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 fine.” He took the plate and mug from her hands then waited, as if expecting her to leave, so she did.
Glancing back, she watched him dive in. The man was hungry. Too hungry to pray? Or the action of a man without faith? Time would tell. Either way, she’d keep her doors locked at night.
As she entered the back door, a wave of light-headedness swept over her. She’d been up since dawn. The bowl of cold cereal she’d eaten was long gone.
In the kitchen, her food untouched, Elise drooped at the table, as limp as a rag doll, tears running down her cheeks.
Callie splayed her fingers over the girl’s nape and massaged her muscles. “Are you all right?”
“You saw how he looked at me.”
“Don’t take it to heart. You know we expectant moms can’t trust our perceptions. Why, we’re laughing one minute, crying the next.”
“I know I’m right, Callie. I’ve seen that look of censure before.”
“Well, if that’s the case, he’d better keep his opinions to himself or I’ll send him packing faster than a camel can spit.”
“Camels spit?”
“I’ve heard they do. And I can, too, if I’m riled.”
Elise’s snuffles ended on a giggle, a rainbow in the stormy ups and downs of expectant motherhood.
Callie headed to the stove, slipped an egg and a slice of pork onto her plate. “I’ll see what Jacob Smith has to say for himself.”
While Elise finished eating, Callie left the house.
Across from Mr. Smith, she sat on a weathered chair with splayed legs. Her full skirts all but touched the scruffy toe of his boot.
As if uncomfortable with the contact, he yanked his foot back, then lifted the last forkful of food to his mouth. His hand was large, long-fingered. The nails were clean and he had a sprinkling of dark hair between his knuckles.
“Looks like I’m too late to ask if the food needed salt.”
“Breakfast was perfect, as is. Every bite.”
She’d missed cooking for a man, especially an appreciative man. She smiled. He smiled back. The dimple winked in his left cheek, giving his angular face a boyish look.
Bowing her head, she offered a silent prayer then cut into the pork.
Stripes wove between them, rubbing against Mr. Smith’s boot. He gave her ears a gentle scratch and was rewarded with a grateful purr. The way people treated animals said a lot about them. “Where’s home?” she asked.
“Nowhere in particular.”
Eyeing him, she scooped egg onto her fork. “We’re all born somewhere, Mr. Smith.”
“Yes, ma’am, but… I don’t know exactly where.”
Her hand stilled. “Care to explain?”
“I grew up in an orphanage.” He’d said the words in a matter-of-fact voice, with no trace of emotion, yet his eyes didn’t meet hers.
The bite of egg lodged in Callie’s throat. If not for Aunt Hilda, Callie would’ve met the same fate. Swallowing hard, her gaze darted his way.
He looked tranquil enough, but a twitch in his jaw suggested otherwise. “Not a happy experience?”
He shrugged, but the raw bleakness in his eyes confirmed her opinion.
“You got kin around these parts?” he said, deftly changing the subject and avoiding his past.
“My