His Secret Daughter. Lisa Carter

child, Jake McAbee—” the threat made more menacing by Nash’s quiet, deceptively conversational tone “—I’ll make sure it’s the last thing you ever do on this mountain.”

      * * *

      Callie went all out for supper.

      The summer garden was about played out at this point. She’d been canning, freezing and pickling since July. She was secretly gratified to see Jake’s eyes widen as she placed one dish after the other on the table. Cream corn, butter beans, sweet pickles, mashed potatoes, biscuits and fried chicken.

      She sank into the chair opposite Jake, within arm’s reach of Maisie in the booster seat. At the head of the table, her father said grace.

      Puckering her lips, Maisie scooped corn onto her spoon and more or less managed to find her mouth. A smile flitted across Jake’s handsome lips.

      Handsome— What was wrong with her?

      Callie lowered her eyes to her plate. He was Maisie’s father. It didn’t matter whether he had handsome lips or not.

      With an upsweep of her lashes, she stole another look at him. But he did. He definitely had handsome lips.

      Jake shoveled mashed potatoes onto his plate. “You eat like this every day, Mr. Jackson?”

      Her father reached for another chicken leg. “Like her mother, Callie has a way around the kitchen.”

      “She sure does. I haven’t eaten this good since...ever.”

      Callie fretted the paper napkin in her lap. “Your mother didn’t like to cook?”

      Shrugging, he helped himself to the bowl of butter beans. “Don’t remember much before she was gone.”

      Callie took the bowl from him and set it down on the table. “I was in college when my mom died. How old were you when your mother died?”

      “Didn’t say she died.” His shoulders tensed, but he didn’t look up. “When I was nine, she just left.”

      Like Tiff.

      Callie’s breath hitched. His tone bothered her the most. It was as matter-of-fact as if talking about the weather.

      He split open a steaming-hot biscuit. Brows drawn, her dad passed Jake the butter dish. Jake slathered both sides of the biscuit with butter.

      “So how did your mother die, Callie?” With a sudden clang, he laid the knife across his plate. “I shouldn’t have asked that, Mr. Jackson. None of my business.”

      Her dad laid down his fork. “Cancer. And we don’t mind talking about her. Keeps her memory alive.”

      Callie handed Jake a small mason jar of strawberry jam. “I came home to take care of my mom—” she smiled at her father “—and decided everything I wanted was right here.”

      Jake spooned jam onto his biscuit. “First your mom. Then Tiffany. Always taking care of other people.” He caught her eye. “The hits just kept coming, didn’t they, Callie?”

      Their gazes locked across the table.

      She had a feeling Jake knew more than she about taking hits.

      Her dad cleared his throat. Jolted, she became aware that Maisie was studying Jake with those blue, blue eyes of hers.

      Sippy cup hanging loosely in one hand, Maisie watched as the men discussed the upcoming harvest and what needed to be done in the orchard.

      But without fail, Jake’s attention returned to his daughter, like he couldn’t get enough of her. Starving—Callie realized—in more ways than one. His longing for his child was so evident, something unfamiliar—and not altogether welcome—stirred inside Callie.

      It wouldn’t do to get too sympathetic toward Jake McAbee. Legally, he had the right to take the custody issue to court. A court battle was something the Jacksons could neither afford nor win. He still possessed the power to take Maisie away from them. She was running a risk in letting him stay.

      So why then, when he’d been willing to walk away, had she offered him a job? She swallowed past the sudden lump in her throat. She wasn’t sure why she’d done that.

      Except for an overwhelming feeling that she couldn’t let him leave. Was it a sense of guilt about waiting so long to do the right thing by him and Maisie? For continuing to keep Tiff’s secret? Or something else?

      Callie brushed a stray blond curl out of Maisie’s face.

      “I missed her baby stage.” Sadness clouded Jake’s features. “I guess I’ve missed a lot of other things, too.”

      Callie and her father exchanged glances. A strained silence hung over the table while they digested that irreversible truth.

      Her dad withdrew a pen from his shirt pocket, sketching on his napkin the boundary lines of the farm. “Here’s the orchard layout.”

      Jake cocked his head, examining the rough drawing. “How many acres do you farm, sir?”

      She could tell, despite himself, her father was impressed by the sir.

      “Ten. We grow Jonathan apples, Red Delicious and Golden in the rows to the right of the house. In September, we’ll harvest those.”

      When she rose to clear the table, so did Jake.

      “Let me help, Callie.”

      His mother might’ve abandoned Jake McAbee when he was young, but someone had instilled in him gentlemanly manners.

      She waved him away. “You and Dad finish talking.”

      With reluctance, Jake sat down again and pointed to a square on the napkin. “What’s the building by the road?”

      “The Apple House.” Her father patted his stomach. “My favorite place on the farm.”

      She scraped the plates. “The orchard is your favorite place on the farm.”

      Her father laughed. “True.”

      Jake leaned on the armrest of the chair. “What’s an apple house?”

      She stacked the plates. “A country store and bakery.”

      “That’s why it’s my second-favorite place on the farm.” Her dad smiled at her. “Once we open the orchard to the public, Callie has a seasonal crew of town ladies who run the storefront and keep it stocked with apple doughnuts, pies and fritters for sale.”

      She carried the dishes to the sink, then returned with a wet cloth to wipe Maisie’s hands. Twisting her head from side to side like every night, Maisie fought Callie’s efforts to wipe her mouth.

      But Callie wasn’t a quitter and she persevered. Just as she did every night. “Late October also brings the Apple Festival for the farmers in the valley.”

      “Any experience driving a tractor or using farm equipment, Jake?” Her father pursed his lips. “Every weekend from September till we close mid-November, we offer hayrides when people come to buy our apples. For school groups during the week, too.”

      Maisie perked up in her booster seat. “Twactor?”

      Callie looked at Jake. “Maisie likes the tractor. A lot.”

      Jake gathered the silverware into a bundle for Callie. “Overseas I did some convoy driving.”

      Her father quirked his brow. “Then I suspect if you can drive around IEDs and insurgents, you can handle a hayride.” He sniffed the air. “Was that cobbler I smelled baking earlier, Callie Girl?”

      She grinned. “Blackberry.”

      Maisie raised her arms. “Pop-Pop?”

      Callie’s dad reddened. “I realize I’m not her grandfather, but she started calling me that one day. I should’ve set her straight, but—”

      “You’re