A Cry at Midnight (15 page)

Rose shrieked again, reaching toward the toy.

Randi was about to crawl across the room after the indefinable animal when it was handed to her by a large, masculine hand.

"I think she wants this back," Jackson said, his voice showing some amusement.

Randi scrambled to sit up after handing the toy to Rose, who promptly stuck it in her mouth. "We were just playing."

"I can see that," he replied, folding his arms across his chest and staring down at her. "Where did you get that toy?"

"I asked Suzette for something. Rose didn't have anything to play with."

"She's only eight months old."

"I know, but she gets bored very easily. She needs lots of mental stimulation, remember? Is there something wrong with the toy?" Randi couldn't see anything objectionable, but then again, she couldn't tell what kind of animal the darned thing was supposed to be.

He nodded toward the cloth toy. "It's the kind the slave children play with."

Randi felt herself heat up, kind of like a percolator. Starting in her gut and working up to her neck and cheeks bubbled up an all-out sense of outrage. How dare he think a sweet little . . . whatever--cow or horse or pig--was unsuitable for his precious daughter? Especially when she was having such a great time playing with it.

"You're a snob, you know that?" she said, pushing herself to her feet. She jabbed a finger at his chest. "If you don't think this toy is good enough for Rose, then why don't you just tell her that? Go ahead, destroy her happiness by jerking it right out of her hands. Maybe then your uppity sense of propriety will be satisfied."

"I never said the toy wasn't good enough for her. I just wondered where you got it."

"Oh," she said, feeling the hot bubbles of outrage pop into warm mist around her head.

"What makes you automatically assume the worst about me, Randi Galloway? Is there something in your past that causes this resentment toward anyone who is successful?"

"I don't have anything against success," she said, tilting up her chin as she looked into his dark eyes, "but I don't like people who think they're better than others."

"And you assume I think I'm better than someone else?"

She knew she was looking at him like he was crazy, but she couldn't help herself. "You're a planter. You
own
other people. Don't you think that's a big clue as to how you think?"

"I hadn't really thought of it like that," he said, looking at her in an assessing way she couldn't read. "Our economy is based on the production of cotton, which has little to do with thinking you're better than someone else."

She raised her arms to make a point, then let them fall to her sides. "Never mind. You're not ready to hear this. You're too much a part of this whole crazy era to understand what I'm talking about."

She started to sink to the quilt to cuddle up with Rose--the least complicated person Randi had met since her journey to the past. Jackson apparently had other ideas, because he surprised her by grasping her upper arm.

"Stop that!"

"I'm just trying to keep your attention. You have a habit of getting frustrated and stopping a conversation."

"I don't think arguing further would do any good. Now please, let me go."

He released her arm, but continued to stare at her. "Why are you so ready to dislike me?"

"Does it matter?"

He drew in a deep breath, then stepped back. "It shouldn't."

She shivered, hugging her arms. She didn't want to admit anything to him, yet she felt compelled to answer her own question. "I don't like what you represent, but I can't say that I dislike
you
."

"Then I believe we're evenly matched, because while I don't like knowing you're lying about how you arrived, I can't dislike you either."

"How do you know I'm lying? Not that I'm admitting I am, of course," she added quickly.

"Give over, Randi," he said gently. "No one saw you arrive on a packet--especially in a way you described. An occasion such as losing your trunk overboard, then jumping in after it, would have been remembered."

"No one remembered me?" she said in a small voice, looking down at Rose.

"No one."

"Well, I suppose they just weren't there," she said bravely.

"You just won't give up, will you?"

She turned her attention back to Jackson. "When the time is right," she said softly, "I'll tell you whatever you want to know."

He watched her intently as though he was judging the truth in her statement. Silence stretched between them until she felt as tight as a guitar string. Finally, Rose let out a squeal.

Randi looked down, grateful for the interruption. Rose had crawled to her dad and was trying to get his attention by pulling on his pant leg. Randi couldn't keep herself from watching his reaction.

His expression changed from thoughtful intensity to indulgent father. With a smile, he bent down and picked up his daughter.

Delighted with this turn of events, Rose squealed again and reached for the collar of Jackson's coat. He snuggled her closer, a look of love on his face. Randi turned away from the sight, unable to watch father and daughter any longer. Her heart hurt too much to see them happy, growing together as a family when their time might well be limited to less than a month.

She felt responsible for their lives because she was the only one who knew what was going to happen. But could the future be changed? She had no idea. Perhaps when she arrived back in her own time, Black Willow Grove might still be standing. In that case, a replica would hardly be necessary. Did that mean she couldn't go back if the future was changed?

She wished she had someone to ask about this and so many other questions. But for once, she was on her own. Without family or friends, the lives of two people in her hands, she hoped she made the right decisions about what to say, and when.

"I hope you know when the time is right," Jackson said, breaking into her thoughts.

She froze, her hands clenched into fists. My God, had he read her mind? "What? What are you talking about?"

He looked at her as though she'd talked in tongues. "You said you'd tell where you from when the time was right."

"Oh, yes." She breathed a sigh of relief. "I will. I promise."

"I hope that's a promise you will keep."

"I don't think I have any choice."

His expression told her he was confused by her change of demeanor and her words. Well, she couldn't help the way her thoughts kept straying to their fate.

"Very well." He handed Rose over to her. "The hour is late and my daughter needs her sleep. I have a long day tomorrow also. I'll say good night to you both."

Randi snuggled the baby close, grateful for the warmth and life she represented. "Good night."

After Jackson left, Randi stayed with the baby even after Suzette arrived to feed her before bed. She didn't want to leave, didn't want to let this little girl out of her sight. But she knew she must, just as she must make the tough choices and try to follow her head instead of her heart. If she listened only to the longings in her soul, she'd never get home, and two people might perish in the muddy depths of a river that had claimed more lives than she would ever know.

#

Randi recognized the importance of eavesdropping, but she hadn't planned on hearing quite so much when she'd ventured downstairs the next evening. She'd seen the men ride up on fancy horses and in beautiful carriages several hours ago from her second floor window. For all she knew, this could be the nineteenth century equivalent of boys night out. But apparently this get-together was more important than a bunch of guys shooting the breeze, playing cards, and sharing some brews.

Sitting with her knees drawn up to her chest in the landing of the stairwell, she felt like a little girl listening to adult-talk long past her bedtime. She wore the lavender gown, but she'd abandoned both the uncomfortable petticoats and the poorly fitted shoes. Her bare toes curled on the highly polished wood. The sensation was delightfully wicked, making her a bit nervous as she tried to stay totally in the shadows. If Jackson found her here, he'd blow a gasket. She didn't dare inch forward though, as much as she wanted to grasp the railing and lean against the solid wood so she could get just a tiny bit closer to what was going on downstairs.

Unfortunately, she couldn't see into the room from her vantage point. She could hear and smell, though. The men meeting in the parlor were generally loud and opinionated. They smoked enough cigars to keep a servant busy lighting the smelly, disgustingly soggy rolls of tobacco. She could only speculate on the amount of brandy or bourbon they were consuming this evening. Already two servants had entered and left through the open double doors, carrying laden trays in and empty ones out. How long did this overindulgence last? She thought that the hour must be close to eleven, although she hadn't heard the grandfather clock in the hallway chime yet. Given the fact that the day started dreadfully early in this time--even before the sun came up--she found their late-night meetings a bit strange.

This whole planter society was definitely as man's world, she thought with distaste. Of course, things might have been different if Jackson's wife were alive. Other women might have visited Black Willow Grove, but probably not tonight, when the topic of conversation centered around the masculine subject of saving the homestead from Ol' Man River.

Randi could almost hear any of the male chauvinists in the room saying to their "little woman," "Now honey, don't you worry yourself about a thing," then patting them on the hand in a condescending manner. Of course, that would be after the woman had given birth, plowed a field, and cooked a meal. Thank heavens she wasn't the wife of any of these male chauvinists. Molding herself into a man's image of an ideal woman, being demure and accommodating, was something she'd never do. Besides, she couldn't accept this lifestyle. The heck with Jackson's rationale that the society was based on the economy of cotton growing. His explanation sounded more like an excuse for these men to keep on overindulging in self-gratification.

She snorted in disgust at the image of those cigar-smoking, liquor swilling jerks, then clamped her hand over her mouth. She had to remember to keep her opinions to herself, especially when eavesdropping in the middle of the night.

"You haven't lived in these parts for long, Jackson," one of the men said in a placating tone. "You don't know how the river behaves around here."

"I know this river as well as anyone," she heard Jackson answer, "and I know that the bend in the river is a weak point we can't ignore."

"The water rises every Spring, Jackson. You know that. Just because some of those fur-trappin' cold-bloods upriver panic over a little floodin' doesn't mean that we have to start buildin' levees."

"Not just a little flood, Will," Jackson answered. "The worst some have seen in years. And it's coming this way."

"Well, of course it is, son," a particularly patronizing neighbor said, "but that river has a long way to go before it gets to Tennessee, and all that water might just dry up or soak in before we get a chance to see any of it."

"You really believe that, Thomas? Are you willing to risk your granddaughter's heritage on hopes that water-saturated land can hold even more rain and floods?"

Silence. Randi found herself holding her breath, waiting for someone in the room to agree with Jackson. They had to take whatever steps were possible to save themselves . . . to save Jackson and Rose and Black Willow Grove. Randi had agonized because she hadn't found an opportunity to convince him of the importance of protecting against the flood, but apparently her warnings weren't necessary. He already knew they might be flooded.

So why was she here? If not to warn of a coming flood and tragedy, why had she gone back in time? She couldn't do anything to divert water. She wasn't an engineer, or even a draftsman . . . yet. Since they were forewarned they should be able to save themselves.

The volume of the men's voices lowered. She heard the clink of crystal, probably as glasses were refilled. A moment later, she pulled back into the shadows as a servant walked out of the room with a decanter-laden silver tray.

These planters couldn't pour their drinks out of plain old bottles, she supposed with an unusual amount of loathing. Only the best for them. Did any of them know they were living on borrowed time? If the flood didn't get them this year, then the Civil War would, sooner or later. When had it started? The 1860's, she thought, but then, history had never been her best subject.

Why these men bothered her so much, she wasn't sure. She'd had some doubts about Jackson's morals and practices, but after last night had decided he wasn't such a bad sort. Okay, he was spoiled by wealth and position, and didn't understand much about women except obedient servants and polite wives.

Despite those drawbacks, he seemed different from the other men. Maybe he was just smarter than most, she thought, shifting once more on the hard floor.

Jackson
was
different, and not just in looks--although she couldn't ignore how he filled out the shoulders of his coats and the backside of his pants. She was especially fond of those thigh-hugging breeches and tall black boots. The riding crop still caused her to cringe a little, even after she'd decided he wasn't going to hit her--or anyone else, most likely--with it.