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 time behind bars. Framed by Lloyd, his so-called friend, vying for the affections of the woman Jake had thought loved him. He’d experienced firsthand that women were disloyal, even deceitful.
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.