His Secret Daughter Page 4

  Per his agreement with Callie, he wouldn’t be here to celebrate Maisie’s third birthday or anything else. Perhaps if over the apple harvest Maisie learned to trust him again, he would be invited to return some day in the future. But he ached inside at how much he’d miss of his daughter’s life.

  The sound of laughter floated from outside. Straightening, he moved toward the bedroom window.

  Almost ready to wink out behind the ridge, the sun cast a golden hue on two figures in the meadow. Against the glowing backdrop of sunset, Callie’s hair seemed ablaze with a fiery light. She and the smaller form of Maisie waved.

  His heart constricted. For a fraction of a second, he imagined they waved at him. His pulse ratcheted. An indescribable joy flooded over him.

  The joy of mattering to someone. Of belonging to a family like the Jacksons, living and working in a beautiful place like the apple orchard. Having a woman like Callie love him.

  He spotted Nash at the corner of the barn.

  They were waving at Nash. The three of them—not him—belonged to each other. Tiffany’s actions had made it crystal clear that, as he’d always suspected, there was something inside Jake that just wasn’t lovable.

  Arms outstretched, Maisie surged toward her beloved Pop-Pop. Callie followed a pace behind, her hand trailing through the petals of late-summer wildflowers. And despite not belonging—never belonging—Jake’s heart caught in his throat. The sheer loveliness of her stirred something inside him.

  Surrounded by the mountains, God felt very near to Jake, and casting aside the fear, hope bloomed for the first time in a long while in his heart. An answer to a prayer he’d been too afraid to voice.

  Callie was his daughter’s heart—he saw it clearly now—as truly as Maisie’s heart belonged to Callie. With Callie’s help, he might yet earn the love of his daughter.

  And something else, too. He sensed that somehow he might’ve stumbled on to more than he had ever dreamed possible.

  Home.

  Chapter Four

  Over the next few days, the busy Labor Day weekend proved to be a crash course for Jake in learning about apple farming. He pushed himself, working hard to prove to the Jacksons their trust in him wasn’t misplaced.

  In less than three months, harvest would be over and he’d be on his way to Houston. That was the deal with Callie, and he meant to abide by it. The Jackson farm was where Maisie belonged. In the meantime, he longed to form a relationship with his daughter.

  Yet, despite Callie’s attempts to soften Maisie’s heart toward him, she hadn’t thawed. Instead, his daughter’s sky-blue eyes gazed at him with suspicion, and every day another piece of his hope died.

  He didn’t force her to interact with him, but he could feel her watching his every move. And if he accidentally got too close, she’d shrink into Callie or Nash. She refused to let him touch her. She wouldn’t talk to him.

  But he wanted to know everything about her world, so in the empty years to come he could picture her life in his head. The people she’d grow up with. The town. Her little friends. Everything. It was all he’d ever have of her, and he meant to make the most of it.

  So on Sunday, when Callie mentioned their routine included church, he asked to come, too. He could tell by the sudden light in Callie’s eyes that his decision pleased her.

  They rode together in Callie’s sedan. With her father at the wheel, Callie insisted Jake ride shotgun in the front. Just as well. Maisie wouldn’t want him sitting next to her in the back seat.

  “We’re always closed on Sunday mornings, but during apple season we open the store in the afternoon.” Nash veered into the small graveled parking lot on the outskirts of town.

  Nestled in a glade, the white-clapboard chapel made his heart skip a beat. The steeple brushed the picture-perfect autumn sky. After getting out of the car, he followed the Jacksons over the tiny footbridge spanning a small creek. Above the soft murmur of voices were sweet sounds of birdsong. He heard a sighing rustle in the color-splashed leaves and a burbling melody of rushing water over moss-covered stones.

  Jake hung back as many of their friends called out greetings. The Jacksons were well liked, and from the number of people stopping to speak to Maisie, she was a local favorite, too.

  He’d made the right choice in not taking Maisie with him that first day. Maisie would have a good life in Truelove, surrounded by family and friends who would nurture and care for her. Unlike Jake’s lonely childhood, Maisie’s would have a supportive network to guide her growing-up years.

  Maisie might even get married in this church one day. He stuck his hands in his pockets. Not that he’d be here to see it. Or be a part of one of the happiest days of her life.

  But he was grateful to the Jacksons for this opportunity to know her, if even a little. And, as he wended his way into the sanctuary, he was grateful to God for bringing him here.

  Callie carried Maisie into the foyer. “I need to drop Maisie off in the nursery, but I’ll be back.”

  With her mouth pursed, Maisie glared at him over Callie’s shoulder. Her hostility felt like a hundred barbed arrows in his chest. They disappeared through one of the doors flanking the pulpit.

  Nash did his best to introduce Jake to friends from Truelove. At first, there were a few angry looks levied at him, but Nash was careful to set the record straight about how Jake had just found out about his daughter.

  Assuring them that Maisie would continue living at Apple Valley Farm and that Jake was helping him with the harvest. Jake appreciated his efforts, recognizing it as Nash’s attempt to give an outsider an insider seal of approval.

  When the prelude music started, he and Nash took their places in one of the red-padded wooden pews. Peace permeated the chapel, and serenity—neither of which he’d had much experience with in his life.

  “The church is over two hundred years old,” Nash whispered. “Built by our Scots-Irish ancestors who came to the Appalachian Mountains on the Great Wagon Road before the American Revolution.”

  Huge hand-hewn beams soared above their heads. On the outside walls, stained-glass windows depicted Bible stories. Small brass plaques were mounted on the ends of pews. Many had the same family names as the people Nash had introduced him to earlier. A community of faith, a godly legacy and heritage. He was glad Maisie would have roots—something he’d never had.

  Mountain worship was casual. He glanced around the rapidly filling sanctuary. Most of the men were in jeans or khakis and dress shirts. No ties or suits, which was good. Jake had only one outfit that wasn’t jeans and work shirts—his army uniform. He’d put that life behind him for good in the hope of making a new life with his daughter, though that seemed a pipe dream now.

  Jake observed Callie quietly as she emerged once again through the connecting door. She wore a filmy russet blouse over her brown wraparound skirt. As she moved toward them, her tawny hair captured the glow from the lit candles on the wooden altar.

  He shifted for Callie to squeeze by him, but Nash scooted across the pew, leaving Callie no choice other than to sit between them.

  Red splotches peppered her cheeks as she sank down beside Jake. And his stomach belly flopped as a scent of vanilla and cinnamon wafted past his nostrils in her wake.

  A pucker formed in the bridge of her forehead. She bit her lip. Maisie wasn’t the only one he unintentionally made uncomfortable. He wished he understood what it was he did or said that upset Callie. He’d promised her he wouldn’t take Maisie, but maybe she didn’t believe him or was afraid he’d change his mind.

  More likely, she just didn’t like him, influenced by what Tiffany had told her about him. There was probably nothing he could do to change Callie’s opinion of him. Her feelings about him a foregone conclusion long before they ever met.

  His stomach churned. If only he could somehow prove to Callie he could be trusted. Though why it mattered, h
e wasn’t sure. In three months, he’d never see her again. Maisie, either.

  Thereafter, his interactions with Callie would be confined to bank drafts for Maisie’s needs, Christmas cards or a few emails with attached photos.

  But Callie’s discomfort in his presence bothered him. He liked and admired her, and the fact that she didn’t feel the same about him saddened him.

  At the front of the church, a young woman stepped onto the dais. She called out a page number, and a general fumbling for hymnbooks broke out in the pews around Jake.

  There were two hymnals in the rack in their section. Nash’s and Callie’s hands grabbed for the same one. Nash jerked his chin in Jake’s direction. Callie’s eyes flashed. A brief tug-of-war ensued between her and her father for control of the hymnal.

  Her father won. Nash proceeded to share the hymnal with a pretty woman about his age in hospital scrubs on his left.

  That left only one hymnal remaining in the rack—one hymnal for his daughter and Jake to share. Stomach knotting, Jake stood next to Callie and chewed the inside of his cheek.

  On the platform, the young woman lifted what Jake believed the people in Truelove would call a fiddle, tucking it under her chin. Drawing the bow across the string, she started the congregation on the first verse.

  The tune was simple enough. The lilting quality of the song reminded him of the creek outside the church. Yet, he and Callie remained frozen in place.

  An older lady across the aisle stopped singing, rubbernecking him and Callie. Craning their necks, two other women beside her also gawked. Bristling, Callie pushed the green-bound volume at Jake.

  He shook his head. “I don’t sing,” he rasped.

  Lips pressed tightly together, she thumbed through the pages until she found the right number. Without a word, she nudged the hymnal at him again.

  The page fluttered. Her hand hung awkwardly between them, suspended in midair. Brows lowered, she just looked at him.

  Hoping to alleviate the embarrassment he’d inadvertently caused, he hefted his share of the hymnal in his hand. She skimmed the words, and with her index finger, she pointed to a line in the second verse.

  So what else could he do? The melody wasn’t hard. The music flowed over him.

  But to read the words, he was forced to stand even closer to Callie. It made his pulse race to be so near her. His breath caught. His heart hammered.

  Their sleeves touching, he was surprised—agreeably so—when she didn’t shift away. Maybe she was getting not to mind him so much?

  Like most of the people singing with gusto all around him, she didn’t seem to need the words. Singing in a strong, clear contralto, she hardly glanced at the page.

  The stirring words about love and mercy reflected in her brown eyes and on the faces of the other worshippers. He wasn’t sure what to make of the church and these people. Until Callie had surprised him by asking him to stay for a while, he’d experienced little of either love or mercy in his life.

  A while, the part he couldn’t afford to forget. He strengthened his grip on the hymnal. This wasn’t meant to last forever. Nothing good ever did.

  The lady fiddler ended the song with a final flourish of her bow. The last note hung high and clear, quivering with sudden stillness in the rafters above their heads.

  Taking the book out of his hands, Callie replaced it in the rack, and following her lead, he sat down.

  When the reverend Bryant called the congregation to pray, Jake glanced around at the bowed heads before bending his own. Blond, brown, gray and variations on a theme of red. He bit off a smile, thinking of Callie. A lot of red was sprinkled throughout the mountain congregation.

  Shutting his eyes, Jake allowed the pastor’s words of peace to wash over him. Reverend Bryant talked to God like He was right there beside him, like talking to a friend. As natural as breathing, Nash and Callie did the same when they said a prayer of blessing over mealtimes.

  Was God really that close? Close enough to hear? Or was that kind of relationship reserved for good people like the Jacksons? Like the people in the pews?

  Could God ever want to hear from somebody like him? Jake gulped past the mountain-size knot in his throat as the pastor ended the prayer.

  The sermon wasn’t what Jake expected or wanted to hear.

  Reverend Bryant gripped both sides of the pulpit. “Forgive as you want to be forgiven.”

  He settled his shoulders against the pew, folding his arms across his chest. Forgive his brutal father for a miserable childhood? Forgive the one person who was supposed to love him the most—his mother—for abandoning him? For leaving him behind? For betraying him?

  Unfolding his arms, he fisted his hands beside his legs on the pew. Not likely he’d forgive what Tiffany had done—robbing Jake of a future with his daughter.

  If God expected him to forgive his so-called wife for walking out on him and taking his child with her, God and he weren’t ever likely to get any better acquainted.

  All that forgiveness talk might be fine for the mountain people in Truelove. But what did any of them know about what he’d gone through, what he’d suffered? Let them talk about forgiveness when they’d been through what he’d endured.

  He unfisted his hands. Yet, Callie had forgiven Jake and given him a second chance. He knew Christian people set a great store on forgiveness, but where Jake had come from, forgiveness was almost an alien concept.

  Still, was that where he needed to start if he had any hope of putting his life back together? Forgiving Tiffany. Seriously, God?

  Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his thighs and laced his hands together. What about the rest of his life post-Maisie? After November, once again Jake would have no one.

  Except for God. A startling realization. God might prove to be the one being Jake could take with him. The one being who would never leave Jake.

  If—a big if—he could trust God not to let him down the way everyone else in Jake’s existence had. He’d think more on this forgiveness stuff later. Sort through the confusing tangle of emotions within himself that he didn’t understand.

  When the preacher called the congregation to sing the final hymn, lost in thought, it took Jake a second longer than the rest of the church to respond. He scrambled to his feet.

  “Here.” Callie thrust his half of the hymnbook at him.

  Jake reddened.

  At the final “Amen” she pushed past him, stumbling into the aisle, leaving him and the hymnal hanging. Making it as plain as an apple-crisp mountain day, that Callie Jackson could barely tolerate his presence.

  Like his mother. Like Tiffany. Like God?

  Proving once again how easy he was to walk away from.

  * * *

  She’d made a right fool of herself, tumbling out of the pew and staggering down the aisle. She had to get to Maisie, to safety.

  Her cheeks felt on fire as she hurried toward the nursery.

  But standing so close to Jake McAbee...breathing in the clean, woodsy scent of him. Despite what he’d said, his voice was a pleasing if rusty baritone, rising alongside hers. Blending together as if one, as if right where he...she...they belonged.

  Her heart whispered that she needed to tell him the truth, but she couldn’t do that. Revealing Tiff’s secret—what she’d asked Callie to never tell Jake—would bring dire consequences.

  She practically ran down the church corridor, running from self-recrimination and one incontrovertible truth. Her insistence on keeping Maisie close to her heart was breaking Jake McAbee’s. Even worse, God’s, too?

  Approaching the nursery, she came to an abrupt halt. With her hand to her throat, she pressed her shoulder blades against the smoothness of the wall. She had to stop this. Stop second-guessing herself. Stop this rush of tenderness toward Maisie’s father.

  She squeezed her eyes shut.

&nb
sp; Every time she got within ten feet of the rugged ex-soldier, her feelings became as tangled as kudzu. He confused her, flustered her, derailed her from her original purpose.

  Jake McAbee made her feel things she’d believed she’d never feel. Feelings that belonged to other people. Not for someone with a child to raise and an apple orchard to run. Impossible feelings for someone keeping secrets.

  And yet, when he looked at her...

  Swallowing, she poked her head into the nursery.

  Catching sight of Callie through the open half door, Maisie’s face lit up. “Cawee!” Knocking over the pile of blocks, Maisie scrambled to her feet.

  Her heart quickened with a torrent of nearly overwhelming love. She must put aside these nagging doubts and take the long perspective. She was doing the right thing for Maisie, for all of them.

  Wasn’t she?

  “Hey, sweetie pie.” Maneuvering through the childproof lock on the doorknob, she swept the little girl into her arms. “Thank you!” she called out to the married couple on nursery duty today.

  “Wunch?”

  Striding out the side entrance of the church, Callie repositioned Maisie on her hip. She couldn’t bear to think of the day when Maisie would get too heavy for her to carry. But now that Maisie was potty trained, at least there were no more diaper bags to tote.

  Callie hurried down the wooden ramp. “We’ll have lunch soon as we get home, sweet girl. Then a nap.” The teenagers she hired on the weekends would man the store.

  Maisie scowled. “No cwib. Big-gull bed. No nap May-zee.”

  Sighing, she readjusted Maisie’s weight. “But BooWoo is probably tired, don’t you think?”

  Maisie’s gaze lifted. “BooWoo?”

  The suede, gray-striped stuffed tabby cat Maisie had been attached to since infancy.

  Callie tilted her head. “Maybe you could help BooWoo fall asleep?”

  Maisie nodded. “Big-gull hep.” She jabbed her thumb into her chest.

  Callie smiled. “That’s right. You are a big girl. My snuggly, wuggly big girl.” She tickled Maisie’s tummy.