The Path To Her Heart

“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.”