Knowing the danger of entanglement, yet unable to stop himself, he said, “Can’t have a chunk of ceiling marring that pretty face of yours.”
The apple of her cheeks colored, but her eyes turned wary. “You men know the words a woman likes to hear.”
Why didn’t an attractive woman like Callie Mitchell appreciate a compliment? “I’ll take a look at the ceiling when I’ve finished the porch.” Jake pivoted out onto the ladder, descending the rungs two at a time, the ladder vibrating with each footfall.
By the time he’d reached the bottom, she’d dashed over and gripped the sides. He all but bumped into her coming off the last step. Wide-eyed and obviously shaken, she quickly moved aside. When had anyone worried about his safety?
“I’m accustomed to ladders and this one’s sturdy.”
“Even a careful man can meet disaster, Mr. Smith.”
No doubt she referred to her husband’s fall, but her remark summed up his life. “Your words don’t give a man much hope.”
Her eyes narrowed, as if trying to see inside of him. “Hope doesn’t come from words of mine. Hope comes from God’s Word.”
A man couldn’t manufacture something he didn’t believe. “I don’t see a point in opening a Bible.”
“Without God’s Word to point me in the right direction, I’d lose my way.” Mrs. Mitchell looked at him with eagerness. “You might give the Bible and church a try.”
“From what I’ve seen, churchgoers aren’t likely to offer clemency.” The words shot out of his mouth before he could stop them. What about this woman made him bleed his innermost thoughts?
Her gaze bored deeper. “Do you need clemency?”
Jake removed his hat and slipped the handkerchief stuffed inside into his hip pocket then swiped the sweat off his brow in the crook of his elbow. It didn’t take a genius to recognize prying. “Reckon we all do.”
A flash of remorse traveled her face. Her eyes lifted to the roof, filling with anguish and self-reproach that pushed against his core. If he didn’t know better, he’d believe Mrs. Mitchell shoved her husband off the roof. Well, he had no interest in getting involved with her or her problems. Yet she looked so fragile standing there fighting back tears.
An overpowering urge to tug her to him, to tell her everything would be fine, mounted inside him, yet his hands remained at his sides.
Everything had never been fine.
He couldn’t promise such a thing.
To her.
To anyone.
“I’ll get your dinner.” She headed to the house, shoulders bent, as if carrying a heavy burden.
No doubt she did. A burden he could ease by repairing this house. But the rest—unwed mothers, babies, grief over her husband’s death—he’d stay clear of all that.
At the pump, Jake stuck his head under the spout. Cold water sluiced down his throat and into his sweat-soaked shirt. Perhaps the dousing would cool his empathy for the young widow.
The woman tried to shove God and church down his throat, a prescription Jake couldn’t swallow. She’d indicated that the Bible would point a man in the right direction, as if the road ahead lay with God. He’d more likely find that arrow he wished for earlier than answers in an ancient gilded book.
And as for prayer—
If God existed, He didn’t give a fig about Jake. No matter what Callie Mitchell said, God wouldn’t be helping him. Jake would need a sensible way to find his mother.
Wielding a crowbar, Jake pried a rotted board from the porch floor, easy to do with the missing or inadequately set nails. He’d make repairs and ignore Mrs. Mitchell’s attempt to get him to church. Yet, he could feel himself getting drawn into her life. Worse, drawn to her. That scared him silly.
The faint scent of roses drifted through the air. Mrs. Mitchell stepped onto the porch, a straw boater perched at a jaunty angle on her head, wearing a high-neck white shirtwaist and gored skirt that rustled at the hem as she moved.
Jake sat back on his heels and drank in the sight of her, the gentle arch of her brows, her almond-shaped aquamarine eyes, her thick tresses the shade of rich coffee.
“Hello.” He’d sounded like a smitten schoolboy instead of a man who’d been burned.
“Hello.” She smiled at him. “Lovely afternoon.”
“It is.” Especially since she’d appeared, but he wouldn’t say that. If he had one speck of control over his addled brain, he wouldn’t think it, either.
“I’ll try not to get in your way.” She edged across the porch to check the flower boxes of pansies.
“You aren’t bothering me.”
When had he told a bigger lie? He could barely keep his eyes off her as she nipped off some dying blooms.
He clenched his jaw and pried up another board. What had gotten into him? The woman might be pretty, might even have a good heart, at least if her desire to take in an unwed expectant mother meant anything, but she was a woman after all.
If he could read her thoughts, he suspected her motive for helping wasn’t as pure as it appeared. Most people had an underlying scheme for everything they did. He’d figure hers out eventually.
“Does Miss Langley have family?” Jake asked.
“Her parents live up the block.”
“Then…why is she living with you?”
Mrs. Mitchell hesitated, as if deciding what to say. “Her father insists that she give the baby up.”
Jake’s stomach tensed. “What would he have her do? Dump it in an orphanage?”
She sighed. “Either that or put the baby up for adoption far from Peaceful.”
An urge to tell Elise’s father what kind of a life his grandchild would have in such a place gripped Jake, holding him firmly in its clutches, then tightening like a vise. “Nice and tidy for everyone,” he said in a voice as rough as sandpaper.
Why was Callie Mitchell getting involved with such ugliness? “If Miss Langley had thought of the consequences, she wouldn’t have gotten involved with a no-account man.”
Her eyes flashed. “Your censure doesn’t solve anything. What’s done is done.”
“I’m sorry.” He swallowed against a sudden lump in his throat. “I’m just…angry.”
“I’m sorry you spent your youth in an orphanage.” Compassion filling her gaze, she reached a hand toward him.
He’d revealed too much. He took a step back, avoiding her touch. “As you say, what’s done is done.”
That morning she’d tried to pry into his past, tried to see inside of him. He knew better than to let anyone get close.
Mrs. Mitchell sighed. “If only Mr. Langley could see that an orphanage isn’t the solution.”
How many kids had Jake seen tossed into that orphanage from every situation or circumstance imaginable? Few thrived. If he tried to tell Elise’s father anything, he might resent Jake’s interference enough to dig around in his past. Perhaps discover his stint in prison. If word got out, he’d be forced out of town before he had a chance to find the woman who’d given birth to him.
Avoiding her penetrating gaze, he turned to his task. He’d repair this house, look for his mother and avoid more than conversations about the weather.
“Oh!” Mrs. Mitchell’s hand darted to her stomach.
Jake leaped