Wanted: A Family. Janet Dean

I’ll repair the roof this morning. Tackle the porch during the heat of the day.”

      “Do as you think best.”

      A flicker of surprise skidded across his face. That boss at the construction company must’ve been a stickler.

      “I’ll bring your dinner out at noon. Wait a minute.” She walked inside, grabbed a fruit jar with a galvanized lid from the kitchen. “It’s going to be a scorcher. Fill this or you’ll wear yourself out making trips to the pump.”

      He took the jar and tipped his hat. “Much obliged.”

      “Take care on that roof. It’s steep.”

      “Yes, ma’am.” His eyes sobered. “I will.”

      He strapped on a pouch of nails and stuck the hammer under his belt, then leaned the ladder against the back of the house, making adjustments until he had it centered to suit him. Before she could steady it, he’d grabbed an armload of shingles and scrambled to the top and out onto the roof. As he clomped up the incline, she held her breath and then slowly released it, noticing his confidence and agility.

      And the way his back muscles rippled through his shirt.

      At the unwelcome response to the man, her cheeks burned. With her hands full to overflowing and no idea where she’d get the money to take her and Elise through the winter, how could she keep noticing a man’s muscles, a drifter at that?

      Her father-in-law would say only a no-account man chose to work for room and board, instead of settling down with a good-paying job.

      Callie shivered. Jacob Smith had been closed-mouthed. Was he running from something? Or to something?

      Whatever his motive for coming to Peaceful, she didn’t need another complication in her life. How long before he could get the work done and leave?

      Couldn’t be soon enough to suit her.

      Sweat stinging his eyes and blurring his vision, Jake pulled a nail from the pouch and fastened a shingle in place. He yanked a handkerchief from his hip pocket, threaded it under the crown of his wide-brimmed hat, then plunked it on his head.

      Laying shingles in this unseasonable heat was hard, dirty work, but he welcomed the exertion, liked being in control. Control he’d lost in jail, but needed badly. A man felt alive when he pushed the limits of his endurance. Afterward, his muscles might ache, but nothing equaled the satisfaction of repairing something broken. If it sometimes ate at him that remodeling houses came as close as he’d get to a home of his own, he forced the thought away. No reason to expect anything more. He had no interest in forming a family.

      Every half hour like clockwork, Mrs. Mitchell came out to check on him. No doubt scared he’d break his neck. Not that he blamed her, considering what happened to her husband. If she knew how at ease he felt perched on this roof, she’d worry less.

      He liked the expanse, the sense of freedom, the clear view of nearby gardens with slender rows of leaf lettuce and green onions. A few patches overgrown with dead pumpkin vines and cornstalks bordered red barns, whitewashed sheds and outhouses, all tucked behind clapboard houses.

      Did one of these homes hide the woman who’d given him birth?

      Not his mother. A mother took care of her child. Fed him. Tucked him into bed at night.

      Or so he understood.

      But one thing he knew—a mother didn’t toss her baby away like an unwanted trinket. Clenching his jaw, he slammed the hammer into the head of the nail, driving it in place. He wanted that woman to know the price he’d paid for her negligence. The orphanage had provided the basics to sustain life, but no affection, no encouragement, no joy, merely existence.

      She sent a yearly birthday greeting to the orphanage addressed to Jacob, not even using his last name, as if Smith was a lie. Those cards didn’t diminish her desertion. Merely proved she knew his location yet never bothered to see him. Never bothered to reveal his roots. Never bothered to make sure he survived.

      As he pounded shingles into place, his mind drifted back to the winter he was seven. He’d fallen from a tree on the orphanage grounds. With pain searing his broken arm and emptiness branding his heart, he’d lain on the frozen earth staring at the bare branches, silhouetted against a cloudless sky. A boy surrounded by people, yet starving for love, he’d cried out for his mother. No one came.

      From that moment, Jake dropped the pretense he’d clung to and faced the truth. He had only those postcards. Postcards couldn’t hold him. Postcards couldn’t wipe away his tears. Postcards couldn’t atone for her abandonment.

      At last he’d quieted, then struggled to his feet. Cradling his broken arm against his chest, he’d shuffled toward the orphanage, a vow on his lips.

      Never again would he care about that woman. Never again would he deceive himself into believing that one day she’d come for him. Never again would he hold on to hope for a family.

      His arm had mended. But in the sixteen years since that day, nothing had proved him wrong.

      Even as an adult, when he knew circumstances might’ve made her coming for him difficult, even impossible, he couldn’t find it in his heart to excuse her.

      The postcards had been postmarked Indianapolis. Once, just once, a card had come from Peaceful. He’d kept all those postcards. Just to remember the town names. Not that they meant anything to him.

      As he hammered another nail home, his stomach clenched. In truth, he’d studied each stroke of the pen, compared the handwriting to his own, searching those pitifully few words for some connection. Never finding one.

      After his exoneration and release from prison, he’d spent a month in Indianapolis, searching birth records, locating every Smith he could find, but he hadn’t turned up a clue. For some reason, he had the strong feeling she’d sent the postcards from there to throw him off her trail and he’d find her in Peaceful.

      Well, if she’d found peace in this town, perhaps he would, too. Once he’d given her a huge hunk of his opinion. Not charitable of him, but the best he could do with all the bitterness burning inside him.

      He didn’t wish her harm. He didn’t even want to disgrace her. He merely needed her to know the penalty he’d paid when she’d swept him under the rug of her life.

      The beat of his heart pounded in his temples with the rhythm of his hammer. If there was a God and He was the Author of Life, as some claimed, He hadn’t gone out of His way to lend a hand to Jake’s life story.

      Not in the circumstances of his birth.

      Not in those years in the orphanage.

      Not in the injustice exacted in that courtroom.

      He sighed. Why not admit it? He wanted to see his mother with a desperation he couldn’t fathom, yet couldn’t deny. He wanted to meet her. See if they shared a resemblance. Learn the identity of his father. Maybe then he could move on with his life. If only he had a way to make his search easier, a sign with an arrow pointing in the direction to turn. He huffed at such absurdity. What would the sign say? This way leads to Jake Smith’s mother?

      “How’s it going?”

      Whirling around, Jake scrambled for footing, scraping his knuckles against the hot shingles.

      Mrs. Mitchell looked up at him, eyes wide with alarm. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you, but dinner’s ready.”

      “My fault, I didn’t hear you coming.” He forced his lips into a grin that pinched like ill-fitting shoes. “Your timing’s perfect. I just replaced the last shingle.”

      Her eyes lit. “Oh, now I won’t have to cringe at the first peal of thunder.”

      Forcing his gaze away from that sparkle in her eyes, that sweet smile on her lips, he tucked the hammer into his belt. She drew him like a mindless moth to a candle’s flame, a lure that would prove as lethal.