A Cry at Midnight Page 10

  Randi was sure that the impromptu hug she'd given him must have seemed like more of a romantic embrace, because Suzette had smiled shyly at her when they'd put Rose to bed. Jackson, of course, had been too much of a gentleman to mention the incident. He'd been even more embarrassed than she about the impropriety of post-dinner hugs. Of course, if he hadn't given her the wine and the brandy sauce, she probably wouldn't have acted so impulsively!

  He'd been even more courteous that evening, but she couldn't forget his attractive blush. If she'd believed in princes and fairy tales, here was tangible proof that Cinderella's dreams could come true. Of course, this wasn't a ball, and Randi wasn't wearing glass slippers.

  She did owe him some justification for her sniffles since she couldn't yet tell him the real reason she'd been moved to sadness. "Rose is just so perfect, so special, that she brings tears to my eyes."

  He looked at her with a wistful smile that seemed to say, "I don't believe you for a minute." But he didn't give voice to his doubts about her explanation. "What was that song you were singing to her? I don't recall it," Jackson said, kneeling on the quilt and smoothing his daughter's fine blond hair with one large hand.

  "'Candle in the Wind,'" Randi replied. "And I doubt you would have heard it around here."

  "Another custom specific to your homeland?"

  She nodded, wishing she could tell him the truth, but knowing she couldn't. He'd never believe her story.

  "It's nice. Different, but nice." He shifted his focus from his sleeping daughter to Randi. "Rather like you."

  She felt herself blush. "Thank you. I was afraid you didn't like the fact I was different."

  "I'm growing accustomed to your eccentricities."

  Randi smiled. "That's what you call it? I'm glad you've figured me out."

  "I haven't figured you out at all. I'm just growing more familiar with the way you say and do certain things, your unique views on life and equality, and the way you feel very passionately about certain issues."

  Like you, she wanted to say. I feel very passionate about you. She couldn't admit that to him, though. To encourage this insane attraction would be the height of stupidity. They were from two opposite worlds--wealth and relative poverty--and two distinct times. She couldn't forget their differences for a minute.

  Randi looked away from his intensely personal expression. "Rose just went to sleep. I think she wore herself out crawling around, exploring the world here in your garden." She patted the baby gently on the back and smiled at the peaceful way Rose slept. "I've had to really watch her because she keeps trying to eat all the flower petals that fall from the trees."

  "I'm not sure if the flowers are edible, but I suppose the air is good for her."

  "Yes," Randi said, hoping that was right. Rose didn't seem to have any allergies, or other bad reactions to being in the fresh air and sunshine. Of course, Randi didn't allow her in the sun for long. No one in the 1840's knew about SPF 35, that was for sure.

  "Are you coming or going?" Randi asked, looking over his finely tailored garments that fit him like a glove.

  "Going. I've been summoned to my former father-in-law's plantation to meet with some of the planters. I believe the subject is the crisis in hiring skilled workers," he said with a sigh of resignation.

  "I suppose you don't believe this is very important."

  "What I don't believe," he said with a bit of steel in his voice, "is that we can compete with the lure of gold fields."

  "Gold fields?" Where had she heard that before?

  "Surely you've heard of the gold strikes in California," he said rather incredulously.

  "Oh, yes, the gold strikes," she said, suddenly remembering her high school history class. "Sutter's Mill."

  "That's right. That was the start. Now every man who wants to become rich has packed up a cart or a wagon and headed west."

  "That must be really hard. I mean, there are no trains, no roads, no easy way to get there."

  He tilted his head and stared at her thoughtfully. "You say that like there should be all of those things. What do you mean?"

  Oops. She'd goofed up again, letting her knowledge of the future seep through into the conversation. "I didn't mean anything like that. I must mean that compared to civilization, they'll have a hard time living in such a distant . . . place." She didn't know if California was a state, a territory, or another country at the moment, so she played it safe.

  "I'm sure it's quite rough out there, but men are willing to risk everything for a chance to make money quickly and easily."

  Randi shrugged. "You can't really blame them. Not everyone is born wealthy. I'm sure it's easy for you and the other planters to forget that people need to hope for a better future."

  He looked at her as though she'd just said something incredibly stupid. Well, she wasn't apologizing for her little lecture. The rich might think they could control all the wealth forever, but they were wrong. Lots of people earned their way into the upper class . . . some of them even without winning the lottery!

  "All I'm saying is that they're pursuing the American dream by going to California to search for gold."

  He continued to look at her with a blank expression.

  "You know, the American Dream?" Maybe that phrase wasn't in use yet either. Oh, well. She could bluff this one. "People started coming to America for opportunity, right? Religious, political, and personal. That's the American Dream."

  "A telling phrase. I hadn't heard it before."

  "Well, that's okay," she said. "I'm sure you'll hear it again." If you live that long. If you listen to me about the flood. She didn't say that, of course.

  He pushed himself up from the quilt. "I must leave."

  "There's something I wanted to ask," Randi said, struggling to rise so she didn't have to talk too loud. She didn't want to wake Rose.

  Jackson reached down and took her hand, pulling her up with ease. She wondered how Nineteenth Century guys looked without their shirts. Did they ripple and bulge like models and actors of her day, or were they a bit more ordinary looking, like most of the guys she'd known in the real world?

  She had no business wondering about Jackson Durant's abs or pecs. "Thanks," she murmured, tearing her gaze away with effort.

  "What did you need?"

  Again, the word you sprang to mind, but she tamped down the thought. "I was wondering if I could have some paper and a pencil. My hobby is sketching."

  "Of course," he said, still holding her hand.

  She gently tugged her fingers from his grasp. He seemed surprised, as if he'd forgotten they were still touching. Darn it, this attraction thing was building on both sides. Apparently she was going to have to be the one to keep their relationship in check. Strictly business--especially saving the lives of him and his daughter.

  "Where would I find paper and pencils?" she asked. Her voice sounded a tiny bit breathless--not a good thing when she'd just vowed to keep their relationship professional.

  "In the study. My desk is locked, but the paper you'll need is in the bottom of the credenza. If you have any trouble finding what you need, ask Birdie . . . or Lebeau, if he's back from his trip."

  "Okay," she said. "Thank you."

  "You're welcome." He continued to look down at her, his eyes heavy lidded.

  If she stayed where she was, he was going to kiss her. She knew it as well as she knew her name. With a quick intake of breath, Randi stepped back.

  Her movement seemed to break the spell. He blinked, then frowned. "Good day, Miss Galloway."

  "Randi," she reminded him, wondering why she'd insisted they become more informal.

  "Randi," he repeated, saying her name with such softness and depth that her knees felt a bit weak.

  She sank to the quilt, using Rose as an excuse to put more distance between her and the most unsuitable man she'd ever been attracted to. This guy was even a worse catch than Cleve, because with all his faults, at least her former lover had been born in the same century
as her.

  "Good-bye. Have a good time," she said cheerfully.

  Jackson frowned. "I sincerely doubt that is possible, given the men I'm visiting."

  Randi chuckled. "Okay. Then I'll just say drive carefully."

  "I'm riding." He walked toward the path behind the house.

  "Of course you are," Randi called, smiling. "Have a nice day."

  He stopped, then turned back to look at her. "Miss Randi, are you teasing me with more of your odd phrases?"

  "Yes, sir." She loved looking at him, whether he was perplexed or serious, smiling or frowning. At the moment, he looked surprised, and perhaps a bit teasing himself.

  He didn't answer, just turned back to the path and walked away, swinging the once-threatening riding crop against his thigh.

  Chapter Eight

  Lebeau returned to Black Willow Grove late that afternoon, just before the rain started to fall. Heavy gray clouds rolled in from the west with rumbling thunder and occasional flashes of lightning. Jackson had the lamps lit early, then retired behind the closed doors of the study to confer with his butler.

  As he poured them both a cognac, Jackson realized his palms were damp--a condition he couldn't blame on the wet weather. He wanted to confirm his suspicions that Randi was lying about how she'd arrived at his plantation and why, but was he was ready to hear the truth? From Lebeau's somber expression, Jackson deduced the news wasn't good. He hoped that she wasn't a common criminal or woman of ill repute. He'd hate to dismiss her from his home, but he would in an instant to keep Rose from being exposed to such elements.

  "Tell me what you learned about my houseguest," Jackson said as he handed Lebeau the brandy snifter.

  "Thank you," the butler said, taking a sip and savoring the mellow flavor with closed eyes and a blissful expression. He opened his eyes and gazed at Jackson. "This is one of the few vices you've corrupted me with."

  "Not for lack of trying," Jackson answered, remembering his earlier, wilder years along the river, when he and Lebeau had more in common than anyone else knew. They'd been outcasts of sorts, searching for their futures among men who rarely talked of their pasts. Now they were both respectable, although in different ways.

  Lebeau leaned back against the settee. "You were right. No one had seen or heard of Miss Galloway."

  "No lost trunk?" Jackson sipped the imported brandy and tried to keep his mind from racing.

  "Nothing about a young woman with short, blond hair and unusual clothing."

  "How about on the road to the house. Did anyone see her there? Any servants . . . field workers?"

  Lebeau shook his head slowly. "Not a soul."

  "How did she get here?"

  "Have you asked her?"

  "She won't talk. She gives some vague answer that could mean anything from she walked unobserved in the front door and up the stairs to she magically flew into the house." Jackson shook his head. "I don't know what to think about her."

  "Why don't you ask her to leave?

  "Because I don't think she has anywhere else to go, and because . . . because she truly believes she's here to watch over Rose."

  "You've let her take care of your daughter?" Lebeau asked incredulously.

  Jackson held up his hand. "I know it sounds like I've lost my mind, but you should see her. She's very good with Rose. She cares for her."

  Lebeau shook his head. "I never thought you'd trust that baby to a woman who wasn't the best."

  Picking up an intricate needlework bookmark that his wife had made for him as a wedding gift, Jackson stared at the tiny stitches and delicate flower pattern. He kept the piece displayed out of habit, even though she would never walk into the study again to see that her gift was appreciated.

  The best. He wasn't sure how to measure what was best in a woman any longer. Pansy Crowder had possessed all that was admirable in a woman: beauty, manners, breeding, modesty, and obedience. He'd assumed that he would be happy if his wife was such a paragon of womanhood. Looking back on their ten-month marriage, he couldn't say he'd been happy. Proud of possessing such a beautiful, cultured wife, but nothing more.

  He'd rarely laughed with her. At the most, she'd smiled as though her face might crack. And in the bedroom . . . Well, Pansy had been as obedient and modest as humanly possible. He'd been almost relieved when he'd discovered she was with child. Out of deference to her delicate condition, he'd refrained from the "joys" of the marriage bed. He wasn't sure which of them was more grateful to forgo that most intimate aspect of married life.

  "That young woman has you tied in knots," Lebeau observed.

  Jackson placed the bookmark on the desk, then looked at his friend. "Actually, I wasn't thinking of her at all. I was remembering my wife."

  "I'm sorry. I didn't mean--"

  "Don't apologize. The truth is, I'm not sure any more what best in a woman. I can't imagine Pansy mothering a child. Randi has a way with Rose that is . . . refreshing. She's happier now, crying less."

  More and more, Jackson found himself remembering his own mother. She'd smiled easily, and was ready with a hug or a scold as needed. Although she hadn't possessed great beauty or fine bloodlines, she'd been a loving, warm mother. She'd also worked hard making a home for their family when she could have given up hope. He'd forgotten the importance of a mother's hugs and caring concern until he'd seen Randi with his own daughter.

  "Then you've hired Miss Galloway to be Rose's governess?"

  "I told her she had the job. Of course, that was pending any negative report that you brought back."

  "I'm sorry I don't have any news about her. Maybe she came from the other direction by wagon or coach."

  Jackson shook his head. "I don't think so. She jumped on the river story too fast, as though that was the first thing on her mind. She could just as easily told a story about a spooked team and overturned wagon as the reason for her lost clothing and faulty memory."

  "I see you point. What do you want to do now?"

  "Keep asking, but don't go out of your way. Maybe we'll come across someone on a packet returning to the landings."

  "There might not be as many packets as normal. We have trouble coming, I'm afraid."

  "The river?"

  Lebeau nodded. "I talked to a navigator who'd been working upriver, and he said the snowmelt had pushed the Missouri over its banks earlier this month. The runoff is heading south, and with the heavy rains north and west of here, we're bound for trouble before long."

  "Damn," Jackson muttered. "I suspected as much, but I'd hoped I was wrong. How bad did he say the water levels were up north?"

  "Bad. The worst he's seen since being on the river before the paddlewheelers."

  Jackson cursed beneath his breath, then walked to the window and looked out into the blackness. Beyond the verandah, rain pounded the delicate grass of his lawn, and in the fields, he knew the young cotton plants were equally vulnerable to the downpours. He reminded himself that rains came every spring, and yet each year he managed to produce a crop. He would find a way this year, too.

  "Dammit, I've got to convince them to build the levees higher all along the river, not just at my turn. If the water leaves the banks upstream, my measures won't matter. We'll be flooded with no way to divert the water away from our houses or crops."

  Lebeau looked at him long and hard, in that wise and patient way Jackson had come to know.

  "What?"

  "After all these years, you still think you can control this river?"

  "Not the whole river. I'm not that stupid or naive, but I will do whatever is necessary to keep it away from my land."

  "The river might not be so obliging."

  "The river can go to hell. I haven't worked this hard to build up Black Willow Grove so the Mississippi can claim my land."

  "The river claims what it wants," Lebeau said, rising from the settee.

  "Then I hope to God it wants someone else's land, because mine is going to be protected if I have to set every man on this planta
tion to work building a levee like no one has ever seen before, from Sugar Creek around the bend and north to the Hatchie."

  Lebeau shook his head. "I'll do my part, but--"

  "You run the house. Let me worry about the river and the other planters."

  "I'll go do that," Lebeau said. "I imagine things have gotten out of sorts around here since I've been gone."

  "Not so much that I've noticed, but then, I'm not as observant as you about everyday matters."

  "Nothing to do with Miss Galloway, I'm sure."

  Jackson frowned. "I get enough sarcasm from her."

  Lebeau opened the door to the hallway, then said in a louder voice. "I'm sorry, Mas'r Jackson. I'll try to do better next time."

  Jackson shook his head at Lebeau's charade--at their charade, he should say, since both were willing participants. They didn't have much choice, however. The slaves would resent his status, even as they aspired to his position. Explaining the relationship between master and freeman was too daunting to consider. Jackson's carefully maintained secrets could even be revealed.

  Not to mention the other planter's distrust of freed slaves. They didn't want freemen stirring up unrest among the field hands upon which the whole economy depended.

  Jackson closed the door, then picked up Lebeau's glass. Removing a handkerchief from his pocket, he carefully cleaned all traces of brandy from the snifter. Not even Birdie needed to know that the master had shared a brandy with his butler.

  #

  "You are a little terror tonight, you know that?" Randi and Rose lay face to face on a quilt on the nursery floor. Rose squealed in delight and reached for the simple stuffed toy from Suzette.

  Apparently Rose's daddy wasn't going to come up to get her tonight. Suzette said he was behind closed doors in his study with Lebeau, who had come back from his mysterious trip. No telling what they were discussing. She hoped the topic was rising water rather than fallen nannies. That's exactly what she felt like--someone caring for another woman's child and lusting after the husband. Sad, but true. She couldn't seem to help herself, she thought with a sigh.