The Path To Her Heart

Emma paused before the front door of the boardinghouse. She would not drag her frustration and sorrow into the house. Lord, take my concerns and replace them with Your peace. She waited until she had a sense of God’s comforting arms about her then stepped inside.

From the kitchen came the sound of Jessie’s crackling voice, high with some protest and Boothe’s lower, calmer response.

As Emma headed for the stairs, she could hear the conversation more clearly.

“Daddy, I want to go home.” The irritable note in Jessie’s voice alerted Emma’s instincts.

“This is home now.” Boothe explained in gentle tones with just an edge of impatience.

Emma smiled, guessing this conversation had gone on for some time and Boothe had about reached the end of his rope.

“I don’t like it here.” No mistaking Jessie’s stubbornness. “I don’t like the school. I don’t like anything.” She heard a small thump, as if Jessie kicked something.

Emma hesitated part way up the stairs, curious to know how Boothe would handle this.

“You’ll learn to like it. You’ll learn to be happy.”

“No. I won’t.”

Emma tilted her head toward the kitchen. Obviously, Jessie was finding the transition difficult, but it sounded like more than that. He sounded like a child who wasn’t feeling well.

She wanted to check on him, but Boothe had made it doubly clear he would tolerate no interference with his son, yet she could simply not ignore the needs of a sick child. Remembering the young man at the hospital, remembering an earlier time when she’d failed to intervene, she spared a moment to pray for wisdom then headed back down the stairs and into the kitchen, not giving herself a chance to change her mind.

Boothe peeled potatoes. He gave her a brief glance, his mouth set in a tight line. “Aunt Ada’s resting.”

Jessie sat at the other end of the table, a book before him.

Emma took a few more steps into the room so she could see Jessie better. He glanced at her, his mouth pulled back in an angry frown, his hair mussed as if he’d been pushing it back in frustration. There was no mistaking the glassy look in his eyes.

“Hello,” he murmured, his voice croaky as if it took effort to get the word out.

Emma itched to press her palm to his forehead, but she didn’t need to touch him to know he ran a fever. She turned to Boothe, undaunted by his glower. “Your son is sick. You need to look after him.”

Jessie jumped from his chair. “I want to go home,” he wailed and raced for the storeroom where they slept.

Boothe’s mouth pulled down into a fierce scowl. “I warned you to stay out of my affairs.”

“Strictly speaking, you said not to interfere with your son, but I can’t stand by and see him needing medical attention and not getting it. I’ve seen enough needless suffering for one day.” She stopped short of providing any details from the hospital. “Your son has a fever. You should attend to him. I’ll finish the potatoes as soon as I’ve changed.”

His eyes darkened with anger, but she met his gaze boldly, unflinchingly. They looked at each other a long time. She felt as if they dueled with unseen weapons. She would not let him win this silent war. This was not about him proving he didn’t need the help of a nurse. This was about a sick little boy needing care. She would not back down and let Jessie or anyone suffer needlessly.

Muttering under his breath about interfering women and controlling nurses, he tossed the paring knife on the table and strode after Jessie.

She called after him. “You might want to sponge him with cool water to lower the fever. And check his cut. If it looks infected, try an old-fashioned remedy like a bread poultice.”

She waited to hear Boothe murmur to Jessie. The shrill whine of Jessie’s answer sent skitters of alarm up her spine. She hoped home remedies would be enough.

Guessing Boothe might not want to return to the kitchen until she left, and knowing he needed to get water to sponge Jessie and probably prepare a poultice, she headed to her room to change into a warm sweater and skirt.

A wave of discouragement swept over her and she fell to her knees. God, I can’t stand to see so much suffering because of ignorance or stupidity. And it’s difficult for me to stand by when I see Jessie needing attention. He’s such a sweet boy and is dealing with so much. Heal his cut. Heal their inner hurts. She didn’t question that she meant both Jessie and his father in her last request.

Chapter Four

Boothe fumed at Emma’s insinuation that he didn’t know how to care for his son. He might not be as quick to figure out medical needs as she was, but even before her comment, he realized Jessie wasn’t just whining because of the move and a new school, though Boothe figured it was more than enough reason to cause the boy to fuss.

He paused outside the storeroom, pulling his angry thoughts into submission before he faced his son.

Jessie lay face down on his bed, sobbing.

Boothe shifted Jessie and perched on the edge of the cot beside him. He rubbed Jessie’s back. “I’m sorry things are so hard right now, but I promise they’ll get better.”

Jessie scrunched away making it plain he cared little for Boothe’s promise.

Boothe swept his hand over Jessie’s forehead. It did seem warmer than normal. He checked under Jessie’s shirt. Again, the boy seemed a bit too warm. “Jessie, I need to check your arm.”

Jessie wailed and drew into a ball, pressing a hand to his shoulder as if to prevent Boothe from touching him.

“I have to look at it.”

“Leave me alone.” Jessie turned his tear-streaked face to Boothe. “I don’t want you. I want Auntie Vera.”

Boothe’s heart stalled as the words pierced his soul. He pulled his hand back and ground his fist into his thigh as if he could force his mind to shift to the pain in his leg. Jessie had no idea how his words hurt, how losing his son’s love to Vera and Luke seemed like the final injustice in a list of unexpected, undeserved tragedies.

Ignoring his son’s resistance, he turned him to his back. “Do you want to take off your shirt or do you want me to?”

“No.”

“I won’t hurt you.” He unbuttoned the shirt.

“Owwwww.”

Boothe ignored the pathetic pleas and sat Jessie up to remove the shirt and lower the top half of the long underwear. He gently touched the arm on either side of the dressing, but he couldn’t tell if it seemed unduly warm.

“I have to take off the bandage.”

Jessie batted at Boothe’s hands. “Don’t touch it.”

“I have to.” He began to unwrap the cloth.

When Jessie realized his protests wouldn’t stop Boothe, he settled back and glowered. “You don’t care if it hurts.”

“Son, I don’t want to hurt you. You know that. But if your cut is infected, it has to be treated.”

“You don’t care.”

Boothe’s eyes narrowed as he pulled off the pad of cloth and saw the reddened edges of the wound. “I’ll have to put a poultice on this.” He didn’t need Emma to tell him what to do. He knew about poultices because Alyse had put one on his leg when he tore it on barbwire. She’d ignored his protest that it would heal just fine left alone. Silently he thanked her for insisting; otherwise he would not know how to treat their son now.

He tilted his head toward the kitchen and when he determined it was quiet, hurried in and put a small pot of milk on the stove. He had no desire to see Emma or listen to her unwanted advice. Knowing she was a nurse who played with people’s lives made his tongue curl with a bitter taste.