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She pulled a hankie from her pocket, rolled it up, then thrust it between the child’s teeth as though she’d done it before. “He has the falling sickness,” she said, peering up at Addie.
    “Epilepsy,” Mr. Driscoll said, his tone sharply corrective.
    The nurse inclined her head and glanced at Gideon. “What a blessing your dog pulled Edward down so he didn’t fall, Miss.”
    “I have never seen him act that way,” Addie said. “It was almost as if he knew what was coming.”
    “Nonsense,” Mr. Driscoll said. “He was practically attacking the boy.”
    “Gideon has never attacked anyone.” Addie petted the dog’s head. “Look at him, Mr. Driscoll. He’s worried about Edward.” Gideon lay near the child. His dark eyes never left Edward’s face. He whined and licked Edward’s cheek.
    The man studied dog and boy. “Nonsense,” he said again, but his tone lacked conviction.
    A putt-putt from behind caused her to turn. A most unusual contraption came rolling up the drive. It resembled a buggy, but there was no horse pulling it. The sun glimmered on shiny red paint and black leather seats. The wheels turned around red spokes. An oily stink roiled from it. The man in the seat behind the wheel wore a leather coat and beret, and a scarf around his neck. And a huge smile. Beside him sat a familiar set of wide shoulders encased in a navy uniform.
    “Is that my father?” she whispered.
    “It most certainly is. In his new Cadillac.”
    Henry. Her father. Her legs twitched and adrenaline surged, but she forced herself to remain still and watch him maneuver the vehicle over the potholes until it stopped with a final putt . Lieutenant North leaped out, then the automobile rolled on to the carriage house. Neither of the men noticed the boy on the ground.

    John spotted Miss Sullivan the moment he dismounted the automobile. She stood to one side with Driscoll, and he caught a gleam of auburn hair under her large hat. She was just as attractive as she’d been in town and inspired the same leap in his pulse. He’d hoped his reaction had been a temporary insanity.
    She and Driscoll and Edward’s nurse, Yvonne, faced a form on the ground, and it took a moment for the scene to register. When he recognized his son, he ran toward his boy. “Edward!” He knelt beside him.
    The boy’s eyelids moved, but he didn’t awaken. At least no seizure contorted his features. “He had a seizure?” he asked, glancing up at Yvonne. She nodded. He touched Edward’s forehead. “Edward. Wake up, son.”
    There was still no response and likely wouldn’t be for a few more minutes. Edward would be tired for hours. John clenched his fists. If only he could fix this for his son. He took a deep breath, then smoothed his son’s hair. “It’s all right, Edward. I’m here.”
    “He collapsed so quickly,” Miss Sullivan said in that compelling, husky voice.
    He rose and nodded. “Were you here when Edward’s attack occurred?”
    “Yes, Lieutenant North.” Her worried eyes never left the boy. “We’d just come out to meet him when he fell.”
    He lifted his son in his arms and carried him toward the house. The young woman fell into step beside him. The dog started to follow her, and she made a hand gesture that stopped it in its tracks.
    “Is there anything I can do? If I’m going to be with him most of the day, I need to know how to handle this when it happens.”
    At least she wasn’t flustered by the incident. She’d taken charge here the same way she’d done in the sweatshop. His deceased wife had dissolved into hysterics every time Edward had a “fit,” as she called it. She’d never reconciled herself to the idea that her son had a chronic problem.
    “Come with me,” he told her.
    He carried his son into the house and up the staircase to his bedroom. He laid the boy on top of the quilt and stood staring down at him. He ached to take the ailment on himself, but all he could do was stand by.
    Miss Sullivan stepped