A Cry at Midnight Page 2

  "Well, I'll check on the model later, before I go home." Ms. Williams glanced at her watch. "Which is just about now," she added, rising from her desk chair. "You came in early, didn't you?"

  Randi shook her head. "I just stopped by on my way home from my day job to talk to you."

  "You've been working awfully hard," the curator said, walking around the corner of her desk and smiling.

  Randi knew the lady was being nice, but her words and actions seemed a bit patronizing. She knew she worked hard, but how else was she going to pay off her bills and save enough for this fall?

  "Sure, Ms. Williams. Well, I'll be going. My mom is expecting me for dinner." She turned and stepped toward the door. "No one else has reported anything . . . odd about the replica, have they?"

  "Odd?"

  "Oh, like maybe noises or something. I just thought I heard a sound the other night."

  "No, no one has said anything. The model was sealed by the man who created it. There shouldn't be any wind passing through, or anything like that." Ms. Williams looked at her, a hopeful expression warring with the concern etched on her face. She no doubt wanted Randi to say that she was just kidding.

  She couldn't tell that big a lie. "I'm sure the sound came from somewhere else," she finally said, hoping that was enough.

  "You're probably right." Ms. Williams released a sigh of relief.

  Even though the curator seemed appeased, Randi knew she'd nearly stepped over the line. Now the woman thought she was a little weird, hearing things from inside a sealed-up model. The best thing to do was leave before she said anything else to worry her employer.

  "You're doing a great job, Randi. I hope you're not working too hard." Ms. Williams followed her across the carpeted floor.

  "No, of course not." If you don't count that huge, heavy vacuum cleaner, she felt like adding. She'd save that for another day, though. No sense making the curator think she was delusional and whining at the same time. Randi paused and smiled weakly.

  "Thanks for mentioning the . . . situation. I'll go right now to check on the model."

  "Thank you, Ms. Williams. Good night." Randi turned and stepped onto the wide plank flooring of the hall.

  "Good night, Randi," the curator called from her doorway.

  Randi frowned as she strolled slowly down the familiar hall toward the front door. A few tourists wandered toward the gift shop. The sound of paper bags rustling and people talking came from that direction. Familiar noise, along with the same smells of old furniture, books, and linens. Nothing strange.

  She should take a clue from Ms. Williams and chalk this up to a mild case of exhaustion. The only problem was, Randi didn't feel too tired. As a matter of fact, she couldn't wait to finish reading the book she'd borrowed two nights ago. Surely there was a mention of the baby's mother somewhere in the darn thing. How could they have a "family" without a mother for the little girl who drowned in the flood?

  #

  She varied her routine that night, hoping she wouldn't hear the sounds that haunted her. First, she vacuumed, then dusted the display rooms, cleaned the restrooms, and headed for the gift shop.

  She straightened the trinkets, post card racks, and cleaned the glass counters. Then, with a regretful sigh, she placed the borrowed book back on the bottom of the stack. She'd enjoyed reading about Black Willow Grove, even if the book hadn't mentioned the baby's mother. It was almost as if she'd never existed, or if she'd simply vanished into thin air, erasing herself from everyone's memory.

  Randi finished emptying the trashcan from Ms. Williams office, then returned to the janitor's closet for her fanny pack. Tonight, she wasn't going to be haunted by the sound of the baby's cries.

  Nonsense. There were no cries. She'd imagined them. Plastic toy babies didn't cry.

  Still, before she fished her keys out to lock up, she felt compelled to check. The end of the hallway beckoned, the light calling to her as surely as the sound of a baby's tears. She closed her eyes, gritted her teeth, and clenched her fist around the zipper. She should leave right now. Walk out the door. Lock up. Drive home. Forget the dollhouse and the lonely baby in the third floor nursery.

  As she stood in the hall near the front door, the clock chimed midnight. The heavy tones reverberated through the museum, sending shivers down her spine.

  Lonely? Here was some concrete evidence she really was exhausted and delusional. There was no reason to place such a human emotion on a dab of plastic with human features. No reason at all.

  Still, she couldn't leave. Not without checking.

  Her tennis shoes felt like lead boots as she walked down the hall toward the "model," as Ms. Williams called the replica of Black Willow Grove. To Randi, it was simply the dollhouse. And inside, the little pink doll.

  She brushed her bangs back from her forehead and advanced, already knowing what she'd hear. Already sensing the faint cries as she neared the dollhouse. She didn't realize her eyes were full of tears until a drop ran down her cheek.

  "What's going on?" she asked, resting her head against the wooden shingles of the roof. "Is someone playing a sick joke? Why is this happening to me?" She didn't know anyone who would want to make her think she was going crazy, or torment her with her loss. No one hated her that much. Which left other explanations . . .

  Only she wasn't exhausted. She wasn't hallucinating.

  She was angry.

  With a moan, she dashed the tears on her cheeks, then flipped open the catch and looked inside the dollhouse. Her heart pounded so hard she couldn't tell if she still heard the baby's cries. All she knew was that she had to find out what was going on.

  As usual, the interior looked . . . normal. No other figures inside the house, no boots in the hallway, a pink doll in the bassinet. The baby wasn't real, but she still heard the cries. This time, they seemed to come from inside her soul.

  She couldn't stand this any longer. With an angry shriek, she pried the plastic away from the wooden frame, not caring that she might damage the valuable replica, not caring about anything but getting inside to discover why she kept hearing the baby cry. Why was she the only person who heard the sound?

  The covering began to give. She managed to get two fingers between the plastic and the wood, then pulled harder. The dollhouse rocked despite its size and weight as the plastic pulled away from one side. Randi realized the miniature bassinet was tipping over. She couldn't let that happen! She had to catch that little plastic baby before it hit the floor of the nursery . . . just as though it were a real baby.

  She reached inside the dollhouse, her hands cupped to catch the tiny infant before the bassinet pitched to its side. The first sensation she had was of warmth, as though the air inside the dollhouse was warmer than the rest of the museum. Along with the warmth came a burst of light. Then her fingers connected, and she felt lacy fabric against her outstretched fingertips.

  The whole incident happened so fast she didn't know if she'd really kept the doll from falling for just a moment. Her mind spun blindly for a second. She closed her eyes, shook her head, and suddenly became aware of her surroundings once more.

  Tiny sprigged wallpaper. An iron bedstead, a vase of flowers on a chest. A quilt draped across the bed. A fancy bassinet.

  A real, crying baby lying in her outstretched arms.

  For the third time in Randi Galloway's life, she screamed.

  Chapter Two

  Jackson heard a scream above the cries of his daughter. Damn Suzette for leaving Rose alone once again, he thought as he pounded up the steps to the third floor. How many times had he told her to stay with his daughter unless she napped, and to listen for her waking? He would have a proper governess soon, though, someone who would be with Rose constantly, someone to raise her as she should be raised. Until then, he vowed as he turned the corner of the stairs and strode into her room, he would . . .

  "My God, who are you?" he roared.

  The young woman who held his precious child turned panic-stricken eyes to him,
extended her arms, and turned as white as Rose's crib hangings. He grabbed his daughter from the woman's hands, then watched in amazement as she sank to the floor in a dead faint.

  Confused and angry, he held Rose at arm's length, inspecting her small body for damage caused by the hideous woman who was now passed out at his feet. If she'd harmed one hair on his daughter's head, he'd have her flogged. He'd lock her up for the authorities, or send her downriver so fast she wouldn't have time to scream.

  "Rose, what did she do to you?" he asked the baby. She couldn't answer, of course. If only she could speak, perhaps he'd understand her more. Maybe he could tell what made her smile, or what caused her to cry so often. If only she had a mother . . .

  But she didn't. She had only him, and soon, a governess from New Orleans who could raise his daughter properly, dress her appropriately for a child of their social standing, teach her all the things young ladies needed to know.

  All the things about which fathers had no knowledge.

  He nudged the woman with his boot, but she didn't stir. She was damned odd looking, with hair too short for most men, pants that were too tight for even a lad, and a strange, striped shirt that didn't appear to be any woven fabric he'd ever seen. Striding quickly to the stairwell, he called downstairs.

  "Birdie, get up here right now!"

  Rose began to fuss once more. Jackson noticed right away that her diaper was wet. He hoped that was the only reason his daughter was fretful. He felt constantly helpless around her.

  He walked back into the nursery. The woman still lay on the floor, one hand outstretched, the other curled beneath her. Lashes too dark for her hair rested on pale, high cheeks. Except for her breasts--outlined by that strange, striped shirt--and the hips that flared below her small waist, she looked more like a young man than a female.

  Why was she dressed so strangely? Why was she here?

  "Yes, Mas'r Jackson?"

  "Who is this woman?"

  His short, heavy housekeeper peered around him and gasped. "I do'n know, Mas'r Jackson."

  "Well, find out. Have her carried out of the nursery, then have the floor scrubbed. Put her in an extra bedroom somewhere, and have Lebeau guard the door. I don't want her leaving."

  "Yes, Mas'r Jackson."

  "And have Suzette come up here right now. Better yet, take Rose downstairs to Suzette."

  "Yes, Mas'r Jackson."

  He pointed his finger at the nervous housekeeper. "Don't leave my child alone again. I don't care if she's not your responsibility. Tell Suzette to stay with Rose, even when she's napping. I never want to enter a room and find her alone again. This," he said, pointing at the fainted woman, "is what happens when no one watches my daughter."

  "Yes, Mas'r Jackson," Birdie said, her eyes wide as she took the fussing baby from his arms.

  "Her diaper is wet," he said unnecessarily, peeling his dampened shirt away from his skin.

  The woman nodded, then grabbed a fresh cloth from the stack before hurrying from the room. He watched her scurry down the stairs, her knees obviously stiff from years of walking up and down, of carrying too much weight on her slight frame.

  For once, he'd like to be addressed as something besides "Mas'r Jackson." Maybe just Jackson, or maybe even . . .

  No, he'd made his bed, and he'd live in it. Apparently alone, at least for the moment. As a small consolation, he thought with twisted irony, his bed was large and extremely comfortable.

  The sound of Birdie's voice, calling orders, summoning her troops, echoed through the house below. Her footsteps faded as she carried a now-quiet Rose through the rooms, no doubt searching for the Suzette.

  Rose needed a governess. Hell, he needed a governess.

  "Dammit," he murmured, nudging the fainted woman once more with the toe of his boot. "Who are you? What are you?"

  #

  Randi awoke with a start, struggling to sit even as she felt sucked into a soft void. Bright sunlight nearly blinded her; she couldn't tell where she was for a moment. Batting at the soft layers around her, fighting a sense of panic, she pushed herself up to a sitting position. Only then did she realize she'd been wrestling with a thick mattress--probably one of those feather beds she'd read about but never slept on. With a sigh, she leaned against a carved, ornate headboard pressed uncomfortably into her back. She frowned, then swept a pillow behind her. Her unease refused to go away even though she realized a fluffy marshmallow wasn't trying to swallow her.

  Her unfocused eyes swept around the room. This wasn't the same place she remembered. No sprigged wallpaper, no white bassinet or iron bedstead. No real infant resting in her hands. She uncurled her fist, finding the tiny pink doll pressed into her palm.

  Wow, had that been a dream or what! She must have passed out at the museum and hallucinated the whole incident. Her obsession with the replica of Black Willow Grove and the crying baby had affected her imagination more than she realized. That didn't explain where she was right now, and what she'd been doing all night. She'd blacked out around midnight. From the look of the sunlight, at least twelve hours had passed. What had happened? She rubbed her forehead, then stuffed the little pink doll into her jeans pocket.

  She had sure imagined a great looking guy, who'd rushed into the room with righteous anger blazing in eyes as dark as his tall riding boots. She'd even put that small detail into her dream, based on the dollhouse. His hair appeared windblown. thick, and as black as coal. His white shirt was open at the neck, revealing tan skin and silky chest hair. She didn't get much lower than that in her dream, unfortunately. The last thing she remembered before passing out was the look of fury in those black, black eyes.

  He hadn't been real, had he? Surely not. He was merely a figment of her imagination, like the crying baby. But she had torn open the replica to find where the noise was coming from.

  Unfortunately, no one was around to answer her questions. As her eyes started to focus, one fact became obvious; she sure wasn't in a hospital. This room was filled with antiques, most of them cherry or mahogany, based on the items in the collection at the museum. However, this wasn't one of the rooms at the museum--unless they'd created one overnight. The place looked vaguely familiar, like the impression she'd gotten when visiting the homes of distant relatives she'd seen before, when she was very young.

  Well, she wasn't going to get her questions answered in bed. Pushing toward the edge, letting her legs dangle over the side of the mattress, she fought the dizziness left over from her fainting incident.

  She never fainted. Well, once, but that didn't count. The doctor said she'd gone into shock. She didn't think something like that was happening to her now. And surely she wasn't tired any longer, since she'd been sleeping for at least twelve hours.

  She'd just find someone to tell her where she was. Then she'd call her parents to come and get her. For some odd reason, she felt a strong desire to be home, surrounded by familiar items, family, and friends. Heck, even the tomblike atmosphere of the museum would be preferable to her unsure status here in this sunlit bedroom.

  As soon as her head quit swimming.

  "So, you're finally awake."

  The deep, chilling male voice snapped her head around. Standing just inside the doorway was the man she'd seen earlier. The man she'd imagined earlier, she reminded herself. He wore the white shirt, riding breeches, black boots, and angry expression from earlier. And now he was gently slapping a riding crop against his thigh.

  "I'm just imagining you," she said, looking into his angry eyes. "You're not real."

  He looked at her like she was a ghastly vision from Hell. Sure, she must be a little messy. After all, she had been asleep for twelve hours. But he didn't have to stare as though she was repulsive, did he? Especially since she was just imagining him, anyway.

  "Who are you?" he asked, eyes blazing, nostrils flared.

  Damn, but he looked like the proverbial wild stallion. Her imagination was working overtime, she supposed. "Randi Galloway," she answered, watchi
ng him in wonder. "And who are you?" she asked, wondering what answer her overactive mind would come up.

  "I'll ask the questions in my own house. What were you doing in my daughter's room?" His voice seemed to push her back, away from his power and fury.

  "She was crying?" Randi answered in a weak voice, scooting back against the pillows.

  "Don't be insolent! Each step brought him closer to the bed. "How did you get in? Why were you there?"

  For the first time in her life, she felt intimidated by a man. And he wasn't even real! "Look, don't get all uppity on me. I'm still feeling a little confused."

  "How you feel is of no concern to me. I want answers, and I want them now." He loomed over her, his face sharp in the bright sunlight, the shadows of his cheeks, nose, and jaw in sharp contrast. Man, was he gorgeous when he was angry. Kind of a Daniel Day Lewis-young Mel Gibson sort of guy.

  "You said your house. Where is that, exactly?"

  His eyes narrowed as he stared down at her, as though assessing her guilt or innocence. Nonsense. She wasn't guilty of anything except creating this wildly impossible scenario in her mind, probably while she slept. She'd even conjured up the riding crop, which he slapped against his thigh again. She watched, fascinated by the rhythmic smack of leather against fabric-covered muscle.

  My God, was he going to use that on her?

  Now would be a good time to wake up. She pinched herself, but all she got for her effort was a small pink whelp and a dangerous look from the whip-wielding hunk standing over her that said, "Lady, you are crazy."

  "I'm not crazy," she answered to his unspoken question.

  "I'll be the judge of that. Now, again, what were you doing in my house, in my daughter's nursery?"

  "I was trying to comfort her. I can't stand to hear a baby cry."

  "Who let you in?

  "No one."

  "How did you--"

  "No one was around. I just sort of . . . dropped in."

  "Dropped in? What nonsense are you speaking? And why do you look like . . . that?" he asked, indicating from head to foot with one sweep of that dangerous-looking whip.