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Wanted: A Family
Janet Dean
Indulge your fantasies of delicious Regency Rakes, fierce Viking warriors and rugged Highlanders. Be swept away into a world of intense passion, lavish settings and romance that burns brightly through the centuriesJanet 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. At twelve Janet penned her first "novels," even illustrating her little books. But when it came time to choose a career, Janet wanted to teach. She married her college sweetheart and taught first grade before leaving education to rear two daughters.During those early years, Janet and her husband found their church, joined Bible studies and developed a love of scripture and a closer walk with God. Volunteering at school and church filled her time, but once her daughters were grown, she revisited her longtime dream of being a writer. Delighted to combine her love of the Word and words, Janet turned to inspirational historical romance.She joined American Christian Fiction Writers, Romance Writers of America and Faith, Hope, Love. Her journey toward publication took nine exciting, sometimes painful years of learning the craft and dealing with rejection. Two of her manuscripts were Golden Heart finalists. One was a Genesis finalist. Janet's dream has come true: her debut Love Inspired Historical novel, Courting Miss Adelaide, hit bookshelves in September 2008. The sequel, Courting the Doctor's Daughter, is a May 2009 release. Janet is presently working on her next book set in the Indiana town.When she isn't writing for Steeple Hill Love Inspired Historical books, Janet stamps greeting cards, plays golf and is never without a book to read. The Deans enjoy travel and spending time with family.
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 (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
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.
