His Secret Daughter Page 6

  Tying Maisie’s plastic bib behind her neck, Callie’s father finished with a quick peck on her cheek. Maisie giggled. Jake tried to keep his face expressionless—a defense mechanism?—but Maisie’s affection for Pop-Pop, in contrast to how she felt about her own father, must tear him apart inside. Bringing the other glasses to the table, Jake sat down.

  Meals must be both a joy and a tremendous sorrow for him, she realized. Maybe all of this was for naught anyway. Maybe she should just—

  She gave herself a shake.

  If she came clean with her doubts, he might walk away from Maisie for good, which was not something she was willing to risk. There were other factors to consider.

  She’d promised to always keep Maisie safe. Her “deal” with Jake seemed the only way to ensure that. Though like the deal she’d made with Tiff, she was starting to get sick of that word.

  Callie’s father cleared his throat. “Let’s thank God for this wonderful meal.”

  Maisie steepled her small hands.

  Callie took a deep breath. She had to stay the course. History would not repeat itself—not while she had breath in her body.

  Because the alternative...? Her appetite suddenly gone, she cut her eyes to Jake’s bowed head. The alternative—that Jake would never again be a part of their lives—was unthinkable.

  Chapter Six

  With apple season well underway, Jake worked from dawn till dusk every day. Actually, later than that, because each evening he and Nash returned to the shed beside the cooler to grade the newly picked apples to sell at the store the next day.

  September had come and gone, and he’d learned a lot about the orchard business. Ninety percent of Nash’s crop was sold retail to the general public. Harvest months from Labor Day to mid-November were crucial in earning their yearly income and keeping the orchard afloat financially. Only 10 percent of the crop was sold to wholesalers to be processed into applesauce, cider or baby food.

  There were much larger orchards around Truelove, but this was a family-owned, family-run operation. And Nash liked it that way. Jake, too. The Jacksons had as much business as they could handle—enough to keep them on the land their ancestors had farmed for centuries.

  It surprised Jake how much he enjoyed the slower pace of life in the country. The satisfying connection he felt to the soil. The joy of working with his hands.

  Despite his rough childhood, combat and Tiffany, he was a simple man. Or perhaps it was because of those things that he had simple tastes.

  Simple pleasures. Easily pleased for the most part. It didn’t take much. He’d learned to never expect much. Safer that way. Less disillusionment.

  Up with the birds each morning, Jake didn’t mind. Callie made sure no one went hungry. He’d never worked harder; he’d never been happier.

  Except for Maisie’s continuing hostility.

  But he couldn’t dwell on that. Like a plow horse, he just did the work in front of him that day—mowing the rows between the trees, fixing equipment. Whatever the orchard required. Jake liked how each day’s challenges were different.

  Nash taught him how to tell when the apples were ready to be harvested. Climbing the narrow-at-the-top tripod ladder leaning against a tree, Jake would place apple after apple into the pick bag as he worked.

  The army had seen he kept fit, but after climbing ladders all day, he’d discovered muscles—sore muscles—he’d never known he had.

  “Preschool group due ’bout ten this morning.” Nash adjusted the brim of his John Deere ball cap. “A perfect day to visit the orchard.”

  Every day, in Jake’s opinion, was a perfect day to be at the orchard. But he knew what Nash meant. Mornings now possessed an apple-crunch crispness. The early-October sun still warmed the afternoons, but by nightfall the mountain air bathed the orchard valley with a cold clarity.

  Jake stepped off the last rung of the aluminum ladder onto the ground. “The tractor and the wagon are ready to go.” With the padded strap of the pick bag slung over his shoulder, he strode toward the wooden bin.

  He and Nash had already been working for a few hours. Callie, too. First, dropping off Maisie to two-year-old preschool and then getting the kitchen at the Apple House ready for customers.

  Gently—like Nash had taught him—Jake unloaded the bag of apples into the bin so as not to bruise them.

  “Where most of the apples are lost,” Nash had told him early in the harvest. “Can’t sell them to the public then. Good for nothing but pie.”

  Power of suggestion?

  Catching a whiff of baked apples, Jake straightened. He shaded his hand over his eyes. In every direction, leafed out, heavily laden apple trees covered the orchard. Over the hill near the road lay the shed, the cooler building and the Apple House with its tantalizing scents. Behind Jake, over another hill, stood the meadow, house and barn.

  Hand in his overalls pocket, Nash jingled his keys. “That’s it for this load.”

  Jake’s stomach rumbled.

  Nash grinned. “The ladies at the Apple House will be glad to get you a snack before the ankle biters arrive. I’ll be there myself directly.”

  Jake lifted the strap over his head and off his shoulder. “I’ll go fat with all the food those ladies push at me.”

  Nash headed toward the forklift. “No chance of that.” He winked as he climbed aboard the tractor. “Working you too hard for that to happen.”

  “I’m not complaining,” Jake called up to him.

  Nash reached over to switch on the engine. “Best worker I’ve ever had. I’ve got no complaints about you, son.”

  Son. Not something Jake had ever been called before. The names he’d been called had usually come in the aftermath of a fist to the face. But if he could’ve selected a father for himself, someone like Nash Jackson would’ve topped the list.

  Nash rolled the tractor forward. The tines of the forklift caught the wooden pallet beneath the bin, hoisting it into the air. With a shift of gears, the tractor lurched away toward the cooler.

  Jake would sort the bin tonight. Unless, of course, the store ran out of apples. Then he would find himself doing a quick grading to restock the crates.

  Pink Ladies, Nash called the variety on this particular row of trees. “Best eating apples,” Nash had said. “In my humble, but expert, opinion.”

  Speaking of eating? His stomach making itself felt again, Jake headed toward the rise. The exercise would do him good.

  Right before he consumed yet another apple cider doughnut. Or three. He smiled, enjoying the sunshine on his face.

  The parking lot was semifull, with more vehicles pulling off the secondary road. Across the road the blue smoke, for which the Blue Ridge was aptly named, hung over the mountain.

  He slipped through the back door of the Apple House. Filled with mouthwatering aromas, the commercial kitchen bustled with local women. The seasonal baking crew worked morning or afternoon shifts, helping the Jacksons during apple season. As he’d discovered, it did take a village to work apple season.

  “Jake.”

  He scraped his boots on the mat. “Miss GeorgeAnne.”

  GeorgeAnne Allen owned the hardware store in town. With her tall, solid frame and short-cropped iron-gray hair, she could hold her own in any discussion involving farming. And for some inexplicable reason, she’d taken a shine to him—Nash’s observation.

  Jake wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing or not.

  Miss GeorgeAnne lifted the rack of fried doughnuts out of the vat. “Saved you some from the previous batch. Not so hot as these. Ready to eat.”

  Gruff as usual, she nudged her squared-off jaw toward the stainless-steel table. Reverend Bryant’s wife was boxing cinnamon-powdered doughnuts for a customer waiting beyond the open partition at the front counter.

  His lips twitched. “Going like hotcakes, I mean, doughnuts,
huh?”

  Miss GeorgeAnne quirked an eyebrow, her lips pursing in what Jake had come to believe passed for a smile.

  He shuffled over, snagging two doughnuts. “I appreciate you looking out for me, Miss GeorgeAnne.” He bit into a doughnut and closed his eyes, savoring the flavors on his tongue.

  “Apple, cinnamon and brown sugar...” She handed him a napkin.

  He wiped his mouth, feeling like a schoolkid. But it wasn’t just him. The matchmaker ladies, he’d noticed, had that effect on everyone.

  “What home should taste like.”

  He looked away toward the front of the store, unable to meet her gaze. “Yes, ma’am.” Though, until he came to Apple Valley Farm, this was not something he’d understood.

  She checked the oven, watching the pies bake through the glass-fronted door and giving him time to recover himself. Not overly given to sentiment herself, Miss GeorgeAnne was good about stuff like that.

  Though semiretired, GeorgeAnne drove her family crazy at the hardware store in Truelove, according to Callie. And—Callie’s lips had twitched when she told him—GeorgeAnne’s family reckoned the Jacksons were doing them a favor by allowing her to work over here five mornings a week for the duration of harvest.

  Jake polished off the last doughnut and under her eagle-eyed scrutiny made sure he wiped his hands. “Callie gone to drop off Maisie?”

  Her mouth puckering, Miss GeorgeAnne’s focus strayed to one of the new ladies who wasn’t rolling the batch of doughnuts to her satisfaction. GeorgeAnne ran a tight ship.

  “Out front.” She waved him off. “Take a few more to tide you over till lunch.” GeorgeAnne marched forward to harangue the hapless church lady. He’d been dismissed.

  Taking her at her word, he grabbed a couple more doughnuts and ventured into the public area of the store.

  Never-met-a-stranger ErmaJean rang up a customer’s order. “We’re open daily this time of year from eight thirty to six. On Sundays, though, we open at one.”

  Coffee burbled in the pot on the warmer. There were apple fritters in the display case, and bagged fresh loaves of pumpkin and apple bread on the shelves. On ice, cider jugs were encased in the large aluminum tub. Hay bales, scarecrows and fake autumn leaf garlands galore ensured no one forgot the season. But no Callie.

  Miss ErmaJean Hicks, as apple round as GeorgeAnne was spare, sidled over to Jake. “So wonderful the way you’re helping the Jacksons since Nash isn’t quite himself yet.”

  Jake edged toward the entrance.

  “Such an asset you’d be—long-term—” he inched closer to escape “—as a son-in-law—”

  Nearly there...

  Maybe Callie was outside helping customers select apples from the raised green-painted wooden stand. Yep. He eased out onto the open-fronted market, content to watch her for a moment. With that lovely auburn hair of hers, it never took more than a second for his eyes to pick her out of a crowd.

  She didn’t see him leaning against the door frame, eating another doughnut. He really needed to get a handle on eating doughnuts, though over the course of a day he more than worked it off. Only a temporary problem, since he would be moving on after harvest season.

  He grimaced. It was not a thought that brought comfort, almost putting him off his appetite for the final bite. But that didn’t stop him from popping the last bite into his mouth. Okay, no more today. Who was he kidding? Tomorrow he’d just switch to the fritters.

  “Granny Smiths make the best pies.” Callie placed the last apple into the white bag. She handed the peck of apples to the young couple. “But while you’re driving the parkway, you might want to buy a pie to take to your rental cabin.”

  The young man grinned. “Or two.”

  Leaf peepers. That was what locals called the tourists who arrived in droves this time of year to see the colorful display of autumnal splendor from the Blue Ridge Parkway vistas.

  “Right through the door, Miss ErmaJean will get you those pies.” For the first time, she noticed Jake standing there.

  Blushing, her smile faltered, but she was an old hand at closing a deal. “Take some cider with you, too. Squeezed fresh. Tall glass, frosted with ice chips? Thirst-quenching. Best beverage in the world.”

  He moved aside to let the couple pass through. Skittish as a barnyard cat, Callie shifted around to the other side of the crate. Callie Jackson confused him.

  Sometimes she acted like they could be the best of friends, and then other times like she couldn’t stand to be around him. He wished she didn’t dislike him so much.

  Callie rearranged a row of Fuji apples and rearranged them some more. A methodical, if manic, orchard version of the shell game.

  “You got Maisie off to preschool, I guess?”

  Wrong question.

  Her chin came up. “If you’re implying that I’m farming her out—”

  Palms raised, he retreated a step. “I wasn’t—”

  “Because this is the first year we’ve ever sent her to the church program.” Her eyes flashed. “Only two mornings a week. Because it gets so busy here this time of year.”

  “You’re run off your feet.”

  She folded her arms across her beige cable-knit sweater. “It’s a safety hazard. Maisie could get hurt around the hot kitchen equipment. It gives me two mornings a week to at least make sure the Apple House is running smoothly. It wasn’t so hard before when she was smaller, but now...”

  “Now Maisie’s a big girl and harder to contain. I understand, Callie.” He took a tentative step in her direction. “It’s no big deal.”

  She glared at him another moment as if she wasn’t sure he wasn’t going to yet criticize her parenting skills. When he didn’t say anything, she deflated a notch. “And I worried Maisie wasn’t getting enough interaction with other children out here on the farm with only the trees and bluebirds for company.”

  He cocked his head. “Don’t forget BooWoo.”

  She laughed before she caught herself, and she let her defensive posture drop. “Right.” Maisie wouldn’t sleep without her little stuffed cat.

  He smiled.

  Grin fading, Callie backed away from him. Somehow he’d managed to put his foot in it again. They both turned as a caravan of vehicles pulled in to the lot.

  She put more distance between them. “The preschoolers are here.”

  His gut clenched. She really disliked him.

  An assortment of women and kids piled out of the SUVs.

  “I guess I’m on.” He lifted his ball cap, swiping his arm across his forehead before settling it again on his head.

  A vein in the hollow of her throat jumping, Callie stared at him.

  “What?”

  She startled. “Nothing.” She played with the tiny gold apple dangling from a chain around her neck.

  “Do I have dirt on my face? Or just afraid my ugly mug will scare the kids?”

  “Your face isn’t...” She traced the toe of her sneaker in the gravel. “Not at all, I mean...” She wiped her hands down the sides of her jeans. “Your hair.”

  He frowned. “What about my hair?”

  “It’s growing out—” She clamped her lips shut. “Oh, look who’s here for her first big-girl field trip.” Eyes wide, Callie hurtled past him.

  Miss IdaLee and his daughter emerged from a silver sedan.

  “Cawee!” Maisie rushed forward to embrace Callie’s knees.

  Sometimes it hurt Jake to look at his daughter. To see how exuberant her love was for everyone but him. Perhaps the same thing occurred to Callie, because she glanced over to him, her eyes flickering.

  He cleared his throat. “I didn’t realize it was Maisie’s class scheduled for the orchard tour today.” He inclined his head toward IdaLee. “Ma’am.”

  IdaLee Moore, he’d learned, was the oldest of the Truelove matchmakers. V
ery petite. But he’d not realized she was also Maisie’s preschool teacher.

  As if reading his mind, Callie brought Maisie over to him. “On Tuesdays and Thursdays, Miss IdaLee works afternoons at the Apple House. So she brings Maisie home from school, saving us a trip to town.”

  Maisie pretended he wasn’t there. A skill she’d taken to an art form.

  “Little early today.” In her sensible black teacher shoes and wool skirt, IdaLee glided after them. “Taught most of the county in either Sunday school or elementary school before I retired.”

  White hair glinting in the sun, she patted Maisie’s back. With her head tucked into Callie’s shoulder, Maisie smiled shyly at her teacher.

  Jake tried not to wince at yet another reminder that Maisie was okay with everyone in the universe touching her; everyone except him.

  Miss IdaLee wasn’t as fragile as she looked, however. In the blink of an eye, she had the rest of her charges corralled with detailed instructions about her expectations for behavior. And she wasn’t only talking to the children. Callie set Maisie on her feet.

  With the moms properly subdued, IdaLee cast a critical eye over her ragtag group of two-year-olds exclaiming over the red, green and yellow apples in the bins. “It’ll take all of us to oversee this crowd.”

  She angled to Jake. “You may ready the wagon. We’ll meet you momentarily.” Her attention snapped to one of the moms. “Lacey Miller, once upon an apple, I seem to remember having a word with you about that very same thing...” Her bony finger pointed at the little boy scooping handfuls of gravel into his fists.

  The mother scurried over to control her son. The army could’ve learned a thing or two from Miss IdaLee. Jake wiped the smile off his face before IdaLee turned on him. A scuffle broke out between two children at the stand.

  Callie threw him a desperate glance. Please, take me with you, she mouthed over Miss IdaLee’s diminutive head.

  But laughing—quietly—he got out while the getting was good.

  Getting the hayride ready for them, Jake watched the proceedings, gratefully, from afar. He liked kids, but in smaller numbers. To his reckoning, a dozen at once qualified as a baptism by fire.