Janet Dean – Wanted: A Family (страница 4)

“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.