“I considered it.”
He looked toward her.
For the first time, there was no disappointment in his expression.
Only curiosity.
That night was the longest of Nola’s life at Hollow Creek.
Weston’s fever rose again after midnight.
Not as high.
Still enough to terrify Garrick.
Nola had no miracle.
No special medicine.
Only water.
Cool cloths.
Broth.
Rest.
Observation.
And the refusal to pour more unknown liquid into him.
At two in the morning, the boy began sweating heavily.
Nola changed his shirt.
Garrick stood beside the bed.
“Is that bad?”
“Not necessarily.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means his body may be breaking the fever.”
“May?”
“Yes.”
“I hate that word.”
“So do I.”
Weston slept.
At three, his temperature dropped a little.
At four, more.
At dawn, he opened his eyes and whispered:
“Hungry.”
Garrick made a sound Nola would remember for the rest of her life.
Half laugh.
Half sob.
He bent over his son.
“What do you want?”
“Biscuit.”
Nola immediately said:
“No.”
Both father and son looked at her.
“Broth.”
Weston’s face collapsed.
“Biscuit.”
“Broth.”
“Mean.”
“Yes.”
Garrick started laughing.
Weston glared.
Nola looked toward Garrick.
“You encourage him?”
“No.”
“You’re laughing.”
“I haven’t slept.”
“Convenient excuse.”
The boy whispered:
“Papa.”
“Yes?”
“Is she staying?”
The room changed.
Nola went still.
Garrick looked toward her.
Neither had discussed anything beyond the next hour.
Garrick answered carefully:
“For now.”
Weston closed his eyes again.
“Good.”
Nola turned toward the window so nobody could see what that simple word did to her.
By the second morning, Weston’s fever was half what it had been.
By afternoon, he complained about broth.
Nola considered this excellent evidence of recovery.
Garrick remained near the house longer than he had in months.
At first he paced.
Then he repaired a broken chair at the kitchen table simply to keep his hands occupied.
Clara sat beside him drawing circles with a piece of charcoal.
Eli watched the road.
Every ten minutes.
Nola finally said:
“Amos cannot ride sixty miles in ten minutes.”
“I know.”
“You keep checking.”
“I’m not.”
“You are standing at the window now.”
Eli looked down.
Nola softened.
“So am I.”
That seemed to help.
At noon, a rider appeared.
Not Amos.
Dr. Wren.
Garrick stood so quickly the chair fell backward.
Nola looked toward the window.
The doctor rode a dark gelding and carried the same black medical case he had apparently carried on every visit during Mae’s illness.
Garrick’s hand moved toward the rifle above the door.
Nola stepped between him and the wall.
“No.”
His eyes were cold.