She looked at his swollen and reddened eyes. “I’ve asked myself that a few times.” She wasn’t sure, but it seemed there was a hint of a smile on the older man’s lips.

“You . . . hate me.”

She shook her head and helped Mr. Carson take a spoonful of honeyed tea. “I wanted to, but I don’t hate you.”

Another moan escaped as he closed his eyes. “I hate myself . . . sometimes.” His voice was low and raspy.

She had no idea what to say and so said nothing. Instead, she focused on making sure she had plenty of willow bark tea and vinegar solution. She thought Mr. Carson had gone back to sleep, but when she glanced over, she found him watching her.

“You need to rest and keep your eyes closed as much as possible. The irritation can cause a great amount of pain. We want to avoid further damage.”

He gave a weak cough. “Not sure it will matter.”

“But it does. Luke just lost his brother, and it would be terrible to lose his father as well. I know that pain, and there is nothing like it.”

“You were . . . very fond of your father . . . weren’t you?”

Her mind flooded with memories. “I was. He was a very good father to us.” She picked up the wet cloth and wrung it out. Once again, she began to wipe Mr. Carson’s face and neck.

“I’m sorry. That he . . . died. Sorry too . . . for things I said.”

She didn’t know whether these were just the words of someone who thought himself about to die, or if the old man actually felt remorse. Either way, she would forgive him. She was determined she would forgive him.

“Tell me about him. About . . . your . . . life here.”

“It was a good life.”

“Seems it was . . . a hard one,” Carson murmured.

“Sometimes. But we worked together, and that made everything better. When my mother and brother and sister were alive, we shared the workload. JT was too little to be of much help, but even he was taught early on to lend a hand. My father always provided financially, and Mama said it was our job to make a happy home for him.” Gloriana smiled, remembering those days. “But that wasn’t hard. We were just happy by nature of who we were.”

“And your . . . father. Was he . . . happy?”

“Oh yes. Maybe even more than we were. He loved to be on the lake fishing. Scott did too. I don’t know if he told you that. For both of them, the lake was in their blood. Some men have described it as a bond they just can’t break. Papa used to say he could no more live without the lake than live without air.”

“Yet . . . it killed him.”