A Cry at Midnight (23 page)

"Suzette," Randi said, walking over to where the slim young woman straightened Rose's diapers, "some day in the future, maybe fifteen years from now, you might not have a master any longer. You might be free to get a job you'd like and make your own decisions."

"Are you an abolitionist?" Suzette asked with narrowed eyes.

"Well, I hadn't really thought about it, but I suppose I am. I don't believe it's right for one person to own another one."

Suzette scoffed. "You'd best not tell anyone 'round here 'bout how you're thinkin'," she advised. "The planters'll run you out of the county for certain."

Randi smiled. "I'm sure you're right. I'll keep my opinions to myself. Or just between you and me, okay?"

Suzette nodded. "I'd best feed Miss Rose her dinner."

"I think I'll go change. She drooled on me again, and now I can tell she's also wet." Randi handed the happy baby over to the nurse, then grimaced as she held out the damp section of her dress. "I sure wish you had Pampers."

"What's that, Miss Randi?"

She laughed. "Never mind. I'll see you later."

Randi walked down the narrow stairs to the second floor, musing over her conversation with Suzette. Slavery wasn't something she'd ever thought about in 1998. The concept was far removed from modern life, except when some group made it an issue--usually when they were arguing politics. She hadn't paid much attention one way or the other, but now she had to worry about the fate of people other than Rose and Jackson.

What had happened to the rest of the people who'd lived at Black Willow Grove? Had they escaped with their lives, only to be sold somewhere else? Had Suzette stayed with Birdie, or had Melody learned to be more outgoing and competent as a lady's maid, as she wanted to become? Where did Lebeau go, with his dignified manner, superior attitude, and strange relationship with Jackson?

She sighed as she entered her bedroom.
Her
room. How odd that in only two weeks, she'd come to think of this as hers. She'd be gone from here before the month of April began, if she was lucky. And if she worked hard to find a way home.

Crossing to the window, she looked out at the gray late afternoon gloom. She could barely see the row of trees that made the pleasant shaded alley of the garden. The light rain had started yesterday and hadn't let up one bit. Rubbing her arms against the chill, she was just about to turn away from the window when she heard a shout and saw a rider galloping toward the house.

Randi pivoted toward the glass, her fingers gripping the windowsill. What was wrong? Surely no one would run their horse into the ground unless their mission was important--even urgent. She watched until the rider disappeared under the porch, then she turned and hurried toward the stairs.

#

"Mas'r Jackson!"

Jackson pushed himself away from his desk, the urgency he heard in the unknown man's voice pulling him toward the entry.

Lebeau was already there, restraining the wet, dripping man from venturing farther than the marble near the front door.

"What's wrong?" Jackson waved Lebeau off, approaching the restless messenger.

"A packet tried to get away from a snag of branches and ran into Mas'r Franklin's levee. The people onboard got shook up real bad, some of 'em hurt pretty serious. Mas'r Franklin says he needs you and any hands you can spare to help."

Jackson turned to Lebeau. "Get Brewster to pick twenty strong men loaded in two wagons. I'll need a horse." Jackson hurried toward the stairs, the called back over his shoulder. "Have Birdie get together some linens and whatever food we have prepared and can spare. They'll need meals."

"Yes, Mas'r Jackson," Lebeau said, his own tone more urgent as he started off the other way to carry out his orders.

"Get yourself some coffee and cornbread in the kitchen," Jackson called back to the messenger. "I'll ride with you if you're returning to Eastland."

"I am. Thank ya', Mas'r Jackson."

He hurried up the stairs, deep in thought over what else he'd need, when he saw a lavender flounce on the landing.

Jackson looked up into the wide eyes of the woman who haunted far too many of his waking moments.

"Eavesdropping again, Miss Galloway?" he asked, brushing past her on his way to his bedroom.

"No, I just . . . Well, yes, I was," she said, her footsteps hurrying along the hallway behind him.

"I'm sorry. I can't talk right now."

"I know. The emergency at Franklin's plantation."

"Right. I'm not sure when I'll return. Hopefully, late tonight. Please make sure Rose is well attended while I'm gone."

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about," she said, following him into the one room he didn't want to visualize her entering . . . or more. Even the atmosphere seemed intimate, the near-darkness pervading the interior of the house where lamps had yet to be lit.

"I'm sorry. I don't know what you're talking about." He yanked at his cravat. "And as I'm in a hurry, I must ask you to leave."

"I can help with the people who are injured."

"Now you're also a physician?" he scoffed as he worked the buttons at his cuffs.

"No, but I've had a course in first aid."

"First aid?" He looked up. She looked concerned, but also disheveled, her bodice spotted and her skirt hopelessly wrinkled. "What are you talking about?" he asked impatiently. More strange words and unknown terms from the land of Randi . . .

"It means giving aid to those who have been injured until a doctor can treat them. I know how to treat wounds, give CPR--that's cardiopulmonary resuscitation--and set bones."

"Useful knowledge, I'm sure." He started on the buttons of his shirt front. She was probably making up this story too, although he couldn't understand why. Young women were not trained in medical procedures, even in the strange world Randi Galloway called home.

"I want to come and help," she said from directly behind him.

"You need to stay here and watch after Rose." He didn't dare turn and face her, not when he had to change quickly and leave his house for Eastland.

"Why?" Her voice reflected disbelief. "Suzette's here."

"Randi, please. I'm in a hurry. Surely you can understand this type of situation is no place for a young woman."

"Why?"

He finally turned around out of exasperation. "Because there will be blood and perhaps death. There could be fire aboard the packet from the boilers or from stoves that tipped during the crash. This is no place for someone without a reason to be there."

"Even if I could help someone? Why can't you believe that I know what I'm doing?"

"Because young women aren't trained in the skills you claim to possess. I believe you may be imagining you know more than you do about medical procedures."

"You don't believe me," she said, hurt evident in her tone, her expressive face. She looked at him as though she were disappointed, not in the situation, but in
him
.

He ignored the emotions her accusation caused, turning away from her in the near darkness of his bedroom. "I must change clothes now. Please excuse me."

"No! Listen, I know what I'm talking about. If there are injured people, I can help. Haven't you ever heard of nurses? My God, what kind of backwoods twilight zone have I landed in?"

Jackson ignored her presence, as much as he could, and yanked off his shirt. "I'm warning you--"

"Right," she scoffed. "I'm not afraid of you."

He faced her, a clean but old shirt balled in his fist. "Even after last night?" he said, knowing he shouldn't bring up the incident, but unable to stop himself from goading her into fleeing.

"Especially after last night. Don't you realize how reassuring it is to know that a man will stop when you say no?"

Jackson closed his eyes, his body as tense as the air between them. "Randi, please. I can't discuss the issue with you right now."

"Then you shouldn't have brought it up!" she said with more spirit than he'd heard from her all day. Her unique tone of voice, her sass--as his mother would call it--should have irritated him, but he found himself hiding a smile instead.

And speaking of things coming up, he didn't dare draw attention to his trousers. Despite the urgent emergency, he responded to her with far more enthusiasm than he'd believed possible.

"I'm coming with you," she said. "I'll ride in the wagon, if you want. But dammit, Jackson, I can help. Why would you deny these people whatever comfort I can offer?"

Why, indeed? Again, she was beginning to make far too much sense. He had to question his sanity. "Very well. Can you ride?"

"Well . . . not very much. My uncle trains horses, but they're too valuable for me to ride."

Of course she couldn't. Any other young woman would have said yes. "Then you can ride with me."

"Yes! I'll run and tell Suzette."

"Don't bother. Tell Lebeau. He'll make sure she knows."

"Okay." She paused only a moment, then leaned toward him. Before he knew her intentions, she placed a quick kiss on his cheek. "Thanks, Jackson. You made the right decision."

After she picked up her skirts and ran from the room, he smiled into the darkness, touching the spot where her soft lips connected with his rough cheek. She wasn't the insane person; he was.

#

Randi had ridden horses a few times in her lives. Nice, calm, riding stable-type horses mostly, but once an older farm horse at one of her friends' grandparents' farm. Only once before had she been on the back of a spirited animal like the one Jackson mounted in front of his house, and Uncle Aaron promised she'd never have to ride one again.

She started to shake her head when Jackson extended his hand, but knew that he'd run off without her. She really needed to go to Eastland and help with the people. How could she stand by when others were suffering? But that wild-eyed horse gave her a serious case of the screaming willies.

"How do I get up there?" she asked against the wind and rain. The bottom of her full skirts were nearly soaked through already, although her upper body was covered in an oiled slicker that one of the servants had handed her. Apparently, women didn't go out in the rain much. Pansy hadn't owned a raincoat.

"Lebeau, hand her up," Jackson directed.

Effortlessly, the butler placed his hands around her waist and deposited her into Jackson's strong arms. She barely had time to squeal before she was seated across his lap, her bottom nestled across the front of the saddle. His arms closed around her, holding the reins of the nervous animal. At least, the horse seemed nervous to her. She wished it would just stand still and behave.

"Hold on around my back," Jackson said, his voice husky and intimate against her ear.

Her heart raced as she snuggled next to Jackson. Just last night she'd experienced the explosive nature of their passion. How could she stand being this close to him for however long the trip took? She just hoped he couldn't tell how much he affected her, especially in such a serious, non-intimate situation.

Calm down girl
, she told herself.
You're traveling to an emergency, not being swept away by Prince Charming
.

As the horse started to move, she realized the dangerous nature of her position. That front part of the saddle, gently sloped like she'd seen on Tennessee Walkers instead of the Western kind with saddle horns, pressed between her legs in a very vulnerable spot. With each stride, she became more and more aware of how long she'd gone without any passion in her life, and how much she'd like to experience these feelings in Jackson's arms, with his body firmly against hers.

"Quit wiggling," he said fiercely against her ear.

"I'm . . . uncomfortable," she finally managed to say. "Maybe I should ride behind you."

"Could you just be still! I don't want to take a tumble off this horse. And I'd like to remind you that coming along was your idea."

He was right, of course, although she wished he hadn't used the word "coming" to describe her situation.

"Just one second," she pleaded. With an effort, she managed to angle herself away from the relentless saddle and higher across Jackson's thighs. "Does that hurt?" she asked when he groaned.

"Not exactly," he said hoarsely.

He put his heels to the horse, pressing her back farther against his muscular chest and stomach--and into the arousal that rubbed against her thigh.

"Oh," she said, her cheeks heating up as they continued on toward the wreck of the paddlewheeler.

She decided that horseback riding was the most delicious form of torture she'd ever experienced. She'd never look at being swept away by a dashing cavalier in those grand old movies the same way.

By the time Jackson galloped onto the scene at Eastland, some order had been restored to the disaster. However, Randi immediately saw several problems illuminated by flaming torches, carried or stuck into the mud. First, high water trickled through a small break in the levee where the paddlewheeler was wedged. Second, the precarious angle of the boat made getting people and their belongings off the boat very dangerous.