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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
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
