He considered Michael’s wince when he’d shrugged. Something wasn’t right and Diesel was going to find out what. “But before we leave, I noticed your shoulder seems to be hurting. Are you okay?”

Michael nodded, his eyes narrowing. “Yes,” he signed, just as tersely as he’d signed the “no.”

“No, he’s not,” Joshua protested and Michael turned to him with a glare. “You’re not,” Joshua insisted, his signs as curt as Michael’s had been. “His shoulder hurts. His head, too. It was bleeding this morning.”

Jaw taut, Michael signed, “I’m fine,” with enough force to hurt himself.

Once again, Diesel held up his hands, palms out. “If you’re bleeding, you should let Mrs. Moody check you out. She’s a retired nurse.”

“She’s real nice, Michael,” Joshua added after he’d relayed Diesel’s words.

Mrs. Moody came forward slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal. She smiled that motherly smile that Diesel had loved at first glance. “How do I sign ‘please,’ Joshua?” she asked.

He showed her and she followed his instructions, circling her flat palm over her heart. “Please?”

Michael took a mutinous step back, arms crossed over his chest.

Diesel sighed and started to sign again. “If it gets infected”—he had to spell that word out—“you’ll get sick, and then who will take care of Joshua?”

Michael met and held his gaze for a long, long moment. Then he finally nodded and bowed his head, so that Mrs. Moody could take a look.

Mrs. Moody was gentle and quick, her expression telling Diesel that what she saw wasn’t good. “It’s a bad cut,” she murmured. “It needs a thorough cleaning and stitches. At least two or three. It’s still oozing blood.” She took a step back. “Joshua, can you ask him when this happened?”

Joshua apparently didn’t need to ask. “At breakfast,” he said, signing as he spoke. “Mama hit him with a bowl.” He then relayed to his brother what Mrs. Moody had said about stitches.

“No.” Michael voiced the word, his tone flat and unyielding.

“It’s still bleeding,” Mrs. Moody said softly. “You could get very sick.”

Fear flashed in Michael’s eyes as Joshua interpreted. “No doctors,” Michael signed. “Mom . . . will be mad. She won’t pay.”

Diesel had to swallow back his rage once again. “What if I could take you to a doctor who would fix you up for free?” he signed. “She signs, too. Her name is Dr. Novak. She’s very nice.” And never far from his thoughts. His pulse skittered at the chance of seeing her today.

She’d made it very clear that her rejection of his clumsy advances had had “nothing to do with him.” He hadn’t believed her, of course, but had foolishly held out hope, just the same. Today, he’d be content with just seeing her.