“I’m going to lose Jessie,” Boothe said. “My brother and sister-in-law want to adopt him.”

Emma couldn’t let that happen. But how could she prevent it?

Emma considered his offer of marriage, the impossibility of accepting him. And yet…To think of being Boothe’s wife. A chance to be loved and cherished…But his proposal had nothing to do with love. He only wanted a mother for Jessie.

“I fear I’m going to lose my son.” Boothe’s words were dark with despair. “I’m begging you, Emma, marry me. Help me keep my son.”

“I can’t. I wish I could.”

“Unless…perhaps we can pretend to be engaged until after the court date. If the judge thinks I’m to marry, he might rule in my favor. Then we can go our separate ways.”

Emma stared at him in shock. “A pretend engagement?”

“Sure. You think we could pretend to be in love for a few weeks?”

If only he guessed how easy it would be for her….

LINDA FORD

shares her life with her rancher husband, a grown son, a live-in client she provides care for, and a yappy parrot. She and her husband raised a family of fourteen children, ten adopted, providing her with plenty of opportunity to experience God’s love and faithfulness. They had their share of adventures as well. Taking twelve kids in a motorhome on a three thousand mile road trip would be high on the list. They live in Alberta, Canada, close enough to the Rockies to admire them every day. She enjoys writing stories that reveal God’s wondrous love through the lives of her characters.

Linda enjoys hearing from readers. Contact her at linda@lindaford.org or check out her Web site at www.lindaford.org, where you can also catch her blog, which often carries glimpses of both her writing activities and family life.

Linda Ford
The Path To Her Heart

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Jesus Christ the same yesterday, and to day, and for ever.

—Hebrews 13:8

To my friend, Alma, who has always been such a

faithful encourager in my faith walk.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

Questions for Discussion

Chapter One

Favor, South Dakota

1934

They represented all she wanted.

They were everything she could never have.

The pair caught twenty-four-year-old Emma Spencer’s attention as she made her way home. The way the tall man bent to the sweet little boy at his side, the tenderness in his gesture as he adjusted the child’s hat and straightened his tweed coat brought a sting of unexpected tears to her eyes.

The child said something, and the man squatted to eye level, took the boy’s chin between long fingers and smiled as he answered. Even from where she stood, Emma could see strong and assuring depths in his dark eyes. Then he straightened, his expression determined, and stared across the street.

Emma ducked, afraid he’d notice her interest and think her unduly curious. But she couldn’t resist a guarded look at the pair.

The boy took the man’s hand. The man picked up a battered suitcase and they continued on.

Emma’s throat closed so tightly that she struggled to breathe. An ache as wide as the Dakota prairies sucked at her thoughts. Just a few steps away, across the wind-swept, dusty street, stood the embodiment of all she longed for—a strong, caring man and a dear little child. She mentally shook herself. Although it was not to be, she had no reason to begrudge the fact. She loved being a nurse. She loved helping people. Most of all, she had a responsibility to her parents and brother, struggling to survive the drought and Depression on the farm back home. They depended on the money she sent from her wages each month. She thought of her brother, Sid, and drew in a steadying breath to stop a shiver of guilt. She waited for her lungs to ease and let her usually buried dreams subside into wispy clouds she knew would drift across her thoughts from time to time, like the straw-colored autumn leaves skittering past her feet.

The pair turned in at Ada Adams’s boardinghouse and stopped at the front door, side-by-side, tall and straight as two soldiers. She smiled at the way the boy glanced at the man to see if he imitated the stance correctly.

The door opened. Gray-haired Ada reached out and hugged them each in turn, then drew them inside.

Emma gasped and halted her journey toward the boardinghouse. This must be the nephew—a widower—Ada expected. Somehow Emma anticipated an older man with a much older son. Truthfully, Emma had paid little attention when Ada made the announcement of their impending arrival. She’d simply been relieved Ada finally decided to get help running the house. The work was far too much for the older woman, suffering from arthritis. Now Emma wished she’d thought to have asked some questions. How old was the man? How old his son? How long was he staying? What had Ada said happened to his wife? Ada might have answered all her questions but Emma had been dashing out the door and hadn’t stopped to listen to the whole story.

Emma hesitated, calming her too eager desire to follow this pair. She glanced at her sturdy white shoes. Her white uniform revealed the evidence of a hard day at the hospital. The weather had been cool when she left before dawn and she’d worn her woolen cape, but now the sun shone warmly and she carried her cape over her arm.

She needed a few minutes to collect her thoughts and seek a solution to this sudden yearning. Rather than cross to the boardinghouse, she continued along the sidewalk with no destination in mind, simply the need to think in solitude.

She passed yards enclosed by picket fences. Mr. Blake fussed about his flower beds, preparing them to survive a bitter South Dakota winter. She called a greeting and he waved.

Praying silently, she circled the block. Lord, God, You know the road before me. You know I don’t resent my responsibility. In fact, I am grateful as can be for this job and the chance to help my parents. It’s only occasionally I wish for things that might have been. This is one of those times. I thought I had dealt with my disappointment and buried my dreams, but it seems they don’t have the decency to stay dead and buried. Yet I will not fret about it. I know You will give me the strength to do what I must. In Thee do I rejoice. Blessed be Your name.

A smile curved her lips as peace flooded her heart. She knew what she had to do, how she had to face the future, and she would gladly do it.

Her resolve restored, she walked back to the boardinghouse. Only for a second did her feet falter as she remembered Ada’s nephew’s dark eyes and the way he smiled at his small son. A tiny sound of disgust escaped her lips. She wasn’t one to let fanciful notions fill her head. No. She was the kind to do what had to be done. No one and nothing would divert her from her responsibilities. She tipped her thoughts back to her prayer. God would help her. Yet, it might prove prudent to avoid as much contact with the nephew as possible. Certainly they would sit around the same table for meals but apart from that…

She suddenly chuckled. The man might be unbearably rude or snobbish, even if in those few moments as he encouraged his son, he’d touched her heart.

Her smile flattened. Rogue or otherwise, she needn’t worry. He’d probably not even notice her. She was no china doll. Her eyes should have been blue to go with her blond hair. Instead she had dark brown eyes, equally dark lashes and brows. Too often people gave her a strange look as if startled by the contrast. She’d been told many times it gave her a look of determination—a woman more suited for work than romance. Yet…

She pushed away useless dreams, straightened her shoulders and stepped into the warm house.

She thought of slipping up the stairs to change, but she would only be avoiding the inevitable. Sooner or later she’d have to meet the man. Besides, despite the rumpled state of her uniform, wearing it made her feel strong and competent. A glance in the hall mirror, a tuck of some loose strands of hair into her thick bun and she headed into the kitchen.

He stood with his back to her. He’d shed his coat. He was thin as were many people after years of drought and Depression prices. His shoulders were wide and square, and he was even taller than she’d thought—six foot or better, if she didn’t miss her guess. His hair was brown as a warm mink coat.

She blamed the hot cookstove for the way her cheeks stung with heat.

Ada leaned to the right so she could see past her nephew. “Emma, I told you my nephew, Boothe, was coming.”

The man faced her. His eyes weren’t dark as she first thought; they only appeared so because they were deep-set and gray as a winter sky, filling her heart with a raging storm to rival any blizzard she’d ever experienced.

“Boothe Wallace.” Ada’s voice came like a faint call on a breeze as Emma’s emotions ran the gamut of longing, loneliness and finally into self-disgust that she couldn’t better control her thoughts.

“Boothe, this is one of my guests, Emma Spencer.”

Emma, her feelings firmly under control, stepped forward but halted as his expression grew forbidding.

His gaze raced over her uniform, pausing at the blotch where she’d tried to erase evidence of a young patient’s vomit.

She wished she’d taken the time to change. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, forcing the words past the blockage in her throat. “I just got off work.”

“A nurse.” Boothe’s words carried a condemning tone, though Emma could think of no reason for it. She’d given him no cause to object to anything she’d done or not done.

“She works at the hospital,” Ada explained. “And this little fellow is Boothe’s son, Jessie.”

Boothe showed no sign of moving over to allow Emma to meet the boy, so she stepped sideways. Jessie perched on the table. He gave her a shy, glancing smile, allowing her a glimpse of startlingly blue eyes. She wanted to sweep the adorable child into her arms. She wisely restrained herself. She loved working with children best. Her superiors praised her rapport with them.

The boy wore an almost new shirt of fine cotton and knickers of good quality wool. Compared to his father’s well-worn clothes, Jessie was dressed like a prince.

“I’m happy to meet you, Jessie,” she said in the soft tone she reserved for children and frightened patients. “How old are you?”

He darted another glance at her and smiled so wide she ached to ruffle his sandy-colored hair. “Six.” His voice had a gritty sound as if he wanted everyone to forget he was a little boy and think he was a man.

That’s when she saw the deep slash on his arm and the blood-soaked rag that had recently been removed. “You’ve been hurt. What happened?” Instinctively, she stepped forward, intent on examining the wound.

“Ran into a sticking out nail. Daddy got really mad at the man pushing the cart.” He gave the cut a look, shuddered and turned away, but not before she got a glimpse of his tears. The wound had to hurt like fury. It was deep and gaping, but a few stitches would fix it up and he’d heal neatly as long as he didn’t get an infection—and unless it was properly cleaned, he stood a good chance of just that. Dirt blackened the edges of the cut. “I’ll clean it for you, and then your father can take you to the doctor.”

But before she reached Jessie’s side, Boothe stepped in front of her.

“No doctor. No nurse.” His harsh tone sent a shudder along Emma’s spine. “I’ll take care of him myself.” His stubborn stance was a marked contrast to the tenderness he’d exhibited a short time ago on the street.

She thought she must have misunderstood him. “It needs cleaning and stitching. I can do the former but a good doctor should do the latter.” Again she moved to take over the chore.

Again he blocked her. “I’ll be the one taking care of my son.”

The challenge in his eyes felt like a spear to her heart, but she wouldn’t let it deter her. “Your son needs medical attention.”

“I don’t need the bungling interference of either a doctor or a nurse.” He’d lowered his voice so only Emma heard him.

She recoiled from the venomous accusation. “I do not bungle.”

He held his hand toward her, palm forward, effectively forbidding her to go any farther.

She clasped her hands at her waist, squeezed her fingers hard enough to hurt and clamped her mouth shut to stop the angry protest. How dare this man judge her incompetent! But even more, how could he ignorantly, stubbornly, put his son at risk? Too many times she’d seen the sorry result of home remedies. She’d seen children suffer needlessly because their parents refused to take them to the doctor until their injuries or illnesses pushed them to the verge of death. She shuddered, recalling some who came too late.

He turned back to his aunt. “Would you have a basin?”

Ada’s eyes were wary as if wondering if she should intervene then she gave a barely perceptible shrug, pulled one from the cupboard and handed it to him.

Boothe’s demanding gaze forbade Emma to interfere. When he seemed confident she’d stand back, he turned to his son. “Jessie, I’m going to clean this and then I’ll bandage it.”

Boothe filled a basin as Emma helplessly looked on. It took a great deal of self-discipline to stand by when little Jessie sent her a frightened look as if begging her to promise everything would be okay. Unfortunately, she couldn’t give such assurance. The wound continued to bleed. One good thing about the flow of blood—it served to cleanse the deeper tissues.

Boothe dipped a clean cloth in the water. Jessie whimpered. “Now, son. I won’t hurt you any more than I need to. You know that?”

Jessie nodded and blinked back tears.

“You be a brave man and this will be done sooner than you know.”

Jessie pressed his lips together and nodded again.

Emma admired the little boy’s bravery. She watched with hawk-like concentration as Boothe cleaned the edges of the wound. He did a reasonably good job but it didn’t satisfy Emma. She itched to pour on a good dose of disinfectant. Iodine was her first choice. She’d never seen a wound infect if it’d been properly doused with the potent stuff. She opened her mouth to make a suggestion but Boothe’s warning glance made her swallow back the words. The boy would have a terrible scar without stitches, and the wound would keep bleeding for an unnecessarily long time.

“Aunt Ada, do you have a clean rag?” Boothe asked. Ada handed him an old sheet.

No, Emma mentally screamed. At least use something sterile. “I could get dressings from the hospital,” she offered, ignoring his frown.

“This will do just fine.” He tore the fabric into strips.

Anger, like hot coals to her heart, surged through her. How could this man be so stubborn? Why did he resist medical help with such blindness?

Ignoring her, though he couldn’t help but be aware of her scowling concern, he pressed the edges of the wound together and wrapped it securely with the cloth, fixing the end in place with the pin Ada handed him then stepped back, pleased with his work.

Emma watched the bandage, knowing it would soon pinken with blood. By the time Boothe had washed and cleaned up, the telltale pink was the size of a quarter. She could be silent no longer. “Without stitches it will continue to bleed. You need to take him to the doctor.”

Boothe, drying his hands on a kitchen towel, shot her a look fit to sear her skin. “We do not need or want to see a doctor. They do more harm than good.”

Emma shifted her gaze to Jessie, saw his eyes wide with what she could only assume was fear. Her insides settled into hardness. “May I speak with you privately?” She addressed Boothe, well aware of Ada’s tight smile and Jessie’s stark stare.

“I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“I do.” She moved to the doorway and waited for him to join her in the hall. She wondered if he would simply ignore her, but with a resigned sigh, he strode across the room, his movements and expression saying he hoped it wouldn’t take long, because he was only doing his best to avoid a scene.

She went to the front door so their conversation wouldn’t be overheard in the kitchen. “I am deeply concerned about your attitude toward the medical profession. Not only does it prevent you from taking your son to the doctor for needed care but it is instilling in him an unnecessary and potentially dangerous fear of doctors. There could come a time when it is a matter of life or death that he seek medical attention.” She couldn’t shake her initial response to the man, couldn’t stop herself from being attracted to his looks, his demeanor and his gentleness toward his son. Yet he was ignorant and stubborn about medical things—the sort of man who normally filled her with undiluted anger.

“Do you realize this is none of your business?”

She didn’t answer. A person didn’t interfere with how a man raised his children—one of the unwritten laws of their society. But she could not, would not, stand by silently while someone was needlessly put at risk. Never again.

He suddenly leaned closer, his gray eyes as cold as a prairie winter storm. “I’ve seen firsthand the damage medical people inflict. I will not subject my son to that.”

She drew back, startled by his vehemence. “Our goal is to help and heal, not damage.”

His nostrils flared, his eyes narrowed. He sucked in air like someone punched him. “My wife is dead because of medical ‘help.’”

His words filtered through her senses as shock, surprise, sympathy and sorrow mixed together. “I’m—”

“Don’t bother trying to defend them.”

She had been about to express her sympathy not defend a situation she knew nothing about, but he didn’t seem to care to hear anything from her and rushed on.

“They poisoned her. Pure and simple. Overdosed her with quinine. The judge ruled it accidental. He reprimanded them for carelessness, but they got away with murder. So you see—” he took a deep breath and settled back on his heels “—I have good reason to avoid the medical profession and good reason to teach my son to do so as well.”

Emma wondered why quinine had been prescribed. It was often used to treat fevers or irregular heartbeats. Adverse reactions were common but reversible. Although she’d never seen toxicity, she knew it involved heart problems as well as seizures and coma. How dreadful to see it happen to a loved one. And so needless. An attentive nurse should have picked up the symptoms immediately.

Determined not to let her tears surface, Emma widened her eyes. “I’m sorry. It should have never happened. But it’s not fair to think all of us are careless.”

“Do you think I’m going to take a chance?”

They faced each other. His eyes looked as brittle as hers felt. He was wrong in thinking he couldn’t trust another doctor or nurse. It put both himself and Jessie at risk. But she didn’t have to read minds to know he wasn’t about to be convinced otherwise. Her shoulders sagged as she gave up the idea of trying. “I’m sorry about your loss, but aren’t you spreading blame a little too thick and wide? Allowing it to cloud your judgment?”

He snorted. “I realize we are destined to live in the same house and I intend to be civil. But I warn you not to interfere with how I raise my son.”

Emma scooped her cape off the banister and headed up the stairs, her emotions fluctuating between anger and pity. But she had to say something. Her conscience would not allow her to ignore the situation. She turned. “Sometimes, Mr. Wallace, a person has to learn to trust or he puts himself and others at risk.”

Boothe made an explosive sound. His expression grew thunderous.

Emma met his look without flinching. There was no reason she should want to reach out and smooth away the harsh lines in his face. Except, she reluctantly admitted, her silly reaction to a little scene on the sidewalk.

“Trust.” He snorted. “From here on out, I trust no one.” He pursed his lips. “No one.”

He’d been badly hurt. But he verged on becoming bitter. Silently, she prayed for wisdom to say the right thing. “Not even God?” She spoke softly.

He stood rigid as a fence post for a moment then his shoulders sank. “I’m trying to trust Him.” His head down, he headed back to the kitchen.

“I will pray for you, Boothe Wallace.”

Chapter Two

Boothe stayed out of sight of the kitchen door to compose himself. Jessie had enough fears to deal with without seeing his father upset. He hoped seeing Emma in her nurse’s uniform wouldn’t remind Jessie of that awful time two years ago when Alyse had been murdered by a negligent doctor. Aided and abetted by a belligerent nurse. The doctor said it would stop her fluttering heartbeat that left her weak. Instead, it had succeeded in stopping her heart completely. The judge might have ruled the incident accidental, but Boothe considered it murder. There was no other word for giving a killing dose of medicine. Alyse hadn’t stood a chance. He shuddered back the memory of her violent seizures.

And for Emma to suggest he should trust! She didn’t know the half of it. He’d trusted too easily. It cost him his wife. No. He would not trust again. Ever.

Not even God? Her words rang through his head. Even trusting God had grown difficult. One thing forced him to make the choice to do so—Jessie. He feared for his son’s safety if God didn’t protect him. Hopefully, his trust would not be misplaced. Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct thy paths. He knew the words well. However, reciting verses was far easier than having the assurance the words promised.

He drew in a deep breath. Why hadn’t Aunt Ada warned him one of her guests was a nurse? But then what difference would it have made? Leaving Lincoln, Nebraska, and moving to South Dakota had been the only way to escape the threat he faced back in the city of losing Jessie. Besides, there was no work back there and he’d been evicted from his shabby apartment. Here Jessie was safe with him. He could put up with an interfering nurse for Jessie’s sake. He would forget about Emma and the way her brown eyes melted with gentleness one moment and burned with fury the next. He smiled knowing he’d annoyed her as much as she annoyed him. Why that should amuse him, he couldn’t say. But it did.

He paused outside the kitchen.

“Where did my daddy go?” His son’s voice had a brittle edge signaling his distress. Poor Jessie had dealt with far too much in the past two years, but these past two weeks had been especially upsetting with losing their home and then being snatched away from his Aunt Vera and Uncle Luke. Jessie did not understand the reasons behind this sudden move. But it had been unavoidable. Trusting his sister-in-law had almost proven a disaster. Boothe only hoped Favor would be far enough from Lincoln.

Aunt Ada, bless her heart, answered Jessie soothingly. “He’s just in the other room. He’ll be back shortly.”

“Is my daddy mad?”

Aunt Ada chuckled. “I can’t say for sure, but I don’t think it’s anything we need to worry about.”

“Is my arm going to fall off?”

Boothe stepped into the room intent on reassuring his son. The bandage already needed changing. “Your arm is going to be all right.” He kept all traces of anger from his voice even though he silently blamed Emma for frightening Jessie.

“But that lady—”

“Emma?” Aunt Ada prompted.

“Yes, Emma—”

“Miss Emma to you,” Boothe said.

“Miss Emma. She’s a nurse. She said—”

“I’ll wrap your arm better. It will be just fine.” Thank you, Miss Emma, for alarming an innocent child. He gently took off the soiled dressing, tore up more strips and created a pad. “Aunt Ada, do you have adhesive tape?”

“In the left-hand drawer.” She pointed toward the cupboard. He found the tape and cut several pieces, using them to close the edges of the cut before he applied the pad. He wrapped it with fresh lengths of the old sheet and pinned the end. “There. You’ll soon be good as new.”

Jessie nodded, his blue gaze bright. “I don’t need a doctor, do I?”

Boothe kept his voice steady despite the anger twitching at his insides. “Jessie, my boy, a man does not run to the doctor every time he gets a cut. Okay?”

“Okay.” He slid his gaze to Aunt Ada. “Miss Emma lives here?”

“Yes. Did you like her?”

“She has a nice smile.”

Boothe shot Aunt Ada a warning glance. “Where do you want us to put our stuff?”

Aunt Ada winked at Boothe. “She’s a nice woman. Knows her own mind. I admire that in a person.”

Jessie nodded vigorously. “Me, too.”

Boothe grabbed the suitcase, wanting nothing more than to end this conversation. He did not want Jessie getting interested in Emma.

“I’ve made space for you in the back of the storeroom. Sorry I can’t offer you a bedroom but the upstairs ones are all rented, for which I thank God. And I don’t intend to give up mine.”

“I’m sure we’ll be more than comfortable.” Boothe fell in beside Aunt Ada as she limped toward the back of the kitchen. Jessie followed on his heels.

The room was large, full of cupboards stacked with canned goods, bottles of home preserves, tins and sacks of everything from oats to bay leaves. Spicy, homey smells filled the air. He tightened his jaw, remembering when such aromas, such sights, meant home. With forced determination he finished his visual inspection of the room. Two narrow side-by-side cots and a tall dresser fit neatly along the far wall. A window with a green shade rolled almost to the top gave natural light. “This is more than adequate. Thank you.”

“Is this our place?” Jessie asked.

“For as long as you want,” Aunt Ada said.

A load of weight slid from Boothe’s shoulders. They would be safe here. And maybe one day in the unforeseeable future, they might even be happy again. “I can’t thank you enough.”

Jessie kicked off his boots, plopped down on one bed, his bony knees crooked toward the ceiling. “I had a room of my own at Auntie Vera’s.”

Boothe had been forced to leave Jessie with Vera on school days and often on weekends as he tried to find enough work to make ends meet. He hadn’t liked it, though he appreciated that Jessie had a safe place to stay.

He hadn’t expected it to be a complete mistake.

“No thanks needed.” Ada grinned at him. “You’ll be earning your keep sure enough. Things have been neglected of late. I can’t get around like I used to.”

“I’m here to help. Tell me what you need done.”

“I’d appreciate if you look after the furnace first. Emma’s been kind enough to do it but she’s a paying guest.”

“I’ll tend to it. Jessie, your books and toys are in the suitcase. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Jessie bolted to his feet and scrambled into his boots, ignoring the dragging laces as he scurried after Boothe.

Boothe should have known the boy wouldn’t let him out of his sight. He squatted down to face Jessie. “I don’t want you to come downstairs with me.” He had no idea what condition the cellar was in. It might not be safe for a six-year-old. “You go with Aunt Ada and wait for me. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Jessie’s eyes flooded with fear.

Boothe squeezed his son’s shoulder. He hated leaving him but Jessie was safe. Sooner or later he’d have to get used to the fact his father had to leave him at times. But he’d learn that Boothe would always return.

Aunt Ada took Jessie’s hand. “I have a picture book you might like to see.”

Boothe nodded his thanks as his aunt led Jessie back to the kitchen table. Only then did he venture down the worn wooden steps. He found the furnace and fed it, dragged the ashes into the ash pail then looked around the cavernous cellar. Bins built along one side contained potatoes and a variety of root vegetables. He hadn’t been to Aunt Ada’s in years but as a kid had spent several summers visiting her. He remembered her huge garden in the adjoining lot. But she had been quick and light on her feet back then. Now she moved as if every joint hurt. Did she still grow everything the household consumed?

Boxes were stacked on wide shelves. He opened one and saw a collection of magazines. The next held rags. Another seemed to be full of men’s clothes. He couldn’t imagine whose they were, seeing as Aunt Ada had never married. Perhaps a guest had left them behind. He pulled out a pair of trousers and held them to his waist. He found a heavy coat, a pair of sagging boots and a variety of shirts. He’d ask Aunt Ada about the things. They were better than anything he owned. Despite his disappointment at Vera’s treachery, he allowed himself a moment of gratitude for the fine clothes she bought Jesse.

He carried the pail of ashes upstairs and paused, breathing in the aroma of pork roast and applesauce. The furnace hummed and the warmth of coal heat spread about him. This was a good place to be. Safe and solid. He tilted his head toward the kitchen as he heard Jessie.

“When will my daddy come back?” His voice crackled with tension.

Boothe hurried to the back door to get rid of the ash bucket.

Emma’s gentle voice answered Jessie. “Your daddy is taking care of the furnace so you’ll stay warm. What did he say when he went to the cellar?”

“He said he’d be back as soon as he could.”

“There you go. Even when you can’t see him, you can remember what he said.”

Boothe stood stock-still as Emma reassured Jessie. A blizzard of emotions raced through him—gratitude that she dealt with Jessie so calmly, soothingly. Anger and frustration that Jessie had to confront the fear of loss. Children his age should be secure in the love of a mother and father. Most of all, emptiness sucked at his gut making him feel as naked, exposed and helpless as a tree torn from the ground by a tornado, roots and all. The future stretched out as barren as the drought-stricken prairies. This was not how he’d envisioned his life. Nope, in his not-so-long-ago plans there’d been a woman who shared his home and made it a welcoming place.

He clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached. He’d come here to find peace and safety. In the space of half an hour, Emma had robbed him of that, not once, but twice. Thankfully he wouldn’t have to see her more than a few minutes each day—only long enough to share a meal with all the boarders.

He deposited the bucket on the flagstone sidewalk where it would be unable to start a fire. The wind made the ashes glow red. Dust sifted across the backyard. Late October often meant snow, which would settle the dust. But this year the snow had not come. Only the endless wind. He lifted his face to the sky. God, when will this end? He couldn’t say exactly what he meant. The drought? The nationwide Depression? His loneliness? Jessie’s fears? He supposed he meant all of them.

Not that he expected divine intervention. Seems a man just did what he could and hoped for the best. He hadn’t received what he considered best, or even good, in a long time. He tried to find anything good in his life. Right now, about all he could give that label to was Jessie. He paused…and this house. He headed to the kitchen.

Jessie sat at the table, a coloring book and crayons before him, but he paid more attention to Emma than his coloring. Emma stood at the stove stirring something while Aunt Ada carved the pork roast. Emma had changed into a black skirt and pale blue sweater. She glanced up as he stepped into the room and her gaze collided with his. Her dark eyes were a surprising contrast to her golden hair. If he didn’t know she was a nurse, he might think her an attractive woman.

He hurried to her side and reached for the spoon. “I’ve come to help Aunt Ada. Now that I’m here, there’s no reason for one of the boarders to work.” His voice was harsher than he intended and caused the two women to stare at him.

Jessie stiffened. His eyes grew wide and wary.

“What I meant is you’re a paying guest. You shouldn’t have to help.” He forced a smile to his lips and tried to put a smile in his voice. He knew he failed miserably.

He felt Emma, inches away at his elbow, studying him, but refused to meet her gaze until she laughed and he jerked around in surprise. Her eyes glistened with amusement, and her smile seemed to go on forever. He couldn’t breathe as it brushed his heart. He shook his head, angry at himself and his silly imaginations.

“Here you go.” She handed him the spoon and a jar full of white liquid. “You do know how to make gravy?” Her words were round with barely restrained laughter.

He looked at the pot of bubbling liquid on the stove and the jar. He had no idea what he was expected to do.

Emma laughed low and sweet, tickling his insides. He fought his reaction. He could not allow a feeling at such odds with how he felt when he saw her in a nurse’s uniform.

She laughed again. “A simple yes or no would suffice.”

Behind him Aunt Ada chuckled.

“Daddy, you can make gravy?” Jessie’s surprised awe brought more low laughter from Emma.

“I’m sure I could if someone would tell me how.”

“Very well,” Emma said. “Stir the juice and slowly pour the flour and water mixture in. The trick is to keep it from going lumpy.”

Boothe followed the instructions as Emma hovered at his elbow watching him like a hungry eagle waiting for some helpless prey. A reluctant grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. His experience taught him nurses didn’t care for anyone showing they might know a thing or two. He’d do this right if only to prove he was as capable as she.

The gravy thickened. “Smells good. How am I doing?”

She stepped back and considered him. “Are you sure you haven’t done this before?”

He grinned, glad to have succeeded in the face of her doubt. “Cross my heart.”

Aunt Ada laughed. “Maybe you could teach him to mash potatoes, too.”

Emma didn’t seem the least bit annoyed at his success. In fact, if her flashing smile meant anything, she seemed rather pleased about it.

He couldn’t tear his gaze away from hers as something inside him, both exciting and alarming, demanded consideration. His stomach growled and he freed himself from her dark eyes. He was only hungry. Nothing more. “I’m sure I can learn to mash potatoes with the best of them.”

Emma handed him a masher and pointed him toward the big pot. Not only was there pork roast, gravy and potatoes but there was a pot of turnips and a bowl of canned tomatoes. His mouth watered at the prospect of so much to eat. For months he’d been forced to ration every scrap of food he scrounged, glad Jessie was being well fed with Vera and Luke. All this abundance was unbelievable. God’s blessing? A flash of hope and belief crossed his mind before he focused his attention on Emma’s instructions.

“I think everything is ready,” Aunt Ada said a few minutes later. “Jessie, do you want to help me ring the bell for supper?”

Jessie bounced off his chair and followed Ada into the hall. At the bottom of the stairs, she handed him a little brass bell and instructed him to shake it. He laughed at the racket it made. From upstairs came the sound of doors opening.

Emma scooped the potatoes into a bowl and poured the gravy into a large pitcher. “Help me carry in the food.” She nodded toward Boothe.

He grabbed the platter of meat in one hand and the gravy jug in the other and followed her into the dining room where the table was already set. He counted nine chairs. That made six paying guests. Quite a load for Aunt Ada. He intended to ease her load and find a job as well. He’d heard there was always work in the town of Favor, on the edge of the irrigation area.

Aunt Ada took her place at one end of the table and indicated Boothe should sit at the other end, Jessie at his right. “As soon as we’re all here, I’ll make the introductions.”

People filed in, taking what seemed to be appointed places. As soon as each chair had a body behind it, Aunt Ada spoke. “I told you all that my nephew, Boothe, agreed to come and help me run the boardinghouse. The young man beside him is his son, Jessie.”

Jessie pulled himself to rigid attention at being called a man.

Boothe grinned. His heart filled with pride.

One by one, Aunt Ada introduced the others starting on her right. “Loretta, one of my oldest and dearest friends.”

The older, thin woman smiled at Aunt Ada before she turned to Boothe. “I’m glad you’ve come.”

Beside her stood a woman, probably in her forties, Sarah, who had a dress shop downtown. Next, Betty, a chambermaid at the new hotel, a girl fresh off the farm if Boothe didn’t miss his guess. He turned to those on the other side of the table. Beside Jessie stood Don, a man in his late twenties or early thirties, and next to him, Ed, an eager-faced young man who could barely tear his gaze away from Betty long enough to greet Boothe. Both men worked at the brick factory.

And then Emma. She grinned at him. “Boothe made the gravy, so if you have any complaints, direct them to him, not me.”

Don chuckled. “Emma’s teasing you already. Best be careful. She can have you running in circles.”

Boothe kept his expression bland. “I don’t run in circles.” Maybe not literally but she’d already proved her ability to send his thoughts down useless rabbit trails.

Aunt Ada cleared her throat. “Shall we pray?”

They all bowed as she offered up thanks for the food and for Boothe and Jessie’s arrival. Her gratitude soothed away Boothe’s tension.

Only then did they sit down.

The meal proved excellent, the conversation interesting. Ed and Don told him of the work in the factory.

“You could probably get a job there,” Don said.

“I’ll look into it.” Boothe planned to check out a few other prospects first.

He expected the boarders would disperse as soon as they finished. Instead, everyone grabbed a handful of things and headed for the kitchen. The women began to wash and dry dishes while Ed and Don shook the tablecloth and arranged the chairs. Boothe tried to keep up but it seemed each knew what he or she was expected to do.

“Aunt Ada certainly has you organized.”

“Not Ada,” Don said. “She was reluctant to accept help. But when Emma saw how much pain she had, she got us all doing our share.”

Emma. Boothe tried to think if it surprised him. She seemed the sort who liked to organize things. Or—his jaw tightened—did she like to be in control? Was it an innate part of being a nurse? Always in control. Always right.

As soon as the dishes were done, the guests moved into the front room. Emma carried in a large tray with a teapot under a knit cozy and cups for everyone. Aunt Ada brought in a plate of cookies. Again, everyone seemed to know what to do. They prepared tea to their liking, served themselves cookies and settled into one of the many chairs. Aunt Ada and Loretta sank into the burgundy couch.

“Do you mind if I give Jessie tea?” Emma asked. She held a cup almost full of milk.

“Can I, Daddy? Please.”

Boothe nodded. He sat on one of the upright wooden chairs and edged another close for Jessie.

Emma sat beside the table and pulled a book to her lap. “We’ve been reading the biography of a missionary to China. You’re welcome to join us.”

“It will soon be Jessie’s bedtime.”

“We’ll stop when it’s time for him to get ready for bed.”

Boothe didn’t know if he liked the gentle way Emma smiled at his son. He wasn’t about to trust another woman getting close to Jessie. He’d learned his lesson, but Jessie’s eager expression convinced Boothe to agree to let him stay for the reading.

Loretta and Aunt Ada knitted as Emma read. Sarah sewed lace to a dress. Betty sat, her reddened hands idle, her expression rapt as she followed each word. Both Ed and Don leaned back, simply glad to relax. Emma read well, giving the story lots of drama, and Boothe was drawn into the tale.

Soon Emma closed the book. “End of chapter. I’m going to stop there so Jessie can go to bed.”

Boothe jumped up, guilt flooding his thoughts. What kind of father was he to forget his son’s bedtime? “Come along, Jessie.”

Jessie took his hand but stopped before Emma. “Thank you, Miss Emma. It’s a good story. Is it really true?”

“It is. It’s exciting to see how God did such wonderful things for them. Doesn’t it make you feel safe and loved to know God does the same kinds of things for us?”

Jessie nodded vigorously.

A few minutes later, Boothe tucked him into bed.

“How long do we have to stay here?”

Boothe smoothed the covers over the small body. “I already told you. We’re going to live here.”

Jessie’s eyes were dull with sleep yet he had enough energy to flash his angry displeasure. “Auntie Vera said we could live with her.” His words quivered. “I want to live with her and Uncle Luke. I want to go home.”

“This is home now. Besides, if we leave, you won’t be able to hear the rest of Miss Emma’s story.” Boothe couldn’t believe he’d used Emma as a reason to stay. Only for Jessie’s sake.

Jessie rubbed his arm and gave Boothe a watery, defiant look. “My arm hurts. I want Auntie Vera.”

Alarm snaked up Boothe’s spine. Were Jessie’s cheeks flushed? Was he fevered? He pressed his palm to his son’s forehead. Did he seem warm? Boothe didn’t know.

He pulled the covers down and looked at the dressing. A spot of pink stained it. He touched the skin on either side of the white cloth. Did it seem hot? Or was it simply warm from Jessie having his arm under the covers?

Boothe eased the blanket back to Jessie’s chin. He had Emma to thank for stirring up unnecessary fears. The wound would heal just fine. Jessie was safer without the interference of any nurse or doctor.

He’d seen Emma eye Jessie’s arm several times throughout the meal and afterward. She would do well to respect his wishes for his son. He would not allow an interfering woman—no matter how kind she seemed—to put his child at risk. Nor let his heart wish things could be different.

Chapter Three

Her bedroom lay in late fall darkness. Emma rolled over, turned on her bedside lamp, pulled her Bible to her chest and read a few verses. She prayed for her parents and her brother. Lord, make sure they’re warm and have enough to eat. Last winter they’d run low on coal and used it so sparingly that the house was always cold. While she was grateful for a warm, safe place to live, she felt guilty knowing Sid and her parents did not enjoy the same luxuries.

As soon as she finished her prayers, she’d run down to the basement and stir up the furnace. She paused. Was the house already warm? Had Boothe already stoked up the fire? How pleasant to waken to a warm room. She returned to her prayers, bringing her patients before God. A couple had been in the hospital for several weeks, fighting dust pneumonia. Lord, a good snowfall would put an end to the dust. But You know that. Just as You know everything we need. She prayed for friends and neighbors. Finally, when she couldn’t put it off any longer, she prayed for Boothe. There was something about him that upset her equilibrium. She didn’t like it. Lord, help him learn to trust again. And heal Jessie’s wound. She’d heard Jessie crying in the night. It was all she could do not to run down and check on him. That wound was nasty and no doubt painful. But Boothe had forbidden her to do anything for his son.

She took time to thank God for all the good things in her life. Unable to avoid the truth, she thanked her Lord for Boothe. He’s an answer to prayer for Ada, even though he is certainly not the man I would have sent to help. But again, You know best. Perhaps he needs something he will find here.

She jumped from bed, dashed across the hall to the washroom and splashed water over her face. Back in her room she pulled on white stockings, slipped into her uniform and pinned a clean apron on top. She toed into her white shoes, tied them neatly then headed downstairs to help Ada with breakfast.

At the kitchen door, she halted.

Boothe presided over the stove, frying bacon. Ada tended to the toast. A pot of coffee bubbled. Emma turned to the dining room, intent on setting the table. She stopped at the doorway. “The table’s set.”

“Boothe did it,” Ada said. “He’s catching on quickly.”

“I noticed the house is already warm. That’s nice.” Emma glanced at Boothe. He looked smug as if expecting he’d surprised her.

She shifted her gaze away. She wasn’t sure what to do with herself nor where to look, and headed for the window. The square of light revealed the yellowed grass scattered with dried leaves. Emma shivered then turned to catch Boothe watching her.

“It’s going to be cold today.” He offered her a cup of coffee.

She took it and cradled her hands around its warmth. “I heard Jessie in the night. Is he okay?”

“He’s sleeping. I’ll leave him until he needs to get ready for school.”

“Was his cut hurting him?”

Boothe glowered at her. “He had a nightmare. It will take him a few days to feel secure here.”

“It’s got to be hard for him.” Losing his mother and moving to a strange place. “But please keep an eye on that wound. Infection can be deadly.”

“I know enough to take care of my son without your help, if you don’t mind.” His expression grew darker but she refused to be intimidated. As a nurse, she faced disagreeable patients and families and dealt with them kindly, realizing their anger wasn’t directed at her personally. Only with Boothe, it felt personal. She smiled as much to calm herself as to convey kindness to Boothe. She would act professionally even with a man who despised her profession.

The boarders trickled in for breakfast. Loretta never joined them. She had no reason to be up so early. The others gathered round the table, for the most part eating without speaking.

“No snow. That’s good,” Betty said. “Do you know how much mess snow makes on the floors?” She seemed to be the only one who woke up bright and cheerful.

“Snow would settle the dust and perhaps end the drought.”

Emma jerked her head up at Boothe’s soft voice, surprised by the emotion hidden in his words. His eyes darkened as he looked deep into her soul. She felt a connection, a shared sorrow at the sad state of the economy, an acknowledgment that life was difficult. Then he shuttered his feelings and his brow furrowed as if she’d overstepped some boundary.

She turned back to her breakfast. He didn’t need to fear she’d be intruding into his life. She had more important things to attend to. Besides, she did not want to feel a connection to this man. He was dismissive almost to the point of rudeness and refused medical attention for his son. He’d branded her and the whole medical society because of a terrible accident. Tears stung her eyes at the stupidity that caused the death of his wife. She blinked them away and forced her thoughts to other things—like her responsibilities. She would do all she could to make life more tolerable for Sid and their parents.

Don spoke, thankfully pulling her from her troubled thoughts. “Boothe, did you want me to ask about a job at the factory?”

“Not yet but thanks for offering. I’m hoping to find a job that allows me to be home until Jessie leaves for school. I don’t expect I’ll be able to be home right after, but I’m grateful Aunt Ada will be here.”

The smile he sent his aunt filled Emma with alarming confusion. A man of such contrasts, full of tenderness to his son, warmth to his aunt, cold disapproval to Emma.

Betty jumped up and gathered her dishes. “Gotta run.”

Ed followed hard on her heels. Emma grinned after the pair. Ed moved in a couple months ago, fresh off a dried out farm, and had fallen instantly in love with Betty. Betty, although kind to the boy, did not encourage him. She vowed she’d spent enough years on a farm and stuck in a small town. As soon as she saved enough money, she was off to the city.

Boothe asked Don about other job possibilities. He spoke in an easy, relaxed manner, his tone warm, his expression interested.

Emma’s errant thoughts repeated her initial reaction at her first glimpse of him approaching the boardinghouse. A strong, caring man. She slammed a mental door. She had her duties. They excluded useless dreams, especially ones that included a man. Emma sobered. She would not let herself be another Ed, longing for something that was impossible.

“Don’t worry about the dishes,” Ada said as Emma hesitated at the sink. “Boothe will help me.”

“Do you want me to bring up a basin of potatoes?” She normally brought whatever vegetables Ada needed to prepare during the day.

“Boothe will do it. I expect to make him work for his keep.” Ada’s voice held a teasing note.

Emma realized how good this arrangement would be for Ada.

“I’ll see you later, then.” She wrapped her cape about her and headed out into the cold darkness. The sun breathed pink air over the horizon as she entered the hospital.

At the end of her shift, Emma hurried back to the boardinghouse, shivering in the cold wind and coughing in protest of the dust particles in the air. The endless dust grew tiresome. It would be worse for Mom and Dad and Sid on the farm. Relentless. God, please send snow. Please end the drought.

She was getting home later than she should have been thanks to the demands of her job. And she was exhausted—more so in mind than body. It had been one of those days that made her wish she could change people’s thoughts.

Two elderly patients died—their deaths not entirely unexpected, but the woman might have survived if she hadn’t refused to see a doctor until she was too weak to protest when her daughter insisted she must.

And then a woman came in to have her baby. She’d been in labor seventy-two hours before she finally decided she needed medical intervention. The baby had been delivered and both were alive, but Emma wondered about the long-term effects on the baby. The infant girl had been slow to start breathing and seemed sluggish in her responses.

Emma wished she could erase the mental images of the worst scene of all—a young man who had been ill for some time but only when he could no longer respond did his parents decide to seek help. By then the skin on the young man hung like a sheet draped over a wooden rack. His eyes were sunken. She couldn’t help thinking of Sid, remembering how vigorous he’d been at that age. She smiled past tears. Sid had been so eager for life and adventure—with an attitude that led him to take reckless chances just for a thrill. She stilled a shudder. The consequences of taking such risks had gone beyond harmless adventure.

She’d worked feverishly over the young man in her care, determined she would not let his life slip away. He showed little improvement, even with all her efforts.

Later, in private, Dr. Phelps shook his head. “He’s so dehydrated I wonder if his kidneys are even functional.”

“I don’t understand why people wait so long to get help.” Emma’s voice was sharp with frustration. “So much of this suffering is unnecessary.”

Dr. Phelps sighed. “The greatest disease of all is ignorance.”

The young man had still been alive, struggling for each breath, when she’d finally left the hospital, chased away by the matron who insisted Emma was of no value to them if she wore herself out.

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?

“They always make gifts for each child at the Christmas concert.” Emma edged forward and glanced around the table, her expression eager as she looked at each one until her gaze settled on Boothe. Then her eyes grew wary.

Then she skipped past him and continued. “With all they’ve had to deal with, they haven’t got the gifts made. Mrs. Douglas was fretting about how to get thirty or forty gifts done in time. I thought we could do something to help. What do you think?”

There was silence for a moment while everyone digested her request. For his part, Boothe had to work hard to keep from exhaling his relief over her announcement. Her excitement was only about taking over a project and getting them all involved.

Betty spoke first. “Forty gifts? How on earth did they ever do it themselves?”

Emma nodded. “I know. I wondered the same.”

“What sort of things do they normally make?” Sarah asked.

“Generally, wooden toys for the boys, dolls for the girls. and Mrs. Douglas said they also like to make sure every child gets a pair of mittens.”

“Goodness,” Ed said. “Forty gifts.”

“I thought if we worked in the evenings, making it a group project instead of reading our book…Just until this is done,” Emma added as the others protested. “Pastor Douglas sent the pattern for trucks and trains. He said if anyone can carve, you could make airplanes with little propellers that turn. Wait, I’ll show you.” She hurried out to the hall and returned with a large wooden box that she put on the floor by her chair. She pulled out pieces of wood. “He even got a few cut before his stroke. They only need to be sanded and painted.” She finally sat back, quiet, waiting for the others to respond.

“Forty toys,” Ed said again.

Loretta clapped her hands. “Well, of course the children must have their gifts. I can certainly knit mittens.”

“I’ll knit some, too,” Aunt Ada said.

“I can sew things,” Sarah added.

“Thank you.” Emma turned to Ed and Don. “Can you help with the wooden toys?”

“Forty gifts?” Ed said.

Betty snapped her fingers in his face. “Ed, get over it. Say you’ll help. I’m going to.”

Everyone laughed at how quickly Ed agreed. Don added his promise to help.

Emma slid her glance over Boothe. “Good.” She rubbed her hands together. “As soon as the kitchen is cleaned, let’s get started. We have a lot to do.”

Boothe stared at her. Was he invisible? Wasn’t he allowed to be part of this? His eyes narrowed. Did she think he’d refuse simply because it was her idea? Or because she’d be there? Admittedly, a part of him rebelled at the idea of working with her. But what was he supposed to do? Sit by idly while everyone else made gifts for the children? And he was the only one with a child of his own. It simply wasn’t right. “I’ll help, too.”

Emma gazed in his direction. “That’s very generous of you.” Her words sounded like she’d dragged them from the icebox.

“You’re welcome. I’m proud to do my part.” Not giving her a chance to respond, he grabbed a handful of plates and strode to the kitchen.

As he washed dishes, having appointed himself chief cook and bottle washer, his thoughts mocked him. Avoid her. You only have to see her at supper and breakfast. Stay away from her and her interfering ways. And the first time something comes up where you don’t have to be in the same room, jump right in and volunteer. Oh yes. He certainly made a wise move there.

The evening barely got underway before he knew he’d made a mistake. Emma took control of the proceedings in such a high-handed way that he bit his tongue to keep from protesting. Only Aunt Ada and Loretta escaped her control as they retired to the front room, sorted through yarn and started on the mittens.

Emma put out fabric on the table, some already cut into rag doll shapes, and gave Betty and Sarah each a job. She ordered Ed and Don to the corner of the room. “We don’t want to mess up Ada’s kitchen any more than necessary.” Ed and Don obeyed like young boys and immediately began sanding pieces. She looked at Boothe, shrugged and left him to decide what he wanted to do.

He didn’t want to be ordered about, but he also didn’t want to be ignored as if she didn’t care to acknowledge his presence—maybe even his existence. “I’m going to try my hand at carving a propeller.” He grabbed a chair and joined Ed and Don in the corner.

As they worked, they talked. And Boothe listened.

“Any news from Kody and Charlotte?” asked Betty.

Boothe learned that Kody was the Douglas’s son and he and his wife owned a ranch in the hills.

“I haven’t seen them in a while,” Emma said. “I might have to go out there on my day off.”

At the lonesome tone in her voice, Boothe glanced her way. Did nurses feel the same emotions as others? Somehow he expected they functioned like machines—bossy machines—with no concern about how people felt. That she’d reveal ordinary emotions surprised him.

Two hours later, she stood. “That’s enough for tonight.” She looked at the doll Sarah was working on. “This is sweet.” Boothe glanced over. Sarah had embroidered a lifelike face.

Betty threw down the doll she worked on. “Mine looks stupid. It has button eyes.”

Emma retrieved it. “This is fine. And your sewing is so strong. It will stand up to a lot of loving. Why don’t you, Sarah, do the faces and you, Betty, stitch them together? That way you both get to do what you do best.”

Betty puckered her mouth. “You aren’t just trying to butter me up?”

Emma laughed. “I’m being practical.”

Ed chuckled. “Betty, you know Emma doesn’t say things she doesn’t mean. Hey, look at my truck. Vroom, vroom.”

Everyone laughed as he played with the wooden automobile he’d sanded to satin smoothness.

Don exhibited his project—train wheels. “Now show us what you did,” he said to Boothe.

Reluctantly, Boothe held out the propeller he worked on. “When I’m done, it should spin freely.”

“We accomplished a lot.” Emma gathered together the sewing. Don put the wooden pieces into the box Pastor Douglas sent.

Boothe assessed the toys. He tallied the items already cut out and did a quick estimate. Once the shapes were cut out, the work went quickly and could be done in the evenings. However, there needed to be a lot more pieces cut.

Emma wiped the table. Boothe grabbed the broom as she reached for it and swept the floor.

She paused at the box of wood and looked thoughtful. “We need to find someone to cut out more shapes for us.”

The others had left the room so Boothe felt compelled to answer. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

“You sound disapproving. Why?”

He concentrated on sweeping up the wood dust. He hadn’t meant to sound like a man with a mouthful of vinegar.

“Do you think you can protect yourself by pushing everyone away? Aren’t you afraid you’ll get lonely?”

Her words slammed against his heart. Boothe stopped sweeping. He closed his eyes and squeezed the broom handle so hard that he felt a sliver stab his palm. No, he wasn’t lonely.

Jessie cried out. Boothe dropped the broom and headed for their room. He’d checked Jessie several times throughout the evening and figured the temperature remained down. He resisted the temptation to take the poultice off and look underneath. Only Alyse’s words stopped him. She’d laughed at him when he tried to pull the poultice off his leg. “Stop trying to rush things. Let it do its work.”

As he soothed Jessie from his nightmare, relieved his son seemed only normally warm from sleep, Boothe felt a great tear in his heart. He would endure loneliness to protect Jessie. He heard Emma still tidying. For a moment, he considered returning to the kitchen and her company. Instead, he stared out the window in to the dark, feeling the gloom settle into his soul.

Chapter Five

Emma hurried into the kitchen and laid out the yard goods she’d purchased at the store. If she cut out several dolls, the work would go faster. As Ed said, forty gifts was a lot. As she pinned the pattern pieces, Jessie bounced into the room singing a tuneless song. Boothe had assured everyone over breakfast that his son had slept well, but he’d let him stay home from school.

Emma smiled at Jessie. His eyes were bright and clear, his color good and he seemed about to erupt with pent-up energy. His eager smile made her want to hug him. “You must be feeling better.”

Jessie stopped jumping about and pulled his face into a dark frown. “My arm sure hurts a lot. I don’t think I’ll be able to go to school. Won’t be able to write, you know.”

Emma laughed at his sudden change in demeanor. Jessie’s recovery appeared to depend on being able to stay home. To test her theory, she said, “No more school today.”

Immediately Jessie went from a lifeless wooden puppet to an animated little boy. “What did you do today?”

What a fun child. She loved children who showed a little spark. “I went to work.” She paused, wondering how much of Boothe’s anger toward medicine Jessie absorbed. “At the hospital, remember?”

“My daddy says I must never go to a hospital.”

“Sometimes it’s the best place to be.”

Jessie squinted at her. “My daddy says you have to take care of yourself or let someone who loves you do it.”

Emma fought hard to mind her own business. She’d promised herself to do her best to get along with Boothe. Teaching his child the benefits of modern medicine would not accomplish that goal. She wouldn’t go so far as to directly go against his wishes but perhaps she could plant a little seed of reason. “Sometimes only a doctor can help you.” She decided to change the subject before it went any further. “Where’s your daddy?”

“He’s downstairs making something. I’m not ’lowed to go down there.” Jessie sighed long, communicating how sad it made him to have to obey his father’s orders.

“And Aunt Ada?” Emma continued to cut out the fabric.

“She went upstairs to check on Miss Loretta. Whatcha doing?”

Emma paused. Jessie would be one of the children receiving a gift. Should he see them before it was time? She glanced at the box holding the wooden cars and trains. Someone had covered it with a blanket. “We’re making rag dolls.” She guessed he wouldn’t care about the girls’ gifts.

“Dolls? Ech!”

Emma laughed. “Do you want one?”

Jessie scooted backward. “I’m no girl.”

Emma pretended to give him lots of study. Again, she noticed his fine clothes. From what Aunt Ada said, she gathered Boothe struggled to care for his son. “No work and trying to be both mother and father. It’s been rough,” she’d said. And yet the sweater and trousers looked expensive. Jessie regarded her with a wide-eyed expression. Something about this child appealed to her at a deep level.

She recognized her denied maternal instinct. She’d love a child of her own with the same spunk, the same golden glow, the same—

God, I again give You my desires. I want only to do what is right. I know You have set before me a responsibility, and I will not shirk it or regret it.

She waited a moment for peace and contentment to return.

“I ain’t no girl,” Jessie repeated.

“I’m not a girl,” she corrected. “And I can plainly see you’re a big strong boy.”

He pushed his chest out and lifted his chin.

Behind him the basement door clicked and he spun around. “Daddy, are you done now?”

Boothe stepped into the room, carrying a box. “For now.” He saw Emma at the table and his eyes narrowed. “What are you doing, Jessie?”

“Me and Miss Emma were talking.”

Emma’s cheeks burned with guilt. She kept her head down, afraid to meet Boothe’s gaze as she waited for Jessie to tell his father about their discussion over hospitals.

“She said I could have a doll.” Jessie’s comment dripped with disgust.

Boothe chuckled, pulling Emma’s gaze from her work. His eyes seemed softer, like the first gentle light of morning. He held her gaze for a heartbeat and then another. Her heart felt as if it stopped beating as something passed between them, something fragile, tenuous, unfamiliar and slightly frightening.

“I told her I’m not a girl.” Jessie’s voice sliced through the moment.

Boothe grinned at his son.

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