But he couldn’t allow his feelings to go too far. She was in a delicate place. Still grieving. She was also his patient.
Her headaches bothered him. And with the way she’d been reluctant to speak about how she was handling them, it didn’t take much for him to imagine a scenario he didn’t like. Especially since they seemed to be increasing in severity and frequency.
As he dipped his spoon into the soup, he flipped through the pages ofThe American Year-Book of Medicine and Surgery. Perhaps somewhere in this digest he could find some helpful information to treat her. He had to do something.
By the time he finished the soup, he’d gone through every medical book he’d brought with him. Nothing about head injury explained why Whitney was still having the headaches. The first few days—even weeks—after the injury, yes, but this long after that? The pain should have tapered off, not gotten worse. Once the stiffness in her neck was gone and there was no swelling on the back of her head...
No. It simply didn’t add up.
He stood and paced the room. Medical challenges kept him sharp. Inspiration usually came after much prayer and research. He lifted his eyes to the ceiling.Father God, I need Your divine inspiration here. If it is Your will, please show me what I can do to help Whitney.
A knock at the door tore his attention away. “Come in.”
Amka entered and retrieved the tray from his meal. “One of the children is crying out in pain.”
Peter went to the basin and washed his hands. “I’ll be right there.”
An hour later, he held the toddler in his arms and rocked back and forth. Nothing had helped the poor child until he cried himself to sleep. Now the children were resting, and it was a beautiful thing to look around the room and see the many sleeping faces. Most of them were past the fever, but they would take several days to recover completely.
Normally one of the women was in the room watching over the children, but he’d sent them away for a time of rest. He was awake anyway. And he’d never had a problem sleeping in a chair if it came down to it. He had to keep the whole village as healthy as possible, which meant ensuring the caregivers were getting rest.
The little boy in his lap curled closer, and Peter felt the boy’s pulse.
Then it hit him.
Thank You, Lord!
As soon as one of the women returned, he’d look it up in his medical books. But if he was correct, he might know how to help Whitney.
Whitney reached for the door and then stopped. No. She wasn’t about to let her father have the last word. She whipped around. “I don’t have to justify myself to you, but fine, if you have to be nosey...” She let out a breath. “I had my first glass of wine with dinner tonight. I didn’t realize that it would make me tipsy. I thought it would be more like juice.After all, they drank wine in biblical times, and the Good Book even says that it’s good for the stomach.”
Her father stared at her for several moments. “One glass isn’t enough to make you tipsy.”
Even though his words were soft, they struck their mark with force.
“You know where alcohol took me, and I don’t want you suffering the same fate.”
So he knew she’d had more than one glass. But did he know more than that? She wasn’t like him. She took sips out of the tonic bottle for medicinal purposes. It helped with her headaches and anxiety. No matter how many times she repeated that last statement in her mind, it still made her cringe. But she wasn’t about to tell him that.
“Look, it’s far too cold for us to be standing out here chatting. Let me go along with you tomorrow when you go back to the village. That way you don’t have to be alone.”
“No. I’ll be fine. I don’t mind being alone.” Why did he always get her ire up?
“Whitney, I insist. You’re not going to feel very well in the morning.” He stepped closer.
Enough! “You have no right to insist aboutanythingin my life. Ihateyou. I hate you for what you did to our family. I hate you for perpetuating the lie that you were dead. You all but killed our mother because you broke her heart. And now that she and Granddad are both gone, I want nothing to do with you. Did you hear me?Nothing!”
Sadness filled his face, but he didn’t lash back at her like she had hoped. Instead, his voice held compassion. “Your feelings are completely understandable. What I did was unforgivable. I know that. But God forgave me, and I’m asking for it from you all the same. Even though I know I don’t deserve it.”
His search for pity might work on someone else, but not on her. “I have no interest in forgiving you. Not now. Not ever.” She whipped around and stormed through the door. Shedding her boots and coat, she mumbled under her breath every insult she’d wanted to fling at him. Howdarehe?
But when she walked toward her room, she stopped at the entry to the parlor. Everyone was gathered there. Their expressions let her know that they’d overheard. Of course they had. She’d been yelling and having an all-out tantrum.
No one said a word, and the uncomfortable silence stretched.
Whitney ran to her room, locked the door behind her, and leaned up against it. Tears flooded her eyes, and great sobs shook her shoulders.
What kind of person was she? No wonder God hated her—she deserved it. What had she become?
