Nick sighed inwardly, but he understood. When he left the livery, Nick walked the long way about town, resisting an immediate return to the hotel. He ought to inform JT about the possibility.
But how was he to tell Willa how sick her father likely was? One thing was for certain—he couldn’t tell her about the elixir now. He’d keep that information to himself.
Chapter Seventeen
IT WAS TWO DAYS UNTILChristmas, and Willa stood in the darkness of her father’s room. He was sleeping fitfully, and for the hundredth time, she prayed Nick was wrong. He’d told her his suspicions last night, carefully and with his hand around hers. Willa hadn’t wanted to believe it. She clung to the possibility that Papa might improve. She’d stood still and stoic, until Nick had finally folded her into his arms, holding her to his chest while stroking her hair. She didn’t know how long they’d stood there, but when she pulled away, she felt calm and hopeful. They knew nothing yet, and only the passage of time would reveal what was true.
“Petra,” Papa said now from his bed.
Willa flew to his side. He was feverish and delirious in calling out her mother’s name. “It’s me, Papa. Willa.”
“Petra,” he repeated, his eyes gazing at nothing on the ceiling.
“I’ll get you a cool cloth for your head.” Willa jumped up and ran to the pitcher to soak a towel.
“No. Petra Rogers. Where is my wife?”
Willa turned as she wrung out the water from the towel. “Mama’s name was Petra Rousseau, Papa. She isn’t here.” She didn’t have the heart to tell him that Mama had passed on years ago.
But he didn’t seem to hear her, or even know she was there. Instead, he kept looking at the ceiling, even after she laid the cloth on his head. “Petra. Where is Petra Rogers?”
Willa drew her lip between her teeth. It was the fever talking, making him ask for her. Willa had seen that before, once when Leroy had taken ill and spent hours calling for his mother. But why was Papa calling Mama by the wrong name? Before she’d married Papa, her name had been Petra Bailey. Willa was certain of that . . . or so she’d thought. Could she have been wrong?
She took Papa’s hand and held on to it. She wasn’t wrong. She’d had an Uncle Bailey back in Missouri, and Mama had an embroidered handkerchief with her initials that Willa had loved to admire as a young girl.
Was the fever causing the confusion? It had to be.
Papa finally closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, just as a knock came at the door. Willa took half a moment at the glass near the pitcher and basin, smoothing her hair and pinching her cheeks. She looked as if she hadn’t slept much, and while that was true, it wasn’t exactly how she wished to present herself to Nick.
A smile on her face, she opened the door. But it wasn’t Nick at all; it was Leroy.
“Is everything well?” he asked, furrowing his eyebrows at her change in expression.
Was she that obvious? Willa turned her head on the pretense of checking on Papa, when really, she didn’t want Leroy to see her embarrassment. “He’s still fevered. He’s been calling for my mother.”
“May I come in and see him?”
