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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.
As he waited for the milk to heat, he prepared a thick slice of bread and gathered up clean rags.
He heard Emma’s steps on the stairs as he carried his supplies back to the storeroom. The skin on the back of his neck prickled with tension, and he picked up his pace even though he doubted she’d follow him. He put the milk-soaked bread on the wound and wrapped it in place with a length of sheet. According to what he remembered Alyse saying, it had to be left until morning and by then would have drawn out the infection. If not, he would do it again. He would fight for the well-being of his young son. And he would not let someone interfere because they had an education that they thought gave them the right.
Jessie continued to glower at him. “You should have taken me to the doctor like Miss Emma said.”
Boothe finished pinning the cloth in place, giving himself time to calm his thoughts. He gently took Jessie’s shoulders and squeezed. “Jessie, don’t ever think you can turn yourself over to the care of a doctor or nurse and you’ll be safe. You must promise me to use your head and do what you need to look after yourself and those you care about.”
He waited for Jessie to agree but the boy only whimpered. Boothe didn’t like to press him when he was feeling poorly but this was too important to let go. “Jessie, you have to take care of yourself or let someone who loves you take care of you. Don’t trust strangers. You must promise me.”
“Okay, I promise.”
Boothe wondered if the boy understood, but he would be sure to repeat the warning time and again until Jessie had it firmly in his mind. He did not want to lose his son to a careless nurse or doctor concerned more with their medicines and diagnoses than with the patient. Alyse was not simply a patient. She had been his wife and Jessie’s mother.
He sponged Jessie until he seemed less restless. He would have done it without Emma’s instructions. He focused on Emma’s interference, hoping to keep his fear at bay. It was only a cut. Nothing out of the ordinary for a small boy. He himself had many scars to prove children endured cuts that healed sometimes without so much as being cleaned.
Yet Boothe had overreacted when Jessie ran into the nail on the side of the baggage cart. When he saw the deep tear in Jessie’s flesh, he’d roared at the innocent baggage handler. It had taken a long while for his inner turmoil to settle down, for his fears to subside.
Jessie was all he had left. He intended to protect him from danger and interference.
But now he had an infection and Boothe was powerless to fix it.
He felt inadequate trying to be both father and mother. He didn’t feel adequate as one parent, let alone trying to be both. But one thing he knew without a flicker of doubt—his son would not ever be subjected to the careless ministrations of a nurse or a doctor.
He let his anger, fear and frustration narrow down to Emma. Just because she was a nurse gave her no right to interfere in his life. Or Jessie’s. He’d warn her again to mind her own business. Surely there were enough people at the hospital wanting her help without her having to play nurse at home. Apart from having to sit at the same table for breakfast and supper, he could see no reason for the two of them to spend time together or even speak for that matter.
He sat at the bed until Jessie drifted off to sleep.
When Aunt Ada had admitted she hadn’t slept well because of her arthritis, he’d sent her to bed promising to make supper. He returned to the kitchen to fulfill his duty.
Emma stood at the table cleaning up the last of the potato peelings. She glanced up as he entered the room. “How is he?”
“Fine.”
“You might want to—”
“Stop. If I want your advice, I’ll ask. I want to make myself very clear here.” He stood at the doorway, his fists on his hips, and gave her his hardest look. “I don’t want your help looking after my child. I will see to his needs. Do you hear me?”
She quirked one disbelieving eyebrow. “Of course I hear you. But—”
He shook his head. “No buts. Stay away from Jessie and me. Find someone else to fix if you have such a need.”
Her eyes darkened like the approach of night. Her nostrils flared.
He waited, expecting an outburst, or perhaps a hot defense of her abilities.
But she swallowed hard and then blinked twice in rapid succession. “I am not trying to fix anyone, though I wish I had the ability. Believe me, many times a day, I wish I could.”
“So long as we understand each other.”
“Oh, I think we do, and I don’t think keeping out of your way is going to prove too difficult for me.”
Her gaze slid past him. He understood she thought of Jessie.
“Leave Jessie alone.”
Before Emma answered, before he could guess what the sudden flash in her eyes meant, Aunt Ada entered the room.
“It’s almost time to make supper.” She patted a yawn. “I can’t believe I slept so long.”
“The potatoes are ready to cook.” Emma headed for the door, obviously ready and anxious to get away from Boothe. “I’m going to run over to the Douglases.”
She left and Boothe turned his attention to supper preparations, slicing pork for frying, pouring applesauce from a jar into a bowl and generally, in his inept way, doing his best to help Aunt Ada.
The meal was almost ready when he heard Emma return. A tightness across his shoulders relaxed. For the past twenty minutes, he wondered if he’d offended her so badly she decided not to come back. Perhaps she would find somewhere else to live. It would prove a relief for him if she did but he knew Aunt Ada needed her boarders, and despite his personal dislike of Emma, she was, no doubt, the sort of boarder Aunt Ada preferred.
Emma slipped into her place at the far end of the table.
He glanced her way as he placed a bowl mounded with creamy mashed potatoes in the center of the table. He’d done a good job with them, if he did say so himself, though it had taken some direction from Aunt Ada.
He’d expected Emma to be subdued, even a bit sullen after the way he’d spoken to her, and the look of eager anticipation and excitement on her face made him narrow his eyes. Had she found somewhere else to live? Somewhere more welcoming? For Aunt Ada’s sake, he hoped not.
“Where’s Jessie?” Betty asked.
“He’s not feeling well. I’ve had to sponge him a couple of times to get his fever down.” He kept his voice firm to convince one and all he was competent to care for his son without medical interference.
Emma studied him soberly but offered no more advice.
The others murmured sympathy for the little boy.
Loretta, the old dear, offered her own solution. “The boy needs a good dose of salts. That will fix him up in a snap.”
Boothe almost laughed at the shock in Emma’s face. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Though he had no intention of doing such a thing.
Emma’s eyes flashed. She opened her mouth, but before she could speak, he shook his head ever so slightly, silently reminding her of his warning. She shut her mouth and fixed him with a deadly look.
He ducked to hide a smile. He almost enjoyed seeing her bristle.
Amidst the general discussion as people dug into the food, complimenting both he and Aunt Ada, Boothe stole several glances at Emma. Her anger at him had disappeared as quickly as it came, replaced with the same eagerness she’d had when she returned. He wondered what sparked the flashing light in her eyes and again hoped she wouldn’t decide to move out.
The food disappeared quickly. He helped Aunt Ada serve the butterscotch pudding she’d made earlier in the day. As everyone enjoyed the dessert, Emma leaned forward.
“Listen everyone,” she began.
Boothe waited for the announcement.
“I went to visit Pastor and Mrs. Douglas this afternoon. You all know how difficult things have been for them this year with Pastor Douglas recovering from a stroke.”
Boothe listened to the murmurs of acknowledgment. Was she going to move in with them?
