She followed. The cabin’s single bedroom. Henry on the bed. Unmoving.
A cry on her lips, she rushed across the room. “Henry! It’s me, Bailey! Wake up!”
He didn’t respond and Tony leaped onto the bed, then began licking his face.
Henry moaned.
Alive. Thank God.
Bailey shooed Tony away. Henry’s scarred face was flushed. She laid a hand on his forehead, found him burning up with fever. She wondered how long he had been ill, it could have been days now.
His eyes opened. They were glassy with fever.
“True,” he said.
“No, it’s Bailey.” He caught her hand. His skin was dry and hot. “True,” he said again. “I was so afraid they had—”
He moaned again, his eyes closing and his grip going limp.
He needed water, she thought. And a fever reducer. But when she tried to go, he clutched her hand again. “Don’t go.”
Tears stung her eyes. Her mother had said almost the same thing to her the day she died.
“I won’t, I promise. I’ll be right back.” His grip didn’t ease. “I promise, Henry. I’m just going to get you some water.”
And then he let go. His eyes closed and she saw the tension slip out of him. For one terrifying moment, she thought he had died. Just slipped away, the way her mother had.
No, she realized as she saw his chest rise and fall.
She hurried for the water. Then rifled through the bathroom for some Advil. She found some, said a silent prayer and returned to the old man’s side.
She got the fever reducer and some water down him, then went for a cool, damp cloth.
Minutes passed as she alternated between offering him sips of water and replacing the cloths. He moaned and stirred. Occasionally he flailed, batting at imaginary demons. Each time, she would speak quietly and softly and he would again fall into a fitful sleep.
Finally, his skin cooled and he slipped into what appeared to be a peaceful sleep, Tony curled up beside him.
When she was certain she could leave his side, Bailey cleaned up Tony’s messes, scrubbing the floor and rug and depositing the refuse in the outside bin, then went back to sit by the bed.
A photo there on the nightstand caught her eye. Logan’s mother, she realized. Young and lovely, standing beside a horse, smiling at the camera. Bailey picked it up, squinting at the grainy image. Not at the camera. At Henry. Totally relaxed and happy.
She replaced the photo, then crossed to the dresser, to a couple more. Another of Elisabeth Abbott, with babies in her arms. Two babies. Another, of Logan and another boy. Logan looked to be ten or so, the other boy half that. They stood side by side, shirtless, broad smiles on their faces.
She studied the photograph. The other boy looked eerily similar to Logan. In fact, their faces were near replicas of each other’s. They could be twins save for the fact Logan was clearly older.
Her legs went weak. A brother? Logan had a brother he hadn’t told her about? They looked so similar, it had to be.
How could he not have told her about a brother? It took her breath away.
What else hadn’t he told her?
She shifted her attention to the next photo. Logan, Raine and the other boy. Raine, also smiling. Looking carefree and truly happy, Bailey thought. They all did.
That hurt, too. She wondered what had happened to steal their happiness.
Bailey ventured out of the bedroom. As she had suspected she would, she found more photographs. The kind missing from the big house. Of children growing up. Events in their lives.
Of a family, proudly displayed.
Henry thought of Logan’s family as his own, she realized. Tears pricked her eyes and she moved on. Among the shots of the Abbott kids were several of another girl. In first communion white; atop a horse with a big, blue ribbon affixed to its bridle; in a high school graduation cap and gown. She looked familiar, Bailey thought, though she didn’t know from where.
The last photograph caused her to stop. True. At least that’s who she suspected the lovely blonde in the photograph was, her arms around Logan.
She and True did look alike. Bailey cocked her head, studying the image. The woman’s bright, beautiful smile. Her hair and eyes, the shape of her mouth and tilt of her chin. Perhaps, from a distance, each could be mistaken for the other, or by a mere acquaintance. But those familiar with the women would immediately realize the truth: Bailey was a pale imitation of the other woman.
The realization brought more than a pinch of jealousy and the horrible question: When Logan said he had eyes only for her, was it because she looked like True?
A sound came from the bedroom. Henry stirring. Muttering something. She hurried back. “It’s all right,” she murmured. “You’re going to be just fine.”
But was he? she wondered, laying her hand gently on his forehead. She had no idea how long he had been sick, whether what he had was viral or bacterial. She couldn’t leave him out here alone; he could very well need professional care. At his age, maybe a hospital.
A hospital. But how would she get him into the Range Rover? Logan wouldn’t be home from New Orleans for hours and by then— Paul, she thought. Paul could help her.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Paul took one look at Henry and decided they needed to get him to the emergency room. He had to carry the man to the truck; the emergency room doctor immediately admitted him.
Bailey sat in the waiting room, Paul at the nurses’ station, trying to get ahold of Henry’s niece. In the meantime, she had left Logan a message about what was going on.
“Steph’s on her way,” Paul said, stepping back into the room. “She was pretty upset.”
“Where’s she coming from?”
“Wholesome.” He settled into the seat beside her. “You haven’t met?”
She shook her head. They fell silent.
After several moments, Paul broke it. “You let Logan know where you were?”
“I did.”
“Good.”
Bailey glanced his way. “How’d you two become friends?”
“Logan and I?” She nodded. “We’ve known each other since elementary school.”