Of its own volition, Jake’s hand moved toward her middle, hovering inches away. Had his mother reacted like this when he’d moved inside her? No, if she had experienced Callie Mitchell’s joy, she couldn’t have tossed him out like yesterday’s garbage.
“In four more months, I’ll have a child.” Her voice trembled with emotion. “A family of my own.”
Behind the emotion, Jake heard Mrs. Mitchell’s determination to create a family with her and her baby. Family.
The word conjured up birthday cakes and bedtime stories, kisses on small hurts and hugs after a nightmare. All the things he’d never had. “Not every woman would want to raise a child alone.”
“I have God and my baby. I’m never alone.”
Her eyes reflected a faith so bright, so pure, Jake felt filthy in comparison. The idea that he could have such a woman in his life ricocheted through him. He tamped down the ridiculous notion. Callie Mitchell grieved for her husband. He grieved for his past. Not a foundation for second chances.
Chapter Three
Callie cringed, heat blooming in her cheeks. How could she have shared with Jacob Smith, a man, a stranger, the first movement of her baby? An intimate detail too personal to share with anyone but her doctor, her friends and the baby’s father, but Martin was gone and she hadn’t been able to contain her joy.
Worse, Mr. Smith appeared as overcome and delighted by the news as a prospective father. This would never do. Her breath caught. Jacob Smith was turning her world upside down.
Across from her, he took a long drink of water from the fruit jar, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each swallow. His sweat-soaked shirt clung to his torso, a surprisingly broad chest on that sinewy frame.
Martin had been soft, pudgy. The unkind comparison of her deceased husband to a drifter knotted in Callie’s stomach. “I’m going to town for my mail,” she said, eager to be on her way.
“Mind if I join you? I could use a break.”
At the thought of walking side by side with this man, a shiver snaked down Callie’s spine. Why couldn’t he have stuck to the task at hand? She ought to make an excuse and hurry inside, but she heard herself say, “I’d enjoy the company.”
He smiled, flashing that fascinating hollow in his cheek. “Give me five minutes.”
Looking pleased, as if accompanying her mattered, he vaulted over the railing to the ground with the grace and the quickness of a deer. Callie’s belly flopped like one of Martin’s landed fish. She tamped down such silliness. Mr. Smith merely needed a breather, exactly as he’d said.
Slow-moving clouds threw shadows on the house, pulling Callie’s eyes to the turret rising in the sky. Her family home had resembled this old Victorian, except the upper-story windows had worn stained-glass crowns, throwing splashes of color on the walls, delighting her little-girl heart. From those windows, donned in the cloak her mother had sewed and a beaded cardboard crown, the princess of her domain, she’d surveyed her kingdom—the fertile valley nestled in the foothills of Tennessee.
But the dam had been compromised and rushing water had whipped through the valley, sweeping the house and her family along in the flood.
She’d survived their loss. She’d survived Martin’s death. She’d survive whatever life threw her way. Her faith would keep her strong. But the deep ache of loneliness stirring within left her vulnerable. Vulnerable even to a man she knew nothing about.
Hadn’t she learned anything from her marriage to Martin?
Alone and adrift after Aunt Hilda died, Callie had soaked up Martin’s cheerful disposition and affectionate nature like parched ground and missed his lack of responsibility.
The minute he proposed, Callie had said yes. They set the wedding date for less than a month away. When the old Victorian came up for auction, Martin coerced his father into buying it as a wedding gift, insisting that the large family he wanted wouldn’t fit into Aunt Hilda’s tiny house. Once Callie sold the house, they used the proceeds to purchase furniture and had enough left over to put some money in the bank.
On her wedding day, Callie had never been happier. Martin had a secure job at his father’s store. They had some savings. His parents had accepted her with open arms.
It didn’t take long for the glow of marital bliss to fade. With Martin’s penchant for guns and fishing gear and the cost of supplies needed to rebuild the house, they tore through their savings. The more that Commodore did to keep them solvent, the more he expected to run their lives.
Not that anyone could control Martin.
Perhaps with a baby on the way, he would have stepped up to his new role. She’d never know.
But she’d learned a hard lesson. A man wasn’t always what he appeared.
Mr. Smith strode toward her, his hair damp under his hat, wearing a clean shirt and a contented smile that set her pulse racing. She folded her arms across her chest, vowing that she wouldn’t let him have this effect on her. No matter how much she admired his responsible nature and impressive accomplishments, she wouldn’t care about another man, especially a drifter.
When he reached her, their gazes locked. The yearning in his eyes lodged in her heart. They were two people cramming their days with meeting the needs of others, yet hungering for closeness. Every single bit of logic and misgiving vanished like dew on a summer day. Replaced by a pull towing her to him with a power she couldn’t explain.
A pull she wouldn’t heed.
Yet, her feet took her toward him. His eyes flared. Something meaningful and disturbing passed between them. Callie quickly looked away, breaking the hold this man had over her.
As she strolled beside him along the tree-lined walk toward town, she was all too aware of his height, the firmness of his stride, the power and energy he barely contained.
That first day she’d suspected he wasn’t a believer. How could she be drawn to such a man?
Martin had possessed faith, well, faith of sorts. Not much for combing Scripture, he’d left his edifying to the preacher at those times he didn’t snooze in the pew. In the two years they’d been married, they’d never shared a spiritual discussion.
Yet within hours of meeting, she and Mr. Smith had touched on their faith. From what he’d said, the man needed God. She would not get emotionally involved with a faithless man, but with God’s help, she could try to fill more than his stomach. She could nourish his soul. Help him find the answer to the pain she sensed lurking beneath the surface.
Callie gulped. As long as that answer wasn’t her.
Aunt Hilda had said Callie possessed a keen intuition about others’ feelings. Except for that one terrible exception with Nell, Callie had found her assessment true. She’d learned to observe people. Saw what they needed, how she could bring a smile or ease a worry. Perhaps she could give that strategy a try with Jacob Smith.
As they approached a hump in the walk, he took her arm. “Watch your step.”
A jolt shot through her. The startled look in Mr. Smith’s eyes said he’d felt that same wild reaction. She quickly released her hold on his arm, yet felt strangely bereft. She groped for a safe topic. “You’re an excellent carpenter.”
“Carpentry comes easy to me,” he said in a husky voice, “like building a nest comes easy to you.”
“Building a nest?”
“Yes, making a home, a welcoming place for friends like Elise, even an outsider like me.” His eyes warmed. “That’s a gift. I’ve seen my share of places and the people who live there. Your hospitality isn’t something I encounter often.”
Everything inside her turned to jelly. Why did