me about the porch. Why do I always have to learn the hard way?”

“You were only trying to help.” She patted Elise’s hand. “If you’re all right, I’ll get back to work.”

After Elise’s mishap, Callie edged her way across the porch, determined to remove a few more planks before she had to change the ice on Elise’s ankle. She reached for the crowbar. A movement out of the corner of her eye stopped her.

The man she’d seen earlier ambled toward her, a jacket and sack tossed over his shoulder, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, revealing tanned, muscled forearms. He moved with a loose-legged ease, suggesting he’d covered his share of ground on foot.

Strangers were rare in Peaceful.

What did he want?

At the bottom of the steps, he tipped his hat. “Ma’am.” His gaze landed on her rounded abdomen then slid to her face. “I’m looking for work. Heard at the Corner Café you’d lost your husband and might need help.”

“If I did, I’ve no money to pay you.”

His eyes roamed the house. “Your roof’s missing shingles, the wood siding needs scraping and a couple coats of paint.”

Hadn’t he understood what she’d said? “Lots needs doing, but—”

“Nothing I can’t handle.” His self-assured tone held no hint of arrogance. He reached into his jacket pocket and removed a paper tucked inside. “This backs my claim.”

When had she encountered a pushier man?

When had she been as desperate for a man with push?

Callie picked her way down the steps, took the paper from his hand and read the reference praising Jacob Smith’s skill and work ethic, even his character.

What did that prove? He could’ve written it himself.

Above-average height with a wiry, broad-shouldered build, the man’s angular face looked hard, chiseled from stone. The power radiating off him reminded her of a caged tiger pacing its enclosure, ready to spring. A guarded look in his eyes, as if he’d lived under scrutiny and been deemed defective told her this man had been hurt by life as much as she had. But that didn’t make him honorable. It could mean exactly the opposite.

“Does anyone know you in this town?”

“No, ma’am.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t hire strangers.” Not after the incident with the last handyman. She gave an apologetic smile, then returned to the porch and began prying up the next board. As she shoved against the lever, a jolt of pain streaked up her arms. She bit back a moan.

Eyes flashing, he bounded up the steps and hauled the crowbar from her hands. “You can’t raze this porch in your condition.”

Angry tears flooded her eyes. She wanted to slap that disapproving scowl off his face.

As if reading her mind, he took a step back. “I don’t mean to criticize, but that much exertion could harm your baby.”

Ignoring her refusal to hire him, he bent to the task, removing the board with ease, and then tossed it to the yard. “How do you plan to replace the missing shingles on your roof?”

The mere thought of that roof made Callie queasy. “If I trusted you—which I don’t.” Her tone should make that perfectly clear. “I can’t pay you.”

Again his gaze roamed the house. “I’ll restore this beauty for a roof over my head and three meals a day, a price most folks appreciate.”

She appreciated the price all right. But he was still a stranger. “I’ve got to wonder why a man with your experience would work without a wage. I’ll still have to say no.”

“I can’t allow a woman to harm herself, even a head-strong woman like you.”

Of all the nerve! She glared at him. “I’m perfectly capable of handling whatever task I set my mind to.”

His eyes held a flicker of respect. “I’m sure that’s true, if setting your mind to a task got it done. But this job requires more brawn than brains.” He winked, bold as brass. “That makes me perfect for the job.”

Aghast at the rush of attraction that shot through her, Callie folded her arms across her chest, more determined than ever to send this rogue packing.

“One day I want a business of my own. Why not give me a chance to test my mettle by bringing this Victorian back to life?”

Though he’d used that spiel to manipulate her, she couldn’t argue with his logic. Fixing up her house would prove his ability and allow her to keep her home.

Besides, she didn’t see anyone else lining up to help her.

If the house wasn’t safe, Martin’s parents would insist that she live with them, putting an end to Callie’s dream. What would happen to Elise and her baby then?

As she grappled with the decision, the man returned to the task of ripping up boards. As if enjoying the effort, his sinewy muscles danced, her stomach dancing right along with them. She dropped her gaze to her feet, tamping down the ridiculous reaction. What had gotten into her? Those muscles of his merely proved he could handle the job.

Stranger or not, what choice did she have? Jacob Smith had a reference and the skill. Had offered a price she could afford.

Lord, I’ve prayed for an answer. Is this drifter Your solution?

The knot between her shoulder blades eased. The final assurance she needed. “I’ll risk hiring you.”

The corners of his mouth turned up. “Reckon we’re both taking a risk.”

“How so?”

“I’m taking a chance you’re a passable cook.”

She couldn’t contain a grin. “I’ll cook as ably as you work.”

“Good enough for me,” he said, the rumble of his voice ending on a chuckle.

“Have you had breakfast?”

“No, ma’am.”

“I’ll prepare a meal to fuel a working man.”

He shoved his hat brim up his forehead. “Appreciate it.”

The morning sun lit his face. A smile softened the hard edge of stubble on his unshaven jaw and spread to his eyes. Green. They were green as jade.

Callie’s mind went blank. “Ah.” What was she about to say? “While you’re, ah, waiting, you can put your things in the lean-to attached to the barn. The last hired hand had no complaints about the accommodations.” At the mention of that scoundrel, her hands fisted. “Thanked me by running off with the money from my sugar bowl. You don’t plan on doing the same thing, do you?”

His jaw jutted. “No.”

“In that case, settle in. I’ll serve your breakfast on the back stoop.” She turned then pivoted back. “Oh, I’m Callie Mitchell.”

“Folks call me Jake.”

“Just so you know, Mr. Smith, there’s no money in my sugar bowl or anywhere else in the house.”

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.

Chapter Two

In 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.

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 done.”

“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.

Sarah left her porch, motioning Callie toward the shelter of her lilac bushes. Did she think neighbors would report the conversation to her husband? “I hoped I might catch you on your walk to the post office.” She fingered the collar of her dress. “When the baby decides to come, get word to me. If I can sneak away…” Her voice trailed off.

New lines of worry etched Sarah’s plump face. Shots of gray Callie didn’t remember seeing before streaked her auburn hair. “I understand.”

“I talked to Doc Wellman. He’ll let me make payments on his fee. Get him to help Elise when it’s her time.” She dug into the pocket of her apron, then thrust a stack of bills at Callie. “This is for diapers, a dress.”

Callie put the money in her purse. “This will mean the world to Elise. After our doctor’s appointments tomorrow afternoon, we’ll go shopping for the baby.”

“I know that girl can eat.” Sarah gave a shaky smile. “Wish I could help more, but…”

Obviously, Elise’s father wouldn’t let go of a dime to help his daughter. “I have shelves of canned food in the cellar and soon we’ll have produce from the garden. We’ll manage fine.”

Eyes filling with misery, Sarah stared off into the distance. “We had such plans for Elise. You know, for schooling, a good marriage.” Her voice faltered. “Now that’s gone.”

Callie laid a hand on Sarah’s sleeve. “Elise can still have those things, Sarah. Maybe not right away, but her life isn’t over. God will bring something good from this.”

A spark of hope lit Sarah’s eyes. “You’re right. God will work it out. I know it. I do.”

“You and Mr. Langley are in my prayers.”

“God bless you, Callie. I don’t understand why you’re doing this for my girl, but I thank you.”

But Callie knew. And if Sarah weren’t wrapped up in her own worries, she’d know, too.

With a hug goodbye, Callie walked up Serenity Avenue, her eyes on the uneven brick, her mind filling with the image of Nell. Callie swallowed around a lump in her throat. Redheaded Nell—upturned nose with a dusting of freckles, blue eyes sparkling with innocence. They were only sixteen, sheltered from the facts of life. Nell had trusted a man, fallen hard. A lesson Callie ought to remember.

At the corner, she turned left on Liberty. Jacob Smith lounged against a tree. At his thoughtfulness something inside her twisted. “You waited.” But then she remembered how fooled Nell had been by a man.

“I’m in no rush,” he said as they continued up Liberty. “Life must be more complicated with Miss Langley in your house.”

“Elise is a help and I enjoy her company.”

“I know you don’t like me saying so but no man should leave a woman in her circumstances.”

“Perhaps he did Elise a favor.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Marriage to some men would be intolerable.”

“Why would a woman involve herself with such a man?”

No one could be that naive. “What’s hidden can’t be seen, Mr. Smith.”

He studied her, his eyes filling with compassion, as if he suspected that she referred to her late husband. Well, he could keep his ill-placed sympathy to himself. She’d never met anyone more secretive.

Up ahead, the street bustled with activity by Peaceful standards. Carriages and wagons clattered over the brick. Shoppers stopped to chat on the walk. The one family in town with a newfangled automobile rounded the corner, honking its horn, frightening horses and young children.

“What do you know? Someone in Peaceful owns a Waverley Runabout.”

“That’s Mr. Burch, president of the bank.”

“I visited the Waverley factory in Indianapolis,” Jake said. “Can’t think battery-powered carriages will come to anything. Now those gasoline motor automobiles Haynes- Apperson is turning out in Kokomo interest me.”

“Really? You’d want one? My mare is a lot more reliable.”

“If they can get the kinks ironed out and a way to lower the cost, it wouldn’t surprise me if one day the streets were teeming with automobiles.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“Danger is a sign of progress, I reckon.”

An odd thought. One she’d examine later.

Callie greeted passersby as they strolled by the variety of shops dotting the main street: Langley’s Barber Shop, Lily’s Millinery and Gloves, Harrington’s Grocery, Cunningham’s Pharmacy. Up ahead the Mitchell Mercantile. A dog sniffed his way along the walk beside her, and then trotted across the street, successfully dodging horses’ hooves and buggy wheels.

Outside the post office, Jacob turned toward her. “I think I’ll look into getting a haircut.”

“Your hair is a bit shaggy,” she said with a smile.

He doffed his hat and plowed his fingers through his ebony hair. “We mutts aren’t groomed as often as those fancy lapdogs.”

“Nothing about you suggests mutt, Mr. Smith.”

His lips tilted up into a soft smile that climbed into his eyes and settled on her with such intensity that her mouth went dry as dust. She glanced away. “The barber is Elise’s father.”

“Thanks for the warning.” He plopped his hat on his head, flashed his dimple, then strode off, turning more than one woman’s head in his direction.

Jacob Smith was all male, more cowboy than any man she’d met. Unable to take her eyes off his lanky figure, she watched until he entered the barbershop. Chiding herself for such foolishness, she pivoted toward the post office and stepped inside, letting her eyes adjust to the dim interior.

Marlene Thompson, the postmistress, looked up from sorting the mail and punched her wire-rimmed glasses up her nose with her index finger. “Afternoon, Callie. How are you feeling?”

“The fatigue and nausea are long gone.” She smiled. “I just felt the baby move.” So much for telling only her friends such personal news, but she couldn’t seem to keep it to herself.

“What do you want? Boy? Or girl?”

“I want whatever I’m having.”

“With that attitude, you won’t be disappointed. Mr. Thompson was determined to have a girl. Five boys later, he decided I was girl enough for him.” She chuckled. “I could’ve told him that a whole lot sooner.”

Callie giggled. “Do I have any mail?”

“Nothing today. Nothing that is, except a question.” She motioned her closer. “I heard Elise Langley’s staying with you.”

“She is.”

“Good.” Mrs. Thompson’s brown eyes warmed with interest. “My nephew Albert and his wife, Sally, would love to have that baby if Elise is looking for a good home for it.”

“I believe Elise plans to keep her baby.”

Marlene’s shoulders sagged. “Well, if she changes her mind, ask her to talk to Sally.”

“I will.”

Callie knew the Thompsons and their desperate desire for a child. They would make wonderful parents. Callie doubted that Elise would consider such an arrangement. Yet her heart ached for the Thompsons. Why did some women long to have a child, yet remained barren, while others conceived babies with no interest in or means of caring for them?

What circumstances had led Jacob Smith’s mother to put her son in an orphanage? Or perhaps she had been forced to give up her child, as Elise’s father was trying to do.

If Callie had questions, she could only imagine Mr. Smith’s desire for answers. Could that be the reason he’d come to Peaceful? She sighed. Why was she getting involved with this man’s life? He’d only bring her grief.

A block down, Callie entered Mitchell’s Mercantile. The cavernous room held every utensil, tool, canned good, fresh-baked good and ready-made article of clothing imaginable. She dreaded running into her father-in-law. Yet, if she shopped elsewhere, the news would get back to him. She glanced around. No Commodore. No customers. Callie breathed a sigh of relief.

Since Martin’s death, her father-in-law had badgered her to move in with him and Dorothy, and Callie suspected he wanted her and her baby to fill the void in their lives after losing Martin. She understood that, but the vehemence of his insistence unnerved her. Did something beside grief motivate him?

At a table piled with an assortment of tiny garments and fabric for making blankets and diapers, Callie plucked a white gown from the stack. Silky ribbons closed the neckline, cuffs and hemline, every detail precious. She couldn’t imagine caring for an infant small enough to wear this. But in four months, she would. Would she even know how to be a good mother? What if the baby got sick? Or—

No, she refused to worry. Just because her parents and Martin had died tragically didn’t mean disaster lurked around every corner. Countless women had children and managed fine.

But alone?

She knew very few who’d handled that responsibility without a husband. She laid a hand on her abdomen. Please, God, keep my baby safe. Help me be a good mother.

If only she could talk to her mother, to ask advice, to share the specifics of motherhood. Her throat clogged. She didn’t have her mother, but she did have a mother-in-law and the ladies at church to advise her. She’d have support.

As she fingered the soft blanket, visualizing cuddling her baby swathed in its folds, filling her arms and her heart with a family of her own, tension drained out of her.

“Small, aren’t they?” Commodore’s gentle, almost reverent voice startled her. “Takes me back to Martin’s arrival.”

Surprised by this sentimental side of Commodore, Callie met his moist gaze and smiled. “From the pictures I’ve seen, Martin was a beautiful baby.”

“Sure was. And strong. Why, he held up his head that first week.” His voice sounded gruff, thick with emotion. “If you want material to make our grandbaby anything, I’ll, ah, wrap it up.” He shifted. “No charge. Get some dresses, too.”

“Thank you. That’s most generous.” Callie had no idea how she’d manage it, but somehow she’d find a way. “I’ll work here on Saturdays to repay you.”

“Nonsense. We want to help. We still have Martin’s crib, high chair, baby carriage. Dorothy saved everything he touched.”

Commodore’s effort to build a bridge between them softened Callie’s wariness. “I could put the crib in the small bedroom.”

His gaze hardened. “If you’d move in with us, we’d see to your and the baby’s every need.”

At the familiar argument, a constant sting between them, Callie sighed. Could she make Commodore understand? She had to try. She took a fortifying breath. “I need a place of my own to raise my child and make a life. Not to shut you and Dorothy out, but to have my own traditions, my own routines.”

“You can do all that at our place. Why are you being stubborn? You used to be reasonable, someone we could talk to.” He exhaled impatiently. “Why not be honest? All you can think about is housing that Langley girl.”

“That’s part of it, but not all. I wish you could understand.”

“I understand, all right.” He folded his arms across his barrel chest. “You’d rather remain in a house that caused Martin’s death than move in with us. My son would want you and his baby with us.”

As if Commodore had known Martin’s mind. They’d been at odds for years. Fighting to control her emotions, Callie inspected several baby things.

“Commodore, I appreciate your concern about the house, but I want to assure you I’ll be fine.” She forced a smile. “I know the house’s every flaw and will be careful.”

“I can’t stomach the sight of it.” Commodore’s tone was harsh, condemning. “If not for that eyesore, my son would be alive today, not laid out in Walnut Grove Cemetery. But no, you had to have this house. Nothing but that monstrosity would do.”

Callie wrapped her arms around herself. Did he blame the house for Martin’s death? Or was he dancing around the fact that he blamed her? “I’m heartsick about Martin’s fall, his death.” A sob tore from her throat. “But leaving my house won’t bring him back. Nothing we do will bring him back.”

Her nagging had cost Martin his life. If only Callie had asked someone with experience to replace the shingles, instead of fussing about the cost, about yet another bill they couldn’t pay.

Perhaps living with Martin’s parents would be her penance. But she couldn’t cope under Commodore’s accusing eyes. Decrepit or not, she had to keep the house, the one place where she felt at home. The one place she could recreate the family she’d lost.

And fulfill the promise she’d made to Nell. The promise she’d made to God to provide for unwed mothers.

“Commodore, please. Martin saw our home as a perfect place to raise our children.”

“It hardly makes sense for Dorothy and me to rattle around in that big house of ours, while your place drains you dry. From where I stand, you’re going to lose it anyway.”

His words tore through Callie and ricocheted in her chest. How would she provide for Elise and two babies, once they arrived? “I’ve got to go.” She whirled toward the door.

If God wanted her to give Elise a home and others like her, He’d show her a way to handle the expense, just as He’d brought her a carpenter to make the repairs.

It would all work out.

She was sure of it.

Chapter Four

Sporting a new haircut and a surly attitude toward the barber who’d shorn him like a spring lamb, Jake returned to demolishing the porch. Elise’s father had bombarded him with questions. No doubt suspicious of a newcomer. Or, if Jake chose to think the best of people, perhaps Langley merely was making conversation.

In any case, Jake admitted that he was renovating the Mitchell place and had met the barber’s daughter. Neither spoke of Elise’s condition, though obviously her father had her on his mind. He’d had the gall to suggest that Callie Mitchell had persuaded his daughter to move in with her. Jake had leaped to her defense, raising Langley’s ire. The man used his scissors to emphasize his points. Jake was fortunate to still be in possession of his ears.

Mrs. Mitchell opened the screen door. “Do you need the fruit jar refilled?”

Did this woman never stop thinking of others? “I’d appreciate it.” He carried the jar to her, promptly getting lost in the depths of her dazzling blue-green eyes.

“Did Mr. Langley say anything about Elise?”

“He’s not happy she’s living here.”

Her eyes dimmed. “I know.”

An urge to teach Langley a thing or two for upsetting Mrs. Mitchell this way gripped Jake. But what did he know about being a father? About dealing with an unwed daughter in a family way?

“Yoo-hoo! Callie!” A twig of a woman, white hair frizzing around her face like a windblown cloud, lurched up the walk pulling a loaded wagon, impressive for someone surely approaching eighty.

“Mildred, whatever are you toting in that wagon?”

“Memories, dear. Births, deaths and everything in between.” The lady’s hand swept the stacks of newspapers and scrapbooks crammed to overflowing. “Some of this memorabilia dates back to the town’s beginnings.”

“That’s nice but…I don’t understand why you’re bringing all that here.”

“You will as soon as I explain.” She tilted her head toward Jake. “You’re that fellow who stopped at my place looking for work. I’d have hired you, but I’m not sure of my plans for the house.” Jake nodded.

“It’s about time you got help, Callie, before this house falls down around your ears. Not an easy way to get them pierced.” She gave an unladylike snort.

“Mr. Smith’s already replaced the roof shingles.”

“Ah, a hard worker and easy on the eyes.” The woman winked. “I may be old as dirt, but I can still appreciate a good-looking man. Not why I wed my dear husband, but I enjoyed that handsome face of his more than dessert after a meal.”

At Mrs. Uland’s perusal, Jake’s neck heated. The feisty older woman merely grinned, as if enjoying his discomfort.

“This old Victorian sat empty too long. All it needs is someone who cares like Callie here and someone with the know-how to give it life.” Her approving gaze rested on Jake. “Appears that’s you, Mr. Smith.”

“Sitting empty isn’t good for a house,” he said.

“Sitting in an empty house isn’t good for a person, either.” Mrs. Uland laughed. “I’m not in mine, more than I have to be.”

He motioned to the wagon. “Let me help with that.”

“Oh, a knight in shining armor.” She wagged a knobby finger. “Just keep your nose out of them. Took me hours to get those issues in order of publication.”

“They’re safe with me.” His mind raced like a hound dog after a fox. The information in this wagon could possibly unlock his birth mother’s identity. If he examined these newspapers, he might find his birth announcement.

“I’m not following you,” Mrs. Mitchell said, looking slightly dazed.

“Of course, you’re not, dear. If you have time for tea, I’ll explain.”

“I do.”

Jake scooped up an armload of newspapers. “Where do you want these?”

From the flicker of dismay in Callie Mitchell’s eyes, she didn’t want them anywhere, but she didn’t let on. “Follow me,” she said, gathering the scrapbooks, then taking the older woman’s arm. “Watch your step, Mildred.”

They picked their way across the dilapidated porch. “A strong man around the place comes in mighty handy.” She lowered her voice, but not so low that Jake couldn’t hear. “Maybe you can find a way to keep him around permanently.”

For a moment, Mrs. Mitchell hesitated, and then hurried her elderly neighbor along, as if fearing what would come out of her mouth next.

The women entered the house and led him down a wide hallway, the wooden floor gleaming, past a magnificent staircase nestled into the curve of the outside wall. The house was an extraordinary example of Victorian architecture.

At the back of the house, they stopped at a door opening into a small library, the book-laden shelves rising from floor to ceiling. He stacked the newspapers on the large desk, a desire to look at them building inside him. As soon as he finished the porch, he’d ask permission. He suspected both ladies would question his interest. But he wouldn’t open that Pandora’s box.

With the contents of the wagon stowed in the library and the wagon back in Mrs. Uland’s yard, Jake returned to the porch.

Inside, Callie Mitchell sat across the table from her neighbor, a pot of tea and some kind of secret between them.

Callie poured Mildred’s cup of tea. “What’s this about?”

“I’ve spent days rummaging through every nook and cranny in my house searching for that memorabilia, then getting it in order.”

Callie’s usually dapper neighbor looked like she’d gotten into a brawl and lost. Her hair appeared uncombed. The lapels on her dress tipped like a bird in flight. Her stockings were drooping around her ankles. Finding and putting those newspapers in order had taken its toil.

“I’ll tell you it wore me out. I’m not what I used to be. Why, last week I had to rest while weeding the garden.” She smiled. “Isn’t the early lettuce yummy? I love wilting it, though it’s tender enough to eat straight out of the garden.”

Though she had a sharp mind, upon occasion Mildred went off on some tangent and forgot the point of the conversation.

Her eyes met Callie’s. “Oh, sorry, dear. You asked about the newspapers.”

“Why did you bring them here?”

“Those newspapers and scrapbooks are records you’ll need.” Her voice had a slightly impatient tone, as if unable to understand Callie’s dim-wittedness.

“Why would I need them?” Callie asked gently.

“So you can write our town’s history.”

“Why me?”

“Your wonderful essays and poems used to make me cry. You love history. Told me that yourself. I wouldn’t trust anyone else with the job.”

“That’s nice of you to say, but why do you want a history written?”

“I’ve lived in Peaceful all my life. One look at the obituary column makes it clear we oldsters are dying off. Soon no one will be left to answer questions about the town. Down the road, young people will want to know.” She rolled her eyes. “They don’t realize that now, of course, but it’s true. Most of us never think to ask our elders anything until it’s too late. I know my ancestors came over from England. But I have no idea what part and…”

As Mildred went on about her heritage, Callie thought about the countless times she’d wished she could’ve asked her parents some detail about their lives. Like when and where her father and mother first met. Either Aunt Hilda couldn’t remember or never knew. Her pulse tripped. These articles might reveal something new about her mother or her mother’s parents. The prospect of learning even one fact to fill the blanks on her family tree was reason enough to take the job.

“You’ve got the talent. And I’ve got the facts.” Mildred sat back, looking pleased.

Callie hated to refuse her friend, especially since she’d enjoy delving into the town’s past, but could she squeeze in another task? “It’ll require a lot of time to organize the information and write it up.”

“I know. That’s the reason I will pay you and pay you well.”

Was this God’s answer? Not only for her longing for information about her family, but also for her financial predicament? As certainty filled her heart, a smile curved her lips. This put the lie to Commodore’s prediction that she’d lose the house. God had provided a way to handle expenses, not with a miracle but through Callie’s hard work.

She’d need other sources of revenue to increase the number of women she could help. As soon as the house was safe, she’d seek community support. If her plan were God’s will, He’d provide. Her eyes misted. She’d been unsure, even discouraged about how she’d manage. God cared about every detail of her life. She’d lean on Him, the one constant in her ever-changing circumstances.

“I have the money,” Mildred was saying, “and I’m running out of time to spend it.” She grinned. Every line in her face stood at attention like a squad of eager recruits. “Mr. Uland, God rest his soul, always said I could squeeze a penny until Mr. Lincoln hollered.”

Knowing the truth of that statement, Callie bit back a grin.

“All my life, I fought letting go of a dollar. Last I looked, those dollars were breeding. Why, I’ve got more than enough money to last me and then some. And you…” She paused. “With Commodore’s attitude toward this house, I doubt he’s helping with your bills. You need income, especially with Elise living here.”

Who would’ve thought Mildred Uland, a tight-fisted friend, and Jacob Smith, a closed-mouth drifter, would be the keys to launching her dream? “Thank you, Mildred, for the opportunity. I’ll work on the town’s story in the evenings.”

“I’ll help all I can. It’ll be good to have a new purpose, since that husband of mine up and died on me. Why, I’m as adrift as a rudderless sailboat.”

Though her husband had been gone for more than twenty years, Mildred often groused about his passing, as if the poor man had died just to annoy her. Perhaps her way of handling grief was better than holding everything inside, as Callie often did. “I’m sure Elise would help, too.”

“If she does, tell her to keep quiet about the book. It’ll be my gift to the town at Peaceful’s seventy-fifth anniversary two years from now. I don’t want it blabbed about until it’s in print.” Mildred reached a blue-veined hand. “I’m paying for your talent and your reticence. Agreed?”

“Agreed.” Callie gave her neighbor’s hand a squeeze. “You’re an answer to a prayer.”

“Not surprised. God’s been nudging me to get moving on this.” She sighed. “Lately it’s been more of a shove. I don’t hanker to wrestle with God and end up with an out-of-kilter hip. Got me enough aches and pains as it is.” She smiled. “I’m late learning the lesson, but when God says, ‘Do it,’ I do it.”

Callie rose and came around the table, wrapping her arms around Mildred’s shoulders. “Remember the spring after I came to live with Aunt Hilda? I picked your tulips.” She kissed her cheek. “I still can’t believe you forgave me for ruining your front flowerbed.”

“You were only seven and meant well, wanted to give them to Hilda on her birthday. You weren’t the brightest vandal I’ve come across.” Mildred grinned up at her. “You left a trail of petals clear to her house.”

“You followed that trail. Carrying a bouquet of tulips you’d picked from your flowerbed out back, claiming I’d missed a few. Then you helped me put together a bouquet, though you surely wanted to paddle my behind.”

Tears flooded Mildred’s eyes. “No, dear girl. You’d lost your brother and your parents. I lost only petals.”

A sudden spasm seized Callie’s throat. Her baby brother, Ronnie, just starting to walk. Mama and Papa going about their routine with no warning that the dam was about to give way. All gone.

When she could finally speak, Callie said, “Where would I be if not for Aunt Hilda and people like you, who took a frightened little girl into your hearts?”

“You’d be fine. You were born with all the strength you needed, just like your mother. She’s up in Heaven chatting with that inconsiderate husband of mine.” She patted Callie’s cheek. “That faith of yours will see you through. I’m proud of you, Callie Marie Mitchell.”

Callie’s smile trembled. “You’ve been my rock. I’m happy I can do something for you now. Writing this history will be fun. Imagine, Peaceful’s past at my fingertips.”

Mildred removed some bills from her pocket. “This’ll get you started.”

At the generous sum, Callie shook her head. “I can’t accept this.”

“You’ll soon have four mouths to feed.” Mildred said, then left through the back door and disappeared between the shrubs separating their houses.

In Callie’s hands was enough money to meet their needs for months, maybe more. As she tucked the bills into her purse, the weight of obligations she’d had no idea how she’d pay fell from her shoulders. And she knew—

A naughty little girl’s petal trail had brought Mildred Uland into her life, a very special friend. God had seen Callie through her troubles every step of the way. He’d given her this home. He’d sent Jacob Smith to make repairs. And Mildred with an offer of much-needed funds. Ensuring that she’d be able to take care of her baby and keep the promise she’d made to Nell, a desperate young girl who’d believed she had nowhere to turn.

With her heart filled to overflowing for the good fortune God had brought into her life, Callie could barely contain the unfettered joy pounding through her. A walk would help expend some of that energy.

She opened the screen door and jerked her foot back. Most of the porch floor was missing. The boards had been stripped away, revealing support timbers underneath. Thankfully, they appeared solid and wouldn’t need to be replaced.

Jacob Smith turned from tossing another plank to the lawn.

Callie smiled. “I’m amazed at the progress you’ve made while Mildred and I have been visiting.”

“I don’t believe in wasting time.”

Truer words had never been spoken. Jacob might not be an open book but he could be trusted to do a good job in a timely manner.

“If all those newspapers your neighbor brought get in your way, I could haul them to the barn.”

“They’re fine where they are.”

“I’m curious why Mrs. Uland dumped them on you.”

“Mildred’s—” She wouldn’t spoil her neighbor’s surprise. “Asked me to handle a project for her. I have plenty of room.”

“Might make interesting reading. I like looking into the history of old houses. When you’re finished, I’d like to take a look, see what I can find.”

“I won’t be done anytime soon.” She cocked her head at him. “Are you planning on staying in town that long?”

“Only long enough to…repair your house. Then I’ll move on.”

Exactly as she’d thought. She wouldn’t get involved with Jacob Smith or the problems she felt lurking beneath his polite, standoffish exterior. Why, he could walk out of her life as quickly as he’d walked in and never finish the job. She straightened her spine. Another reason to steel herself against this strange attraction she had for him.

“You might want to lock the screen so you and Elise don’t use that door and fall through the floor joists.”

Nodding, Callie closed the screen, hooked it, closed and locked the wooden door, and then found a red ribbon and tied it around the knob. Satisfied that Elise wouldn’t miss the warning to avoid the porch, she left for her walk by the back door.

A warning she’d take to heart. The truth was Jacob Smith could hurt her. Not physically. She’d never think that. But hurt her nevertheless. She’d lock her heart against this drifter. And focus on making a family with her baby, with Elise and her child and focus on her dream. She’d have a full life.

The excitement bubbling within her like an effervescent underground spring sputtered and died. In truth, she’d been lonely for years—most of her life. Marriage to Martin hadn’t filled that aching void.

Hadn’t she learned anything? Attraction meant nothing.

Jacob Smith was the last man on earth she wanted in her life.

In a matter of hours, Jake had torn the planks off the porch. He’d found ample lumber in the barn to replace them, the boards covered with a layer of dust and mice droppings, evidence that the intent to make repairs exceeded Martin Mitchell’s follow-through.

As Jake pounded in another nail, he cringed at his rush to judgment. If he’d been married when he’d ended up in jail, he’d have no doubt left some things undone. Not everyone was suited for restoration. The poor guy lost his life trying.

Still, Martin’s widow lived in a house all but unfit for human habitation. Jake couldn’t let a woman endure such conditions. Not that he blamed the house. Time and effort would bring this place back to its former grandeur. Though enough work was here to tether a man indefinitely, a sentence without parole.

Yet to walk away, when he’d witnessed Mrs. Mitchell’s relief and joy at the house’s revival would be cruel. In the time he remained, if possible, he’d see the task to completion.

His heart lurched. Was the pull more the woman than the work? Either way, he doubted he’d get the job done. Someone was sure to discover his jailbird past.

The aroma of something sugary drifted on the air. Jake pulled the tantalizing scent of home into his lungs then released it in a gust.

Who was he fooling? This wasn’t home—at least not his.

He grabbed the length of lumber he’d cut. Grasping another large nail between thumb and forefinger, he pounded it into the pungent pine, the perfume of Jake’s life. Far better than the stench of prison, but nothing like the aromas floating out of Mrs. Mitchell’s kitchen.

A shadow fell across the porch floor.

He turned to face a man and woman standing on the flagstone walkway. Offering a tentative smile, a round-faced, sturdy woman wore a feather-adorned hat atop her salt-and-pepper hair.

The burly man’s brow furrowed beneath the brim of his hat. “Who are you?”

Jake laid the hammer down and rose. “Jake Smith,” he said offering a hand.

The visitor didn’t take it. “The name means nothing to me.”

“Doubt it would. I’m new in town.”

“What are you doing to our daughter-in-law’s porch?”

So these people were Callie Mitchell’s in-laws.

The screen door opened and Mrs. Mitchell stepped out on the solid boards he’d laid, looking fresh as a summer morning after a rain. She glanced at Jake, then at her in-laws. Her bright smile slipped. “I see you’ve met Mr. Smith, the carpenter who’s fixing up the place. I’m sure you’re pleased to see I’m taking action to ensure our safety.”

Square jaw set in a stubborn line, Mitchell folded beefy arms across his chest. “The best thing you could do is torch this place.”

Callie sighed, obviously not the first time she’d heard such nonsense. Father-in-law or not, Mitchell had no right to badger his dead son’s wife, a gentle woman with a heavy load.

He turned his gaze on her, ready to toss the idiot off the property if she showed the slightest inclination, but she continued to wear that calm expression of hers. How did she keep her patience, when Jake would like nothing better than to punch the guy?

“We aren’t here to argue, Commodore.” Dorothy Mitchell laid a hand on her husband’s sleeve. “Tell Callie why we’ve come.”

Mitchell shifted on his feet. “I, ah, we brought the fabric and some of those baby things you were looking at before we, ah, got off on the wrong foot.”

“Thank you.” Smiling, Callie Mitchell motioned to the house. “Would you care for tea? I just took an angel food cake out of the oven.”

Ignoring his daughter-in-law’s peace offering, Mitchell swept a hand toward Jake. “Can’t see how you can afford a handyman.”

“Mr. Smith agreed to do the work for a roof over his head and meals.”

He turned narrowed eyes on Jake. “Why? When you could get a good-paying job at the grain elevator or lumberyard?”

“I don’t plan on staying long.”

“That so? Then why did you come?”

Jake kept his expression blank, a skill that had held him in good stead in prison. “Peaceful sounded like a nice town.”

“Peaceful is the way we aim to keep it. Most folks around here distrust drifters.”

“I appreciate your concern, Commodore, but I’ve already arranged for Mr. Smith to do the work.” Callie Mitchell tapped the toe of her serviceable shoe on the newly laid porch floor. “His work speaks for him.”

“Let’s have that tea,” Callie’s mother-in-law said. “Please.”

Ignoring his wife, Mitchell frowned. “You’re hardly a good judge of character, Callie. The last man you hired ransacked the place and took every cent in the house.”

Jake took a step forward. “Where I come from, a man speaks kindly to a lady.”

Mitchell turned suspicious eyes on Jake. “And where is that, Smith?”

“Does it matter? I believe good manners are the same everywhere.”

“I’ll tell you what I believe. A drifter has something to hide.” He smirked. “As soon as someone gets close to his secret, that’s when he leaves.” He turned to Callie. “Reckon I’ll stop at the sheriff’s office. See what he knows about ‘Smith’ here.”

He thrust the bundle at his daughter-in-law, then took his wife’s arm and stomped down the walk.

The threat tore through Jake, heating his veins. Even if the sheriff didn’t find out anything about him, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t come around asking questions. It wouldn’t be long until his past caught up with him and forced him out of town.

Jake didn’t know where to pin his gaze, but he couldn’t look at Callie Mitchell. He couldn’t risk the suspicion he’d see in her guileless eyes. He couldn’t risk her seeing the alarm surely hovering in his.

“I’m sorry about that. About him,” she whispered, then stepped inside.

Something frozen inside him knotted tighter. Callie Mitchell had lost her husband. She managed this run-down house and her daily chores while giving refuge to a young unwed mother—all that responsibility rested on her slender shoulders.

Yet without a moment’s hesitation, a member of her family had piled on more burdens. No doubt Commodore Mitchell would call himself a Christian. The man was a hypocrite. The world was full of them, further evidence that if God existed, he had little impact on anyone’s conduct.

Anyone that is, except Callie Mitchell. From what he’d seen, people in this town either harassed or leaned on her.

The woman needed someone to look after her. Someone who’d help carry her burdens. Someone like…

Not him.

Anyone but him.

Jake knelt on the porch, then grabbed a nail and swung the hammer. This time, he found his thumb, not the nail’s head. Through gritted teeth, he bit back the cry of pain and cradled his throbbing thumb in his palm.

No point in getting all riled up about Mrs. Mitchell’s load. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—get involved with her. He’d never known a woman he could trust.

He was in Peaceful for one reason and one reason only. He had a woman to find. Soon as he finished for the day, he’d visit the Corner Café.

If the waitress proved as informative as she’d been on his way into town, she might lead him to the woman who’d discarded him like a broken tool. Then he could finish what he came for—and get out of town. Before he got tied to things he couldn’t have.

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