A Cry at Midnight (4 page)

No flood, however. No sign of water seeping out of the banks of the Mississippi.

"What are you looking for?" His voice came from directly behind her. For someone who clomped around in those high riding boots, he could move awfully quietly when he wanted to.

Oh, no. He and his little daughter would die in 1849. She was talking to a dead man.

"Like I said," she whispered, "I'm a little confused."

"Why?"

"Why?"

"Why are you confused?" he asked angrily before spinning her around. She got one good look at his stern face before the dizziness overcame her. All the stress of traveling back in time, of realizing she was actually in the plantation house she'd seen only through a model, of being interrogated by a man written about in history books, hit her with a jolt. To her embarrassment, she sagged toward him.

He caught her with strong hands, hauling her upright, brushing her body against his solid, warm chest. Accidentally, she was sure. He seemed to hate her for some reason. Right now, she was too disoriented to ponder why.

"Sorry," she whispered. She couldn't seem to get her feet beneath her.

He said nothing, sweeping her into his arms when he realized she couldn't stand on her own. In three quick strides, she was back in the bed, deposited fairly gently by such an angry man. She closed her eyes against the swirling sensation. The last time she'd felt this way was after a ride on the Tilt-o-Whirl with her niece and nephew, Sandy and Justin. The memory usually made her smile.

"Are you injured?" he asked, his tone less harsh.

"I don't think so. My head is spinning," she answered weakly, bringing one hand up to shield her eyes from the bright sunlight. "Can you close those drapes a little? The sun seems to bother me."

He made some small sound, then pounded across the floor to the wide, tall windows overlooking his fields. His plantation. My God, she really was back at Black Willow Grove, sometime before 1849, when it was destroyed by the flood. How could this have happened? She'd been listening to the baby cry, then she'd pried off the plastic covering of the replica. She remembered clearly reaching for the pink doll, then feeling a real baby in her outstretched arms. But the whirling sensation had happened so fast . . . the feeling of the warm, live infant had been so fleeting.

She'd thought she'd imagined all this. But if that were true, she was still imagining. She was caught in a dream of her own design. Or she really had traveled back in time. Either way, she had to play this out. She had to be smart, crafty, and wise.

At the moment, she wanted only to be clear-headed and coherent.

She didn't feel up to thinking about anything. Instead of being twisted into the sky and landing in Oz, or falling down a rabbit hole and finding herself in Wonderland, she'd plunged into a dollhouse and through the barrier of time.

She pushed herself to her elbows, noticing that the man who called himself Jackson Durant had closed the drapes.

"I'm sorry I'm so much trouble," she said carefully. "I must have hit my head."

"When?"

She thought about her answer carefully, trying to remember details from the book she'd read, trying to imagine what a heroine of a novel would do in this situation. "When I . . . lost my clothes."

"And why did you lose your clothing?"

"I don't remember," she hedged, knowing she had to find out more about the time to come up with a good answer. She had a feeling Mr. Durant would cross examine her with more skill than Perry Mason. To avoid any more questions, she fell back to the pillows in what she hoped was a dramatic fashion.

"I'm not feeling too well. Could I have a glass of water?"

She opened her right eye just a bit, watching him stride to the doorway.

"Birdie! Send someone up here right now," he yelled downstairs.

She watched him by peeping through a partially raised eyelid as he paced the floor, a large, black panther if she'd ever seen one. Wild and angry, confined in this beautifully decorated house. Why? Why did she feel that he was confined, and why was he so angry?

He stopped pacing and stared at her, as though he knew she was watching him. She pretended to be ill, lying against the fluffy pillows, relaxed on the outside but as tense as could be inside. She hoped he couldn't see that about her. She didn't want him prying into her soul until she had a reasonable story concocted.

She needed to stay here in the house until she figured out what was real, what had happened. If he kicked her out, where would she go, what would she do? And then she'd have no way back, even if she could find a portal into 1998. She wasn't sure how she'd survive on her own in the 1800's. One thing she remembered from history lessons from high school was that women didn't have much opportunity in this age. No voting, no land ownership, no rights. She didn't exactly have a Nineteenth Century set of skills, either, to get a menial job.

Like cleaning a museum. Randi had a feeling that her cumbersome, heavy vacuum cleaner would beat the heck out of trying to suck the dirt out of rugs without a modern convenience.

"Yes, Mas'r Jackson."

"It's about time," Randi heard him mutter. And
Mas'r
Jackson? How politically incorrect was that?

Come to think of it, in this part of the country, slaves performed the menial tasks on a plantation. Oh, darn. Another horrible thing to consider. Scratch the
Wizard of Oz
comparison. She'd landed smack in the middle of
Gone With the Wind
!

"Get her some fresh water right away, then fix her some tea and toast. She'll also need clothes. Get some of Mrs. Jackson's things out of storage."

"Yes, Mas'r Jackson."

"And make sure Suzette is feeding Rose. I don't want her left alone again. The entire staff is going to have to tend to these chores more diligently until the governess arrives."

The governess? And where was Mrs. Jackson? She couldn't ask those questions right now. Randi knew she had to convince him that she wasn't a hundred percent of her usual self.

"Yes, Mas'r Jackson."

Randi heard the sound of a servant's scurrying footsteps across the highly polished wooden floor. Through one partially opened eye, she observed the man she'd come to think of as a caged animal. He certainly had the sleek, hard body to make the image work.

"Does anyone ever say anything to you but, 'Yes, Mas'r Jackson?'"

He whirled, making her think he was about to pounce. "What did you say?"

"Sorry. I was thinking out loud."

"I don't care what you think, I only require the truth. If you're feeling well enough to make sarcastic remarks, you're sufficiently recovered to answer my questions."

"But I--"

The servant returned with a decorated porcelain pitcher of water and a matching glass. Randi eyed the pieces with envy, thinking about how much they'd fetch at one of the local antique stores. Maybe she could load herself up with a few choice items before stepping back through the portal into her own time. That would go a long way toward putting her into the black.

Now you're getting punchy
, a little voice reminded her. She'd better concentrate on existing in the present, because time had run out. "Master" Jackson wanted answers, and he wanted them now.

She waited until the young black girl poured her water and handed it to her. Randi smiled, but the girl didn't meet her eyes. How were these people treated? Was Jackson Durant one of those horrible slave owners who beat his "property?" She shuddered at the thought of who had received lashes from that riding crop in his hand.

"Drink your water," he commanded.

She jumped, then automatically replied, "Yes, sir," before draining the glass.

"I'm glad to see that you've developed a better attitude."

Better attitude, my foot, she felt like saying. But she didn't, holding her tongue as she stared at the riding crop he bounced idly against his thigh. Didn't he get calluses from all that abuse? She would never, of course, ask him.

"I'm feeling a little bit better," she replied meekly.

"Good. Now, how did you get into my house? Why are you here?"

"I think I'm supposed to be here," she replied carefully. "My memory is a little fuzzy."

"Fuzzy?"

"Confused. I'm having trouble recalling all the details. Sometimes I just have . . . impressions."
Or improvisations
, she should say.

"Have you always had this problem, Miss Galloway," he asked, folding his arms across a wide chest, "or is this a recent phenomena."

"Oh, a very recent phenomena," she answered quickly. "By the way, how long have I been here? I have no idea how long I slept."

"Perhaps an hour. I came into the house for luncheon, apparently right after you sneaked upstairs and entered my daughter's room."

"I didn't sneak upstairs," Randi defended herself.

"Then I ask you again, how did you get into the house?"

"Really, Mr. Durant, I'm not sure. I don't remember much. I heard a baby crying and followed the sound." That much was certainly true. Randi shrugged. "All of a sudden, I was holding her in my hands, and then you walked in."

Somewhere she'd heard that if you wanted to tell a good lie, make sure there was a lot of truth sprinkled in. Well, that story reeked of the truth. She seriously doubted whether Jackson Durant would believe her, however. He didn't look too convinced, his black eyebrows drawn together and his forehead wrinkled.

"I can't stand to hear a baby cry," she admitted when he remained silent.

"I can't either," he said softly, his gaze drifting out the door and toward the stairs as though he, too, listened for the sound of his daughter's cries.

But the wistful look didn't last more than a few seconds. He reverted back to his severely intense expression. "So I go back to my earlier question. Who are you?"

"My name is Randi Mae Galloway. That's R-A-N-D-I."

"You have a man's name," he remarked with another frown. "Why is that?"

She shrugged. "My father was expecting a boy."

"That's a cruel thing to do--to name a child something so inappropriate. And look at how you're dressed. Obviously that name has influenced your actions."

"Now, wait a minute!" she said, sitting upright, her blood boiling at his highhanded manner. He had no right to insult her clothing or the name her parents had lovingly chosen. The fact that she was named after both her Uncle Randy and her Aunt Mae was none of his business.

On the other hand, she reminded herself, she had to be nice to this man who others called "master" and who held her fate in his hands as surely as he wielded that vicious whip.

"I'm sorry," she said, sagging back against the pillows. "I'm a little sensitive about my name."

"Where did you get those abominable clothes? I've never seen such fabrics or such a cut of the cloth," he said, flicking his whip toward her in such a natural, casual gesture that she jumped back.

Her fear must have showed, because he said in disgust, "I'm not about to beat you. Not yet, anyway. Just answer my questions and we'll be done with this discussion."

Discussion? Was it just her, or did he seem to be doing all the talking? That's hardly what she'd come to know as a
discussion
. But again, she held her tongue, thinking about how very much in control he was over his plantation and all the lives around here. He was right; he could whip her and no one would stop him.

Instincts said he wouldn't do such a barbaric act, but common sense reminded her that he could. She didn't want to take a chance.

"I found these," she said carefully, adjusting herself on the bed so she wasn't plastered against the headboard. She slid her feet to the floor. "My clothes were damaged, and I had to wear something."

"How were your clothes damaged?"

"During the accident aboard the . . . paddlewheeler." That was what those big, fancy boats were called, she hoped.

Her lie was interrupted by the arrival of a tray of tea and toast, brought by the same black servant who'd brought her water. She shy young woman placed the tray on the bedside table, then moved back as thought she awaited further instructions. Randi reached for the delicate china and poured tea into the small cup before looking for the sugar. She knew that artificial sweetener hadn't been invented yet.

"The accident, Miss Galloway."

"Yes, my suitcase fell overboard, and when I tried to grab it, I fell in too."

"Your what?"

"Suitcase." Was that the wrong word? She couldn't think of another word that meant the same thing! "You know, the box that I was carrying my clothes around in," she answered, sketching out the dimensions with her hands. "Where's the sugar, please?"

She'd directed the question to Mr. Durant, but the young servant stepped forward, opened a box, and cut off a piece of brownish stuff. As it dissolved into the hot tea, Randi figured out that even white granulated sugar hadn't been invented yet, either.

"Your trunk," he suggested with an arched eyebrow, bringing her back to their discussion of her story.