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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.
