Wanted: A Family. Janet Dean

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      What a fool he’d been. Well, not even a fool made the same mistake twice. Jake might be a lot of things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. He had no intention of trusting another woman.

      Still, he’d handle Mrs. Mitchell’s work for now. See that she didn’t get hurt. Or harm her baby.

      Perhaps in this town, several counties away from the penitentiary, he could stay a spell. One thing he’d learned—innocent or not, a man who’d done time wasn’t free. He’d merely traded jail bars for barriers he couldn’t see, but those invisible barriers were equally as solid. Prejudice. Suspicion. Judgment.

      Not that he blamed folks, at least those who didn’t know him. But those who did—

      Well, after his release, except to get a reference from his boss, he didn’t linger in Bloomington, the town where he’d been tried and found guilty, railroaded by flimsy evidence and an overeager sheriff. He couldn’t face the skepticism, couldn’t face being treated like a criminal.

      But what he hadn’t expected…

      No matter where a man traveled, his past dogged his every step. One day, Mrs. Mitchell would look at him with the same doubt he’d seen often enough in the eyes of others. Not that he’d get close to anyone, not even to a woman with a stubborn tilt to her chin and dazzling sea-blue eyes.

      He strode to the lean-to and opened the door into a room the size of a cell. A cot sat against the wall, bedding stacked at the foot, even a pillow for his head. Next to the bed a washstand held a kerosene lamp. Beside it, a chair where a man could fold his clothes at night and pull on his boots in the morning. A small window let in fresh air and a slice of the sky. Even under this roof, the moon and stars would keep him company.

      He needed lodging. And whether Mrs. Mitchell wanted to admit it or not, she needed his help. He could mend a run-down house even if he couldn’t repair the mess of his life.

      A mess built by another.

      No point harping on the past. The truth had come out. Lloyd was in jail. His treachery had cost Jake a year of his life, but he’d done Jake a favor by saving him from a life sentence with a fickle woman. Still, that year had deprived him of his good name and destroyed the last flimsy thread of his optimism.

      Before his record caught up with him, he’d try to set this neglected, regal old house to rights.

      More importantly, if she lived in Peaceful, he’d find the woman he sought.

      Once he did, he’d leave. Moving from town to town, exposed to the elements. Not the greatest life, but he was free. Not only from the bars of prison, but unencumbered by relationships that had given him nothing but grief. When a man got burned, it didn’t take him long to learn that the stove was hot.

      A lesson he wouldn’t forget.

      On the chair, he laid the sack, holding a change of clothes and the Bible the warden gave him upon his release. Jake couldn’t fathom why he bothered hauling that tome around. Tossing his jacket on the bed, he tried out the mattress. Not bad. Everything was clean and serviceable. Mrs. Mitchell treated hired hands well—that said plenty about her. He’d give her a full day’s work and then some. All he had.

      Maybe in a town with the unlikely name of Peaceful, he’d find his roots. Not that the insight would give him a moment of peace, no matter what the town’s name was.

      He shoved the thought away. Soon he’d sit down to a home-cooked meal. The prospect brought a rumble from his stomach.

      Things were looking up.

      Chapter Two

      In Callie’s large kitchen, cabinets ascended from wide baseboards on the plank floor to crown molding bordering the pressed-tin ceiling. At the enormous cookstove, Callie prepared breakfast. Hot grease popped out of the skillet and landed on her hand, bringing a hiss from her lips. That’s what she got for frying side meat as if her life depended on it.

      Her hands trembled. Maybe it did. She wanted Jacob Smith, if that was his real name, making repairs. Repairs Martin never got around to. Yet, within minutes of meeting her, the rugged stranger had taken charge as if he owned the place. An urge to slap his bossy face battled with an undeniable longing to savor his concern. He’d made her feel protected, cared for, as if he wanted to ease her load. When had Martin ever done that? Still, she didn’t fancy relying on an outsider.

      Through the window, she watched Mr. Smith haul an extension ladder from the barn. By the time she’d taken the pan of biscuits out of the oven, he’d made another trip, this time carrying an armload of shingles and a small keg of nails. The man didn’t waste a minute, which she admired.

      He stopped at the pump, splashed his face and neck with water, then scrubbed his hands. For a drifter, the man took responsibility and valued cleanliness. Virtues she respected.

      Elise, leaning on an old cane Callie had found in the attic, hobbled to Callie’s side. Her auburn hair was pulled into a low knot that failed to corral her mass of curls. “Can I help?”

      “You’re supposed to keep your weight off that ankle.”

      “It’s stronger today.” As she took a seat at the table, Elise glanced out the window. “Who’s that?”

      Callie set a plate of food in front of her. “His name’s Jacob Smith. He’s going to fix the roof and the porch.” She smiled down at her. “So you won’t twist your other ankle.”

      “I was more concerned about you hurting yourself than my ankle. That man’s a blessing.”

      “I’m reserving judgment, but I hope you’re right.”

      While Elise ate her breakfast, Callie poured a mug of coffee, then scooped onto a plate scrambled eggs, fried potatoes, two slabs of pork and three biscuits hot from the oven.

      “Come meet him,” Callie said. “Oh, and bring the flatware, please.”

      Under a smattering of freckles, Elise paled as if she wanted to refuse, but took the napkin-wrapped utensils and followed Callie to the door.

      On the stoop, Jacob Smith doffed his hat then opened the screen. His hair, black as a moonless night, met his collar. Callie had an urge to grab her scissors, but introduced Elise instead.

      “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Langley,” he said, taking the utensils she offered.

      Color dotted Elise’s cheeks. “It’s Miss Langley.”

      Mr. Smith’s gaze landed on Elise’s stomach then darted away, matching Elise’s speed as she left the stoop and ducked into the kitchen.

      Callie fixed a disapproving gaze on the newcomer. “Elise may be unwed, but she’s a sweet girl. I expect you to treat her accordingly.”

      The hard set of his jaw gave Jacob Smith the look of a man ready to do battle. “I’m not one to judge.”

      “Good. Lord knows plenty of folks are.” She motioned to the bench. “Have a seat, but watch the cats. They think the stoop’s a feline café.”

      He plopped his hat beside him on the bench. “Breakfast looks mighty СКАЧАТЬ