The Path To Her Heart. Linda Ford
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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