A Thousand Little Blessings by Claire Sanders Page A

father’s cheeks and chin. Why hadn’t the nurse shaved him?
    Etta withdrew two quilt squares from the basket and showed them to her father. “I found these in Mom’s sewing room. I’m going to try my hand at finishing the quilt she started.”
    Henry moved his left arm toward the fabric.
    Etta placed the quilt square in his hand. “I don’t know much about sewing, but I can put the squares together. Then I’ll ask Sara to help me quilt them.”
    A tear ran down her father’s bristled cheek.
    Concern and panic tightened Etta’s throat. She’d never seen her father cry. Should she comfort him or give him privacy?
    He choked on a sob as more tears flowed from his reddened eyes.
    Tears sprang to Etta’s eyes as well. Her poor, dear Papa. Always so strong. Always so proper. She stood and removed a handkerchief from her pocket. “It’s OK, Papa,” she whispered as she dried his cheeks. “You’ll get better.”
    He groaned and pushed her away.
    Etta bit her lip as she stumbled back. She should have known better than to embarrass him. She resumed her seat and focused on pinning together two of the quilt squares. A sharp pain pierced her throat as she listened to her father struggle to contain his grief. She wanted to embrace him or hold his hand, but he wasn’t that kind of man. Even if she meant to comfort, the result might be unintended embarrassment. Perhaps she should step into the hall, but wouldn’t that convey the message she found his emotions distasteful? Nothing could be farther from the truth.
    She sewed in silence, carefully whipstitching the two pieces of fabric together and removing the pins as she went along. Please send Papa comfort , she prayed while she sewed. Help him endure this illness . Each stitch was a prayer for her father’s recovery.
    Rosa called to her from the hall. “I have your dinner, mija.”
    Etta laid her sewing in the basket and brought a small table to the chair. “Bring it in, Rosa.”
    The housekeeper entered as though she walked a tightrope. Keeping her eyes on the floor, she set the tray of food on the table and spoke in a low tone. “Let me know if you want something else.”
    Why wouldn’t Rosa look at her father? “Thank you, Rosa. I’ll bring down the tray when I’m finished.”
    Rosa ducked her head and tiptoed out of the room. Etta scrutinized the food. “Papa, Rosa sent up a bowl of your favorite soup, the kind with the little meatballs. Would you like some?”
    Henry moved his head slowly from side-to-side. Whether he had no appetite or simply declined to have his daughter spoon-feed him, Etta decided not to push the matter.
    “I have more news for you,” she said as she ate from her bowl of soup. “Rosa’s nephew, Benito, is coming every morning to clean the stalls and let the horses out. I went to the stable when I got home and everything looks very nice.”
    “Hmph.”
    “Do you remember Sara Benson’s son?” Etta watched her father for a reaction, but his gaze was fixed to a spot on the wall over her head. “His name is Gabriel. He’s volunteered to exercise the horses and to oversee their care.”
    Her father’s gaze didn’t waver, but he slowly nodded his head.
    “Now, the best news of all. I’ve hired a man to help you. His name is Charlie Simpson. Dr. Russell recommended him and so did his former commander. He was an Army medic, and according to Captain Ross, Charlie worked as a reconstruction aide.” Her father’s wooden expression never changed. “I’d never heard that term, but Captain Ross told me it’s a new field of medicine aimed at helping people with brain injuries. Reconstruction aides work with patients to help them regain mobility.” Etta laid her spoon on the tray and fingered the linen napkin in her lap.
    If only her father could tell her what he needed. He’d always told her what to do, not the other way around.
    “Charlie will be here tomorrow morning.”
    Henry’s gaze lowered to Etta’s face, and she held her