Wanted: A Family (19 page)

Callie pointed a hand toward the door. “Get out of my house. I won't be moving, not until I'm forced. Stay in the lean-to tonight.” She snorted. “I couldn't send even a dog out in this storm.”

With that she turned on her heel and stomped off.

Callie was tossing him out. The closest thing he'd had to
a family had been destroyed while he'd stood there holding that card in his hand, powerless to stop it.

The family he wanted and thought he'd found was exactly like that foster family so many years ago.

A figment of his imagination.

 

Jake slapped his Bible shut and stretched out on the cot, his back propped against the pillow. The storm had passed, but that hadn't eased the storm raging between him and Callie.

At first, her accusations had baffled him, then filled him with shock. Shock turned to anger.

That Callie believed him capable of treachery when all he'd ever wanted was to help, not harm, churned inside him. But he'd moved past his own pain and had seen hers. Everything between him and Callie lay in ruins.

Yet, even knowing that, he still listened for her footsteps outside, hoping she'd come to him. That she would admit she knew he'd never wrest the house she loved from her. She hadn't come.

No matter. He'd go to her. Surely, she must be calmer now. Together they'd work this out. If the will was legitimate and the Victorian did belong to him, he'd sign the house over to Callie. He'd ensure that she and her baby had a roof over their heads, as well as all the unwed mothers and their babies, both now and in the years ahead.

He leaped to his feet, striding to the door and opened it. Dusk had fallen but he could see Callie, standing at the back door, talking to a woman heavy with child. Then she ushered her inside. Callie had gone on with her life while he could barely function. She'd settle the newcomer in, as only she could do, and give the woman a sense of belonging.

As she once had him.

He closed the door and dropped to the mattress, tucking
his hands under his head. Something about that woman nagged at him, hung on with the tenacity of a gorging tick. He'd seen her before. Where?

He jerked to his feet. With the turmoil of the afternoon, he'd put the incident out of his mind. Until now.

That morning he'd gone into Mitchell Mercantile to buy work clothes. He'd seen that same tattered cloak, that same disheveled woman, a furtive expression on her face, shoving something in her pocket as she slipped out of the store. No one appeared to notice anything amiss.

Most likely she was a downtrodden woman, down on her luck. He'd give it a few minutes then knock on Callie's door. Make sure the newcomer wasn't a problem. Then he'd tell her his plan to set things right.

First thing tomorrow, he'd talk to that attorney. They'd work this out. Everything would be fine. Picturing Callie's reaction, he grinned. If he handled it right, she might even let him give her a hug.

By now, Callie would've settled the woman in. He shoved on his boots, crossed the lean-to floor in a few strides and opened the door.

He found himself staring into the remote eyes of Sheriff Frederick, his hand raised as if to knock. Or break down a door.

“Money's missing from Commodore's cash register. He's thirty dollars short. He saw you in the store. Know anything about that?”

Jake shook his head. “I didn't take any money. Not from the Mercantile. Not from anyone.”

“Mind if I check your room?” Not waiting for an answer, Frederick rummaged through Jake's bedding, his clothes folded on the chair, rifled through his Bible, as if a man would hide evidence of his sin in that book. Then jerked open the drawer and pawed through his personal items, his
boss's reference, the fragile postcards, ragged from scrutiny and age.

The only connection he had left of his mother. A powerful urge to knock the sheriff into the next county seized him. But that satisfaction wouldn't accomplish anything except to give Frederick another reason to haul his hide to jail.

He slammed the drawer shut. “Where's the money?”

“I told you—I didn't take that money.”

“Maybe cooling your heels in jail will improve your memory.”

Jail. Reflected in the sheriff's eyes, Jake saw his guilt. Reflected in the tone of Frederick's voice, Jake heard his guilt. Once again, he was facing jail for something he didn't do.

Frederick wrapped a beefy hand around Jake's arm.

“Let go of me,” Jake said, his tone rigid, “I'll come of my own accord.”

Anyone seeing the two of them on the walk to the jail would've thought they were taking an evening stroll. But for Jake, each step relived another walk. A walk he'd taken from the courtroom to a cell, his fate sealed by a jury. He'd been no guiltier then than now, but innocence didn't keep a man free.

The prospect of being caged like an animal shoved against every nerve, every tendon, every muscle. A compulsion seized him—to run, to fight—to stop the inevitable clank of that barred door. But he kept moving, kept putting one foot in front of the other, holding tight to his control. The only thing he had.

Inside the jail, Frederick threw open the door of a cell. Jake flinched. Then with sheer strength of will, he took the last steps inside.

The door closed with a bang that ricocheted through
the block of cells and echoed with a familiar finality that made his stomach heave.

Mere months before, he'd been in another prison where an innocent bump could send a man into a rage. And someone could end up dead. He'd learned to watch his back, always prepared for trouble. Trouble was a daily visitor in jail. Conditions made that inevitable. The bullpen, that dim, airless exercise room with inmates herded together like doomed cattle in the stockyards. The stench of unwashed bodies and urine invaded his nostrils. The slime of spit, slippery beneath his feet had him gulping for air. He couldn't survive that again.

Shoving the memory aside, he dropped onto the cot in the dim cell, elbows on knees, hands dangling, focusing on the fibers on his frayed cuffs. Those frayed cuffs had been the reason he'd gone into the Mercantile. Odd that something so trifling as wanting a new shirt determined a man's fate. He plucked at the fibers, unraveling from the times he'd scraped against shingles, plaster, lumber—typical in his line of work.

Yet, far more than his cuffs was unraveling. His life was unraveling, too.

That woman he'd seen in the Mercantile could've taken the money before she slipped away. Yet he had no way to prove it. Considering Callie's anger at the will, she wouldn't come to his defense.

Jake's throat knotted. He'd lost everything that mattered. His mother. His woman. His freedom.

Once again, he was confined to a cell, no one to hear, no one to care. Swallowing against the bile pushing up his throat, Jake understood with clarity. He didn't know how to handle his life. He didn't know how to handle even one night in this cell.

Tears stung his eyes. All he'd ever wanted was a family. Was that too much to ask for?

That yearning had brought him to Peaceful in search of his mother. In a way, he'd found her. His mother had lived in Callie's house during its grander days. Both he and his mother had walked those floors, spent time under that roof, been sheltered by those walls. Not much of a connection but something. Something he'd cherish. All he had.

A sob tore from his lips. All those years he'd resented his mother for not coming she'd been
dead.
Irene Squier, still in her teens died giving him life.

Someone should care that she no longer lived. Someone should mourn her. He did. He cared, yet too late to tell her.

Too late to thank her.

Too late.

He had nowhere to turn. No one in this town would help him. He hauled himself to his feet and walked to the window, staring at the star-studded night through the bars. Across the way, he spotted the silhouette of Callie's church steeple, pointing toward the sky. The Heavens, people said, God's home.

Did God exist? Were all those words in the Bible true?

He dropped to his knees in the striped moonbeam on the floor, gazing up at that scrap of sky, the only visible link to God, if He even existed.

Jake had read the Bible stories. There'd be no burning bush for him. No parted waters. No water into wine.

All he knew for sure was that he couldn't go on alone. He couldn't make it through another day under his own power. He'd prided himself on his skill with hammer and nails, on hard work, on his physical stamina. But he had nothing left. He was a hollow shell of a man.

A sob shoved up his throat.
If You're real, God, if You're up there and You…care about…me, help me. Please. Help me accept the loss of a mother I never knew. Help me find my way. Please, be that arrow Callie talked about. Show me the way.

The arrows he'd been following had taken him to a dead end.

I've tried to live by my own strength, but I don't have any strength left. I don't have enough strength to spend the night in this cell. I don't have enough strength to fight Commodore's charge. I don't have enough strength to convince Callie to love me.

I love you.

Jake swiveled on his knees, searching the small space, the corridor. No one was there, but he'd heard a voice. A voice that was crystal clear, real. The tone gentle, with the warmth a loving parent would use with a frightened child. Some child.
Him.
A twenty-three-year-old jailbird unable to handle his life.

He staggered to the window, peering into the night, searching for some change, some concrete evidence that the voice in his head, dare he think, was the voice of… God.

No falling stars, no flashes of lightning, no howling wind. A regular night. But in that moment, a night like no other. A blessed sense of peace filled him.

God was real. God cared. God loved him.

Jake felt that love. Felt that forgiveness. Nothing about his new conviction made sense. Yet with bone-deep certainty Jake knew God was there in that cell with him.

Him.

A man who'd walked this life alone. Or so he'd thought. Now he knew that choice had been his, not God's. God had
been there all along, waiting for him. At Jake's first step of trust, at his first plea for help, God had answered.

He'd read about Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane. How he'd cried out to God the night before he hung on that cross. If Jesus could handle
that,
Jake could easily handle this night.

Tomorrow he'd share his faith with the only woman whose opinion mattered. He had the promise of a fresh beginning. It seemed so simple. Yet, so complex. To a man like him, who'd never been loved, the love of God was a mystery.

He had a father now. A Heavenly Father.

Thank You for loving me. Thank You for saving me. Thank You for never leaving me when I rejected You countless times. Help me be and do what You want.

Certain of what he must do, Jake closed his eyes and gave his burdens to the One who controlled the universe, even this small chunk of it. Let go of the anguish of those lonely years in the orphanage, the heartache of waiting for a mother who never came, of being framed by a friend for a crime he didn't commit, the months of degradation and fear in that other cell, of losing Callie's regard. All that weight lifted from his shoulders.

He still remembered every moment of his past. How could he forget? But his past no longer dominated who he was. His todays. Or his tomorrows. He felt reborn.

Hope spilled into every crevice. With God's help, he and Callie could be a family. He could be a good husband, a good father. He stretched out on the cot and slept.

T
he morning brought bright sunshine and chirping birds, but nothing was light about the load of uncertainties Callie carried. Yesterday's storm had moved on, as storms always do. But the storm within, the pain of losing her home, of losing Jacob raged. How could she have allowed herself to depend on him?

As she'd made her way to the barn, she hadn't seen Jacob. Not that she expected to after the way they'd parted last night. He'd no doubt already gone to meet that lawyer about his inheritance and would succeed in ripping the house out from under her and her baby. In effect, destroying her dream and leaving some desperate women homeless.

Leaning into Bossy's side, Callie bit back a sob. Now, she'd be forced to move in with Commodore, but at least she had a place to go. But what would happen to Grace and Joanna?

She had to tell them, though they might react as Mildred had when Callie had seen her neighbor earlier—with total faith in Jacob's integrity—insisting that he hadn't known about his mother's death or the Squier will. Once Mildred took Jacob under her wing, she had a blind spot when it came to him.

Callie rose, picked up the milk bucket and left the barn with Stripes at her heels. “Callie!”

Hand on her hat, Loretta hurried toward her, skirts flying. What was going on?

When she reached her, Loretta took the pail and they continued walking toward the house. “Hal arrested Jake last night for stealing from Commodore's store.”

“What?” Callie gripped Loretta's arm, slopping milk out of the pail.

“After closing yesterday, Commodore discovered thirty dollars was missing from his register. Jake had been in the store that morning.”

Callie whirled on Loretta. “That's the only reason Commodore had for accusing him?”

“Hal said Jake looked more dead than alive when he walked into that cell. I think he felt sorry for him, but once a jailbird—”

“How can you condemn a man with no real evidence?”

Loretta's gaze sought the ground. “I'm sorry.” She raised her eyes to Callie's. “But Commodore swears he knew everyone who stepped inside the store the entire day, had known them for years. Who else could've done it?”

Callie reached for the bucket, Loretta's question slowing her hand. Jacob had betrayed her but this act of thievery didn't ring true. “I have no idea.”

“I can see you're upset. I thought you'd want to know.”

“I'm glad you told me. I'm just sorry you always jump to conclusions about people.”

Loretta worried her lower lip with her teeth. “I don't know why I do that. Maybe because I don't want anyone I care about to get hurt.” Tears brimmed in her eyes. “I know things haven't been good between us, but I care about you, Callie.”

With that declaration Loretta hurried off before Callie could respond. As she walked on to the house, Callie acknowledged that she cared about Loretta, too, though her friend didn't always make caring easy. She'd have to make amends for that hurt in Loretta's eyes. Her entire life seemed to be falling apart.

Inside the kitchen, one by one the others came in, dished up oatmeal, poured tea and coffee, and took seats at the table. Callie went through the motions, greeted Joanna, Grace and Elise, kissed Katie Marie's soft cheek, but the food in her stomach churned. She didn't have the heart to tell them about the Squier will and all that would mean.

Had she been wrong? Maybe Jacob hadn't known about the will. But he hadn't said one word or taken one step that indicated he'd refuse his inheritance. Her breath caught. Had she given Jacob a chance to explain before they parted last night? He couldn't very well come to her when he was locked in a cell.

Still, she couldn't expect a man who'd never had a home to relinquish ownership of a house he admired.

Brought out of her reverie when Grace and Joanna rose and cleared the table, Callie realized they'd finished their breakfast. “Jacob's been arrested for stealing cash from the Mercantile,” she blurted out. She wouldn't mention the will until she knew for certain that she'd lose the house.

“What?” Elise, eyes spitting fire, laid the baby on her shoulder and patted her back. “I don't believe it!”

Joanna studied her fingernails, indifferent to the predicament of someone she'd never met.

Grace's eyes filled with disquiet. “Do you think he's guilty?”

That first day when Callie had asked Jacob if he'd steal from her, his jutting jaw attested that he'd found her question offensive. No wonder with the horror of being unjustly
jailed for theft. She sighed. He'd never appeared to care much about money. He might not be candid, might've kept his purposes to himself, but he had principles.

“He'd never steal,” she said and knew she spoke the truth. The man was innocent.

Elise's eyes snapped. “If you don't think he's guilty, how can you let him rot in jail?”

Dear sweet Elise, dramatic and loyal. “I won't let an innocent man be railroaded to prison,” Callie said firmly. Even if Jacob had stolen her house. And her heart. She rose. “I'm going to the jail. Make sure Hal gets off his duff and looks for the real culprit. After that, I'll try to convince Commodore to drop this ridiculous charge.”

Katie Marie gave a resounding belch, as if offering her displeasure at Jacob's treatment. “That's my girl,” Elise said, grinning at her baby as she tucked Katie into Martin's wicker baby carriage. “I'm coming with you.”

“Me, too,” Grace shoved back her chair and lumbered to her feet.

Joanna lifted downcast eyes. “I'll go, too.”

The women in this house knew the pain of being judged and convicted by a merciless town, yet had the courage to unite in Jacob's defense. Callie had never been prouder of anyone.

“On the way, we'll stop for Mildred. Hal had better be prepared. The women of Peaceful are on the march.”

Leaving the dishes and the oatmeal sticking to the pan—not Callie's way—she strode out the back door, the others bringing up the rear.

Up ahead, Commodore and Albert Thompson, the sheriff's deputy, headed into the lean-to. With her entourage behind her, Callie hurried toward them.

“We're here to search the lean-to, Callie,” Albert said. “Another set of eyes is—”

“A waste of time. Once you come up empty-handed, perhaps, Commodore, you'll drop this absurd charge against Jacob.”

“I never thought my son's widow would fall for a jailbird.”

Heat climbed Callie's neck. How dare Commodore use that hateful label for Jacob? “I haven't fallen for anyone.” Callie planted her palms on her hips. “Admit it. You're accusing Jacob of theft because he fixed up this house and thwarted your plan to force me to move in with you.”

Commodore harrumphed. “Think what you will. I knew every single person who came into my store yesterday.”

Joanna tugged her sleeve. “Shouldn't we get to the jail?”

Callie nodded, then turned back to Commodore. “You often work on accounts at your desk. You can't see everyone who enters your store.”

“I haven't run a successful business for years without keeping an eye on the clientele.”

Which said plenty about her father-in-law. “Don't you trust anyone?”

Commodore stared into space. “Not much in my life has given me reason to. Maybe I don't even trust myself.”

The air of despondency in his eyes pinged against Callie's heart. She took a step toward him but he turned away, avoiding her touch. “The deputy and I will be examining Smith's quarters with a fine-tooth comb.”

For a moment there, Callie had felt sorry for Commodore. But she wouldn't waste time arguing with a man whose compassion died with his son.

 

Sheriff Frederick didn't use a cattle prod or whip. His method of getting Jake to confess was far less painful, yet monotonous enough to threaten his sanity. But in an
attempt to conduct himself in a way that honored God, Jake bit his tongue. A tongue that was getting sore.

“Were you in the Mitchell Mercantile yesterday?” Frederick began again. “Yes.”

“What time was that?”

“Around eleven o'clock.”

“What were you doing there?”

“I told you, Sheriff. I went in to buy a work shirt.”

“Did you get that shirt?”

Jake exhaled. “You know I didn't.”

“Does it strike you as odd, Smith, that a man would go into a store for a purchase, find what he needed, yet leave without it? I've got to wonder if that man went in for something all right, but it wasn't a work shirt. And he didn't leave empty-handed.”

“For the fifteenth time—I didn't take the money.”

The door banged open. Callie led the way, a warrior leading the charge, her expression resolute, eyes blazing.

Jake had never seen her look more beautiful and been gladder to see anyone.

The sheriff rose to his feet. “Callie, you can't come in here during an interrogation.”

“You can't arrest a man based on his past.”

Callie had come to his defense, even if it hurt his pride that she hadn't declared him innocent. Her action gave Jake a smidgeon of optimism.

Frederick rubbed his neck. “Jake's under suspicion, that's all. No point getting riled up.”

“Why did you send Albert and Commodore out to search my lean-to?”

“Looking for evidence.”

Cradling Katie Marie in her arms, Elise came up behind Callie. Grace on one side of her, the new resident on the
other. The newcomer glanced at him, her eyes laden with guilt, but quickly looked away. He hadn't seen the woman take anything, but he had a feeling in his gut she'd taken that money. As soon as he could, he'd pull her aside and make her see the path she headed down was wrong.

Mildred came next, slower but no less spirited, if those narrowed eyes fixed on the sheriff meant anything. “Why's Jake in custody, Hal?”

“It's not exactly custody, Mildred. We're just talking.”

“No need to spend the night behind bars to talk.” She folded her arms. “What evidence do you have?”

“Two witnesses saw Smith leave the store in a hurry.”

Callie huffed. “A guilty man wouldn't draw attention to himself. Did you ask Jacob why he left?”

“Claims he noticed something that made him suspicious, but can't or won't say what it was.”

Mildred harrumphed. “Then we owe Jake our thanks.”

The sheriff snorted. “Mildred, a toddler could come up with a better excuse.”

“Hal Frederick, I diapered you more than once. Don't go getting uppity with me.”

Elise giggled. “You're outnumbered, Sheriff.”

Frederick's gaze swept the ladies, every one of them glaring at him. “You all need to settle down.”

These women had come to Jake's defense. He hoped he wouldn't make a fool of himself and cry. But he didn't like them worrying. “Don't fret. God will take care of it.”

Callie leaned toward him. “Did I hear you right?”

He shot her a smile. A smile she returned.

The sheriff motioned Jake to his feet. “Come with me. You're staying in that cell for as long as it takes to get to the truth.”

“I'm the one you want,” a soft voice said behind him.

Jake spun around to the speaker, the newcomer he'd seen in the store.

Callie put an arm around the girl. “Joanna, what are you saying?”

“I took the money.”

The room turned silent.

Joanna reached inside the cloak she wore, odd for a warm spring day, and pulled out a wad of bills, shoving them into the sheriff's hands. “It's all there, except for the price of a bowl of soup and a glass of milk. I'm sorry.” She laid an arm over the swell of her baby. “I was starving. The cash register drawer was open and I took it.”

Jake took Joanna's hand. “I understand desperation, being alone in the world with no one to turn to.” He glanced at the sheriff. “Ever known hunger, Sheriff? Ever seen it drive people to desperation?”

“Reckon I have.”

“The waitress at the café told me about the home for unwed mothers, where it was. Callie took me in without one question. She fed me, gave me a bed to sleep in. If I'd known people like Callie Mitchell existed, I never would've done something so desperate. So wrong.” Tears spilled down Joanna's face. “I was afraid to admit I took it. Afraid I'd have my baby in jail and they'd take it away.” She sobbed. “But I couldn't let someone else take the blame.”

Grace moved to her side. Soon all the women surrounded her.

Jake met the sheriff's eyes. “I'll pay the rest.”

The sheriff nodded at Jake, his face clearing. “Case closed. You're both free to go. Smith, with my apology.”

A surge of joy shot through Jake.
Thank You, God.

Callie smiled. “God did take care of it.”

Jake wanted to tell Callie he loved her. But he couldn't until he'd told her about his newfound faith. He'd taken a
long time to see that when a man didn't walk with God, he wasn't much of a man. At least not the kind of man God intended.

And he understood why. Faith gave believers more than a clean slate. It also gave them strength, wisdom, purpose.

His new purpose would be a legacy to his mother. Even if the only part Callie allowed him to play in helping unwed mothers was signing over his mother's house.

Pastor Steele appeared at the door.

Callie gasped. “Oh, goodness, with everything that's happened, I forgot all about our meeting this morning.”

“You folks feel free to come, too,” Pastor Steele said. “We'll be talking about ways to help Refuge of Redeeming Love.”

As Jake strode beside Callie on the way to the church, others questioned where they were headed, then joined the group until a crowd had formed. His imprisonment and the confession of the hungry newcomer swept through the throng. Some exchanged puzzled glances, more expressed doubts, a few grumbled about the riffraff invading the town. Obviously, everyone had an opinion and wanted their say. This was turning into a three-ring circus with Pastor Steele as the ringmaster.