The boy’s cheeks were red enough to frighten her, but the fever itself was not the thing tightening her stomach anymore. She slipped the medicine bottle into the deep pocket of her apron, wrung out the damp cloth, and replaced it across his forehead.
“Water,” she said.
Garrick did not respond.
Nola looked over her shoulder.
“Garrick.”
His eyes were still fixed on her pocket.
She spoke more sharply.
“Water. Small cup. Cool, not cold.”
He blinked.
Then moved.
The rancher who had seemed so immovable when she arrived less than an hour earlier now obeyed like a man walking through smoke.
Eli hurried after him.
Clara remained beside the bed.
The five-year-old had both hands locked around the back of the wooden chair. Her eyes were wide.
“Nola?”
“Yes?”
“Is Weston going to die like Mama?”
The question hit harder than anything Garrick had said.
Nola slowly sat on the edge of the bed.
Children deserved honesty.
They did not deserve adult terror disguised as certainty.
“He is very sick.”
Clara’s chin trembled.
“But I think we caught something important.”
“What?”
Nola glanced toward the doorway.
“The medicine may be making him worse.”
Clara stared at Nola’s apron pocket.
“That medicine was Mama’s.”
Nola froze.
“What did you say?”
Clara pointed.
“The brown kind.”
“You remember it?”
The child nodded.
“Papa kept it in the top cupboard because Mama said it tasted bad.”
“How bad?”
Clara twisted her little face.
“She made a face every time.”
“What kind of face?”
“Like pennies.”
Nola’s heartbeat changed.
“Pennies?”
Clara nodded.
“She said her mouth tasted like she had been chewing pennies.”
Nola placed one hand carefully over Clara’s.
“Did she say anything else?”
The little girl thought.
“Her belly hurt.”
“Her hands shook.”
“Sometimes she couldn’t hold her sewing needle.”
Nola felt cold despite the heat in the room.
Garrick returned carrying the water.
He heard the last sentence.
The cup almost slipped from his hand.
“Clara.”
The child looked toward him.
“You remember that?”
Clara nodded.
“You told me Mama was tired.”
Garrick went pale.
Nola took the cup before he dropped it.
“Sit.”
“I’m fine.”
“Sit.”
He did.
Nola lifted Weston slightly and gave him only a little water at a time.
The boy swallowed with difficulty.
But he swallowed.
That mattered.
After a few minutes, she looked toward Garrick.
“Where are your wife’s medicines?”
His face closed.
“I packed her things.”
“Where?”
“Nola—”
“Where?”
He looked toward the children.
She lowered her voice.
“If there is another bottle in this house, I need to see it.”
Garrick rubbed both hands over his face.
“Under my bed.”
“In a cedar box.”