A Cry at Midnight (26 page)

"1837, I believe."

"I was very young then."

"I suppose so. You never did tell me how old you are."

"Does it matter?"

"I don't believe so, unless you try to make up some ridiculous number. Thirteen perhaps, or maybe fifty."

That brought forth a smile. "No, I won't deceive you. I'm twenty five."

"That old," he said, and smiled back as he eased himself off the table. He ached all over. Tomorrow he'd have bruises on top of bruises where he'd been slammed against the wall of the cargo hold.

"I thought you might think I'm too young to know much about children, but that's not true. I have three nieces and nephews I've cared for since they came home from the hospital."

"Hospital? Why were they in the hospital?"

"When they were . . . Oh, I meant, since when they were born. They went to the hospital later, when they were sick."

"Confusing the two events seems odd. Is there something else you want to tell me?"

"No. Look, why don't I see what's keeping your driver? He should have some clothes for you by now. You can't sit around in those wet things all night."

She placed the soiled clothes on the end of the table and made a hasty retreat for the door, but not before he snagged her arm.

"Some day, you're going to tell me the truth."

She looked at him with what appeared to be sadness in her eyes. "You won't believe me."

"More premonitions?"

"No, but I've come to know you pretty well . . . at least I think I do. I know you don't believe me about the flood."

"How can I believe something based on your dreams?"

"What if they're more than dreams?"

"Are you telling me you can
prove
the flood will come and sweep Black Willow Grove away?"

"No, I can't prove that." She broke eye contact, looking down at his hand on her arm.

He let her go, too weary to argue, too confused by her words to consider what she might mean. Leaning back on his arms, he closed his eyes. In a moment, he heard the kitchen door close. Alone, he let the long day's events wash over him. He wanted to go home, back to Black Willow Grove, where he could keep his daughter safe. Where no flood would threaten them.

He would show Miss Randi Galloway that Jackson Durant could take care of his own.

#

Randi helped get the weary travelers settled, but not before dawn. A middle-aged couple, two young lawyers from St. Louis, and a very attractive widow who was cruising the Mississippi with her elderly aunt came to stay at Black Willow Grove. The lawyers were drunk, the couple grumbled about the disaster, and the widow had hungry eyes for Jackson.

Floozy
, Randi thought, closing her bedroom door. The widow had better stay in her own room. If she caught the woman tiptoeing down the hall toward the master suite, she might just find herself tripping over a loose rug . . . or something. Melody had understood what Randi meant with nothing more than a raised eyebrow, and the young maid had gotten very good at slipping around the upstairs. She knew more gossip than anyone, but unfortunately for Randi, all Melody's knowledge seemed to focus on the servants. The "master" never did anything wrong, Melody claimed.

Well, he could just keep his nose clean for a little longer! Fooling around with the shapely widow wasn't something he'd want to confess to his upstanding fellow planters. Or maybe he would. Maybe the double standard was alive and well, and he was free to have affairs with women all he wanted--as long as he didn't sleep with any of the morally righteous daughters or wives of his social class.

Randi pulled off her stockings and shoes, thankful she'd worn her own footwear under the long skirts. She couldn't have made it through the night in those narrow, pinching slippers. She sank to the fluffy mattress and propped one foot over her knee, rubbing her heels.

She was bone-tired, but wondered if she could sleep after everything that had happened in the last twelve or fourteen hours. She wanted to drift into a state of unconsciousness and stay there as long as possible. Somehow, she didn't think she'd get her wish. Her mind kept replaying the night's events, from her frustration at not having modern medical basics to Jackson's accident.

She'd been so frightened for him when he'd arrived at the house with blood over the front and side of his once-white shirt. No telling what kind of bacteria or other creepy-crawlies he'd come in contact with in the river water. With no antibiotics or disinfectants to help him out, he could catch any number of ailments. Now she understood why so many people had died in the past of relatively simple injuries.

She wanted to go home. Pushing her sketches, paper, and pencils aside, she sank into the welcoming depths of the mattress. Perhaps she could go to sleep, despite all her doubts and fears. She'd keep one ear awake, though, she vowed as she drifted off. That lusty widow wasn't getting her hooks on Jackson . . . at least not as long as Randi Galloway was living under this roof.

#

By the end of dinner the next evening, Randi felt she might have been mistaken. She hadn't traveled back in time; she'd died and gone to her own personal hell. Jackson had asked her to join the houseguests, which was very considerate of him given her sometimes unofficial status in his home. He'd told the Crowders that she was Rose's governess, but she always felt as though Jackson might change his mind at any moment. Since governesses were servants too--sitting in the back of the church and taking orders from the "master"--she certainly wasn't entitled to eat with family or guests.

Jackson was being nice, she thought as he smiled politely at the widow, which meant he wanted answers again. That's why he was including her. Testing her was more like it. Despite her best efforts to blend in, he seemed to always find a problem with her story, a discrepancy in her wording that gave her away. But he'd never guess in a million years that she was from the future.

She didn't have a million years. If she remembered correctly, they all had under two weeks to get away from Black Willow Grove before the flood covered all this land.

The older lady discreetly cleared her throat, then patted her lips with her napkin and placed it beside her plate. This seemed to be a clue, because everyone finished what they were doing.

With a clink of his china cup against the saucer, Jackson finished his coffee and rose from his seat at the head of the table.

"If the ladies would like to retire to the parlor, I believe the gentlemen and I will have a brandy and cigar in the study."

The older lady nodded at her husband, who then pulled out her chair. Since both young lawyers had rushed to assist the widow, Jackson came around the table toward Randi.

"I'm surprised you aren't on the other side of the table," Randi whispered as she turned her head toward Jackson.

She felt his amused chuckle as a caress of hot air against the nape of her neck, sending shivers through her whole body.

"I think she's in good hands."

I'd like to be in your hands
. She sucked in a deep breath and pushed the image aside. "That sounds pretty kinky, but I guess they're all consenting adults."

"What kind of word is 'kinky'?"

"Never mind. I was just being catty--er, petty," Randi covered for herself. Darn, she was doing it again, and this time she couldn't blame the wine or the brandy sauce. She'd been real careful with her food and drink since she'd discovered the amount of liquor that could be reasonably consumed during a meal in this century.

"Don't worry about Mrs. Sanderson," Jackson said, looking across the table at the smiling widow.

"I'm not worried about her at all. I think she's looking for a new husband." Randi stood beside her chair and straightened her skirts.

"Quite possibly. She's young and attractive. I'm sure she'll have no trouble finding suitors." Jackson placed his hand beneath her elbow and guided her away from the table.

"A rich planter would be nice, I suppose," Randi muttered as they passed the sideboard.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing. Never mind."

His hand tightened on her elbow before they reached the doorway. "Mind your manners, Randi Galloway. These people are guests in my home."

"I'm well aware of that." They had more of an affirmed status than she did. "Does that mean I need to join them in the parlor?"

"Do you want to?"

She paused, her mouth half open to answer yes, she wanted to keep an eye on the attractive widow. But another part of her didn't want to be subjected to any scrutiny. No telling what kind of mistake she'd make if those women asked her questions.

"No, I believe I should go upstairs and check on Rose. She's teething and very fussy."

"Very well. I'll make your excuses."

"Thank you."

She gave him a little smile, then walked as quickly as possible down the hall toward the front stairs so she got another glance at the group as she turned to go up the steps.

Jackson was talking to them, looking tall and handsome in his deep blue cutaway coat and straight-legged trousers. His blue-black hair gleamed in the hall lantern light, and his tanned skin appeared smooth and healthy. No one knew how bruised and battered he'd been last night. None of his injuries were visible on the outside.

She had a feeling Jackson's polished exterior hid other secrets.

Picking up her skirts, she hurried upstairs before she told Jackson that she'd changed her mind. Every minute seemed especially precious, and she didn't want to spend any of them hiding in her room.

On the other hand, she'd never get home if she didn't work on her sketch. After she checked on Rose and relieved Suzette for a supper break, she'd do just that. Work on her sketch until it was so real she could reach out and touch her own world.

#

Jackson closed the door of his study, then filled four glasses with two fingers of cognac. At this rate, his supply would be long gone before he got to New Orleans again. And if the water continued to rise, they might be months away from traveling on the river. He needed to get back to Franklin's plantation and check on--

"Do you play?"

Jackson turned toward one of the lawyers, Douglas Templeton. "I'm sorry. What did you ask?" He handed the young man a glass.

"Poker. We'd like to have a game, if that's agreeable to you."

Jackson felt his heart falter and stop, then start again at an incredible pace. "Poker," he heard himself say, although his voice sounded far away. Without thinking, he handed a glass to the older, less sociable man.

"Yes," Templeton said jovially. "I assume you play."

"Not much anymore." He looked down at his hands and was surprised that he appeared steady. He wasn't shaking at all.

"Well, then," Templeton's friend said with a grin, taking the last glass of brandy, "we'll try not to take too much of your money."

Jackson drew in a deep breath, then turned away from the men and composed himself. Poker. He'd avoided playing games of chance with his neighbors for the past three years, ever since he'd settled here. He'd always had a good excuse: busy with planting; emergencies in the fields; others to visit. No one questioned his gambling aversion.

Now he felt trapped. He couldn't refuse such a simple, ordinary request without seeming churlish. Alienating his guests was not the mark of a gracious host, and he certainly didn't want word getting out that he was rude and boorish.

After another deep breath, he took a long swallow of his cognac. He would get through this evening, one way or another.

"Where do you keep your cards?" the other young lawyer, Richard Darley, asked from behind him.

Jackson turned and assumed what he hoped was a pleasant expression. "I'll get them."

Minutes later, they were seated at the game table he rarely used when entertaining--and never for gaming. Mr. Blessing, the older man, sat to his right, with Templeton directly across the table and Darley to the left. Two of them had chosen cigars from the humidor, and smoke curled from the fragrant tobacco toward the ceiling.

"Fine brandy," Blessing said, his jowly face already florid.

"Thank you."

Jackson's palms felt damp even before he opened the new pack of cards and offered them to Darley for shuffling. He nodded for the man to continue. Within seconds, they'd each taken a card to determine the deal. He won, of course. Curse his luck.

"Five card stud," he said in a dull voice, then looked up from the deal. "Jacks are wild."

#

Two hours later, only twenty dollars lighter in the pocket, Jackson said good night to the last of his houseguests. Everyone was tired from last night's events, so thankfully, even the men hadn't lingered too long after dinner. Mr. Blessing hadn't tried to hide his fatigue, yawning throughout the poker game.

Thank God that was over. He hadn't lost enough to encourage his guests to play again, thinking him an easy mark. Nor had he won enough for them to want to get their money back. He'd simply played his cards as dispassionately, as precisely, as possible.

"Gaming?" Lebeau said as he entered the study to tidy up.