Nola stared at the child.
“I’m twenty-five.”
Weston closed his eyes.
“Old.”
For the first time since arriving at Hollow Creek, Garrick Hale laughed.
It lasted less than a second.
But it happened.
Nola looked toward him.
He looked almost ashamed.
She smiled despite herself.
Then Weston whispered:
“Water.”
Nola gave it to him one spoonful at a time.
He swallowed.
No vomiting.
Better again.
Garrick watched.
Hope appeared on his face.
Tiny.
Dangerous.
Nola knew hope could break a person harder than despair.
Still, she let him have it.
By midnight, Weston’s fever had dropped enough that he slept without delirium.
Nola refused to call him safe.
Garrick refused to leave the chair beside the bed.
Eli and Clara finally slept across another mattress in the corner.
Nola sat on the floor with her back against the wall.
The medicine box rested between her and Garrick.
Neither had touched it for hours.
Rain began tapping softly against the roof.
Garrick stared at his son.
Then:
“You really are twenty-five?”
Nola looked at him.
“That is what you choose to discuss?”
He rubbed one hand over his face.
“You don't look—”
She raised a finger.
“Finish carefully.”
He almost smiled.
“I was told the agency was sending someone experienced.”
“I am experienced.”
“At twenty-five?”
“Misfortune works quickly.”
That erased his smile.
He looked toward her.
She did not explain.
He asked:
“Why take the job?”
“Money.”
“Only?”
“Room.”
“Board.”
“Thirty dollars a month.”
“You traveled three days for thirty dollars.”
“Yes.”
He studied her.
“Why?”
Nola stared toward the floorboards.
“Because I needed somewhere new.”
That was all she offered.
Garrick understood boundaries better than he had in the afternoon.
He nodded.
A long silence followed.
Then:
“I was cruel when you arrived.”
“Yes.”
“I expected someone older.”
“You asked for someone younger.”
He looked embarrassed.
“I asked for someone twenty or so.”
“I’m twenty-five.”
“You looked tired.”
Nola stared.
“That is somehow worse.”
“I mean—”
“You should stop.”
He nodded.
“Probably.”
A small smile passed between them.
Then Garrick’s eyes moved toward the medicine box.
It vanished.
“Mae trusted Dr. Wren.”
Nola said nothing.
“So did I.”
“Trust isn't stupidity.”
“It feels like it.”
“Only afterward.”
He looked toward her.
Nola continued:
“You had a sick wife.”
“A failing ranch.”
“Three children.”
“A doctor showed up.”
“Most men would call that salvation.”
His jaw tightened.
“And if he killed her?”
“Then trusting a man who presented himself as a physician did not make you responsible.”
Garrick’s eyes filled.
He looked away.
“I gave her the medicine.”
There it was.