The Path To Her Heart. Linda Ford

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      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.