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
