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
