Wanted: A Family. Janet Dean

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СКАЧАТЬ did that prove? He could’ve written it himself.

      Above-average height with a wiry, broad-shouldered build, the man’s angular face looked hard, chiseled from stone. The power radiating off him reminded her of a caged tiger pacing its enclosure, ready to spring. A guarded look in his eyes, as if he’d lived under scrutiny and been deemed defective told her this man had been hurt by life as much as she had. But that didn’t make him honorable. It could mean exactly the opposite.

      “Does anyone know you in this town?”

      “No, ma’am.”

      “I’m sorry. I don’t hire strangers.” Not after the incident with the last handyman. She gave an apologetic smile, then returned to the porch and began prying up the next board. As she shoved against the lever, a jolt of pain streaked up her arms. She bit back a moan.

      Eyes flashing, he bounded up the steps and hauled the crowbar from her hands. “You can’t raze this porch in your condition.”

      Angry tears flooded her eyes. She wanted to slap that disapproving scowl off his face.

      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 СКАЧАТЬ