UNBROKEN PROMISE

~55~ Fever

The next morning, Oma greeted Logan at the breakfast table, her voice quiet and her complexion pale. Logan immediately noticed something was off. Her usual energy was replaced with a sluggishness that set off alarm bells in his mind.

"You feelin’ alright?" he asked, his gaze steady and full of concern.

Oma gave him a faint smile and a nod. "I’m fine, Logan," she replied, but the way she avoided his eyes told a different story.

Logan didn’t push her, though his worry deepened. As she stood up to wash the dishes after their meal, he kept a close eye on her. She moved slowly, her hand gripping the edge of the counter as if steadying herself.

It wasn’t until she bent forward, clutching her head, that Logan was out of his chair and by her side in an instant. He placed a hand on her shoulder, the heat of her skin startling him.

"Lord, Oma, you’re burnin’ up," he said, his voice tight with alarm. She shivered under his touch, her fragile frame trembling as she tried to stand upright.

"I’m fine," she murmured weakly, but her body betrayed her words.

Logan didn’t hesitate. He scooped her into his arms, her weight barely registering as she rested her head against his chest. She was too hot, too fragile, and his heart pounded with worry as he carried her to her bedroom.

He laid her down gently, brushing the damp strands of hair from her face. Her cheeks were flushed, and her breathing came in shallow bursts. Grabbing the thermometer, he quickly checked her temperature. The numbers confirmed what he already feared—it was dangerously high.

"You just rest now," he said softly, his tone firm but kind. "I’m gonna get Mama Becca."

Oma nodded weakly, her eyes fluttering shut as Logan hurried out of the room.

------

Mama Becca didn’t need much convincing. The moment Logan burst into the main house and explained the situation, she grabbed a basin, cloths, and a bottle of cool water before following him back to the house.

When they arrived, Mama Becca quickly took charge, her years of experience evident in the way she moved. She helped Oma into a soft nightdress, her hands gentle as she cooed soothing words.

"There, darlin’, let’s get you cooled down a bit," Mama Becca murmured, dabbing a cool cloth over Oma’s forehead and neck. Her heart ached as she worked.

Logan, feeling restless and helpless, decided to fetch the doctor. He hitched up the wagon, his hands trembling as he gripped the reins. The ride to town felt agonizingly slow, every bump in the road a reminder of how little time he had to spare.

When Logan returned with the doctor, he found Mama Becca still at Oma’s side, carefully sponging her face and arms.

Logan went and sat on the edge of the bed, his hands curled into fists as he watched Oma shiver beneath the heavy quilt. Oma’s face was pale, her lips dry, and damp curls clung to her fevered brow. Every now and then, she whimpered, shifting weakly, only to be seized by another violent shudder.

Near the washbasin, Mama Becca dipped a cloth into cool water, wrung it out, and pressed it gently against Oma’s forehead. "Hush now, baby girl," she murmured, her voice rich with warmth and reassurance.

"Mama Becca’s here. We gon’ take care of you, alright?" She glanced at Logan, concern etched deep in her features. "Her fever ain't breaking, Logan. It keeps coming in spells—shivering one minute, burning up the next. This ain't no common fever."

Logan clenched his jaw, his gaze snapping to Dr. Caldwell, who was preparing his instruments. "Tell me straight, Doc. What are we dealing with?"

Dr. Caldwell sighed, withdrawing a slim glass thermometer from his worn leather bag. "From what you’ve told me, it sounds like malaria. We’ve had cases cropping up near the river. The fever rises and falls in waves, just like this."