PART 2 — THE SECRET BENEATH THE WATER

For three nights, Nola Vance barely slept.

Weston’s fever rose and fell like a cruel tide.

She cooled his burning skin with damp cloths, coaxed tiny amounts of water between his cracked lips, and sat beside the cradle through the darkest hours of the night.

Every few hours, Garrick appeared in the doorway.

He never entered.

He simply stood there, watching.

On the third night, just before dawn, he finally asked the question he had been carrying in silence.

“Is he going to live?”

Nola looked at the baby.

“He’s fighting.”

Garrick swallowed.

“And?”

Nola met his eyes.

“So am I.”

Near sunrise, Weston stirred.

His tiny hand moved beneath the blanket.

Then his eyes opened.

For the first time in days, they were clear.

He looked at Nola.

His fingers curled around hers.

And then, impossibly, the baby smiled.

Nola’s breath caught.

Behind her, something scraped against the floor.

Garrick had sunk into the nearest chair.

He covered his face with both hands.

His shoulders trembled.

Nola looked away.

She pretended not to see him crying.

Some grief deserved privacy.

Especially the grief of a father who had been afraid he was about to bury another child.

By afternoon, Hollow Creek felt different.

Clara followed Nola everywhere.

She carried folded towels as proudly as if they were gold.

Eli, who had watched Nola suspiciously since her arrival, began asking questions.

“Why do you put salt in the stew before the meat?”

“Because flavor doesn’t wait until the end.”

“Why do you knead bread that long?”

“Because patience makes it rise.”

He considered this seriously.

“Does that work with people?”

Nola smiled.

“Sometimes.”

Even Garrick seemed different.

He came back from the fields before dark.

He sat at the table with his children.

He listened when Clara talked.

He even laughed once.

It was brief.

Almost unfamiliar.

But Nola heard it.

And for the first time, she wondered whether Hollow Creek could actually become a home.

Then she noticed the northern pasture.

Every evening, Garrick checked it twice.

Always alone.

Always after sunset.

And whenever anyone mentioned Vernon Crow, something cold passed through his expression.

Nola noticed everything.

It was a habit survival had taught her.

On the fourth day, she found the box.

She had been cleaning beneath the pantry table when one floorboard shifted beneath her hand.

Nola frowned.

The board wasn’t nailed down.

She lifted it.

Beneath the floor sat a small wooden box covered in dust.

Inside were letters.

Several were addressed to Garrick’s late wife.

Nola knew she should close the box.

She knew she had no right to read another woman’s private correspondence.

Then she saw the name on the final envelope.

Vernon Crow.

Her hand stopped.

Slowly, she unfolded the letter.

The paper was yellowed at the edges.

The handwriting was hurried.

Fearful.

“You promised Garrick would never discover what happened at the north well. If he learns the truth about the water, we both lose everything.”

Nola read the sentence twice.

Then a third time.

Her heart began to pound.

The north well.

The water.

Weston’s illness.

A woman who had supposedly wasted away for six months.

Vernon Crow trying to acquire the ranch.

None of it felt like coincidence anymore.

She was still staring at the letter when footsteps sounded behind her.

Slow.

Heavy.

Nola turned.

Garrick stood in the pantry doorway.

His eyes went immediately to the letter in her hand.

The color drained from his face.

For several seconds, neither moved.

Then Garrick spoke.

Quietly.

Almost too quietly.

“Where did you find that?”

Nola opened her mouth.

Before she could answer, a scream tore across the yard.

“Pa!”

Eli.

Both of them ran.

Eli stood beside the water trough, frozen in terror.

Nola reached him first.

“What happened?”

The boy pointed.

Floating on the surface of the water was a dead bird.

Its feathers were soaked and limp.

A few feet away, three cattle lay collapsed in the dirt.

One twitched weakly.

Then went still.

Garrick stopped breathing.

Nola looked at him.

He wasn’t looking at the cattle.

He was staring toward the northern pasture.

Toward the old well.

The same well mentioned in his wife’s letter.

Slowly, Garrick walked forward.

Nola followed.

“What happened here?”

He didn’t answer.

“Garrick.”

Still nothing.

She held up the letter.

“Did your wife know something about that water?”

His face tightened.

Nola stepped closer.

“Did Vernon Crow poison the well?”

Garrick finally looked at her.

And the fear in his eyes was worse than any answer.

“No,” he whispered.

Nola’s stomach dropped.

“No?”

Garrick stared toward the northern pasture.

“If Vernon had poisoned the water…”

He stopped.

“What?”

His voice became barely audible.

“He wouldn’t be trying to buy this ranch.”

Nola felt cold spread through her.

“Then what does he want?”

Garrick looked at the dead cattle.

Then at the old well.

Then back at Nola.

“I don’t know.”

A long silence followed.

The wind moved across the dead grass.

Somewhere beyond the house, a gate creaked.

Then Garrick noticed something in the dirt beside the trough.

A fresh boot print.

Not his.

Not Eli’s.

Not Nola’s.

Someone had been standing there.

Watching.

Nola slowly tightened her grip around the letter.

Garrick’s wife hadn’t simply died.

The ranch wasn’t simply failing.

And whatever had happened at that northern well had not ended with her death.

It had only been waiting.

For someone to uncover it.