The Path To Her Heart. Linda Ford

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      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.”

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