A Cry at Midnight Read online

  She tiptoed to the doorway and looked inside. She was prepared to face Jackson Durant on his turf, to play the sweet-tempered young lady to the best of her ability. What she wasn't prepared for was the sight of the man who'd been nothing but angry and macho toward her, now holding his happy, gurgling baby daughter in his arms. Surrounded by all the masculine decorations, he looked as endearing as a Hallmark card commercial, as poignant as a Kodak ad.

  Her hand drifted automatically to her flat stomach and she swallowed the lump in her throat. She would not cry in front him . . . and now was not the time to mourn the emptiness of her own arms.

  Before he noticed her, she forced herself to stand straight, then pasted a smile on her face. By God, she'd get through this time-travel business even if it meant giving an Oscar-caliber performance that Dorothy, Alice, and Scarlett would be proud of.

  #

  Jackson knew he flaunted convention, but he couldn't stop this one departure from common wisdom. Each evening after Suzette fed Rose, he spent time with his daughter outside the nursery. At times they sat on the verandah and listened to the sounds of frogs and crickets. She'd watch the lanterns and doomed moths with glee, pushing with her dimpled legs until at times Jackson thought she might walk right off his lap.

  Other times he'd carry her to the stable, where Rose would reach chubby fingers toward the horses and squeal in delight. In a few years, he'd teach her to ride. A good seat was necessary for a man, but admirable in a woman. Before she danced her first waltz, she'd be able to clear a three-foot fence with ease. Rose would ride to the hounds or pursue any other equestrian event she cared to try.

  Tonight, rain threatened, sending thunder and occasional flashes of lightening through the northwest sky. Jackson settled on pacing his study with Rose cooing over the colored spines of his books and decorative items on his shelves. She reached for everything she saw, and he knew from experience that whatever she snagged would be immediately placed in her mouth.

  "This is a crystal decanter, young lady," he informed his infant daughter. "Crystal could cut your mouth, so I won't let you hold it. Isn't it pretty, though? When you're older, you can have all the beautiful crystal you want. When you marry, I'll send to France for the finest service money can buy. You'll be the envy of all your friends."

  Rose cooed and smiled, wiggling toward the glasses and decanters on the cherry sideboard that matched the massive desk and wall of shelves. This room was Jackson's favorite, a retreat where a man could run his empire in comfort. Every time he sat down in the tufted leather chair and reached for a gold-embossed sheet of paper, he reminded himself that he deserved every penny he pulled from the unforgiving clay soil.

  Rose squealed, reaching toward a vase that he'd been told was from an ancient Chinese dynasty. He didn't care; he was more interested in forming his own dynasty at Black Willow Grove. But for that to happen, he needed a wife and a son. He loved Rose with all his heart, but one day she would marry and move to her husband's land, leaving this plantation without a male heir who could run it properly.

  Before long, Jackson knew he'd have to make the social rounds, looking for a new wife. He had several months, however. No one expected him to marry for at least a year after Pansy's death. And Thomas Crowder would not take to Jackson's new wife replacing the deified Pansy as mistress of Black Willow Grove.

  This time, Jackson vowed, he'd find a woman with a more sturdy disposition. He already had his land; he didn't need to marry within his immediate social circle. Perhaps he'd travel to New Orleans. Or he could go north, to St. Louis. He'd bring up the subject very subtly in conversation among the planters, just to see if a northern wife would be acceptable.

  Speaking of acceptable--or unacceptable--he wondered how Miss Galloway fared with the female apparel. He only hoped the outer trappings made her behavior less suspect. The answers he wanted still burned in his gut. His reaction to her could only be called disturbing. He'd never seen a woman defy convention so thoroughly.

  "You'll never act or dress that way," he told his daughter with a touch of his forefinger to her pink button nose. "You're going to learn what to do and say so you'll never feel awkward, so no one will ever question your right to walk into one of these rooms."

  Rose babbled, a serious expression on her face, as though imitating him. The idea caused a curious lump in Jackson's throat.

  With a powerful lunge, Rose squealed and turned away from the sideboard. Following her line of vision, Jackson felt the air leave his lungs. Standing just inside the doorway of his study was a woman like he'd never seen before. Short, straight, pale hair framed an intriguing face with pink-tinged cheeks and rosy lips. Her round breasts filled out the bodice of the green gown quite nicely, emphasizing her small waist. He'd seen more of her in detail, of course, when she'd been wearing the tight trousers and strange bodice. She hadn't looked all that appealing then, but now . . .

  His heart slammed against his ribs, reminding him how long he'd been without a woman. Dammit, of all the inappropriate women who might stir his lust, why this one?

  She smiled shyly, then twirled slowly in a circle. "I told the servants I cleaned up real well. What do you think?"

  Chapter Four

  Randi blinked away the moisture in her eyes, keeping a smile on her face while Mr. Durant gave her a thorough once-over. A little too thorough, her woman's instinct told her. She felt like the only female at the Rebel's Yell Bar & Grill on dollar beer night.

  "Do I look more presentable, Mr. Durant?" she asked sweetly.

  His wandering gaze snapped back to her face. "You appear . . . much improved, Miss Galloway."

  "Well, thank you very much," she said, hoping he didn't pick up on the fact she was being somewhat sarcastic.

  He frowned a moment later. "Your hair is too short."

  Her hand automatically went to the pixieish strands, which she'd tucked behind her ears and smoothed as much as possible into a conservative style. She'd refused Melody's offer of a hot curling iron to put ringlets around her face. How ridiculous would that look? "Short hair is easier to take care of," she offered.

  "No doubt you're correct, but still, the style is not appropriate for a young lady. Not unless you've been ill."

  "Ill?"

  "If your hair was cut to aid in your recovery."

  Personally, Randi thought that was the most ridiculous custom she'd ever heard. Since he obviously thought she should know about this silly habit, she'd better not say anything else or she'd get in trouble.

  "Oh, yes." She shrugged. "There's not much I can do about the length of my hair. It's not like changing from jeans into dresses."

  "Jeans?"

  "That's what the pants I was wearing are called."

  "I've never seen anything like them before, and I don't care to view them again."

  "A lot of people like them," she said, her feelings slightly hurt that he didn't like the way she looked at all. There was no pleasing this man, even if she tried to look presentable.

  "They're too . . . fitting."

  "Fitting? You mean tight?"

  "Yes, I suppose you could use that term." He practically squirmed, like he was recalling the sight of a creepy-crawlie bug.

  "So you're not really opposed to jeans, just to how they look on me because they're too tight?" she said carefully, trying not to let him goad her into saying or doing something unladylike.

  "I would be opposed to such tightly fitting garments on anyone, Miss Galloway. Besides, I believe you claimed those aren't your clothes. Why would you care if I approve of them, on you or anyone else? My point is that they are inappropriate."

  She raised her chin, controlling her temper with a promise to return to her own time as soon as possible, and never wear another dress again as long as she lived. "Of course. I respect your opinion."

  He seemed surprised by her comment--or her ability to control herself. "Very good. Since there's nothing we can do about your hair, I'm pleased that the dresses fit so well."
r />   Actually, she wanted to say, they're as uncomfortable as hell, but she didn't. She kept that silly little smile glued to her face. "Thank you for loaning me the clothes."

  "They're a gift, Miss Galloway, not a loan. I assume with your trunk resting at the bottom of the Mississippi, you'll be needing them."

  "Yes, of course."

  "You did mention your trunk fell overboard, didn't you?"

  "Yes. You know how hectic things can be with boarding and . . . unboarding."

  He looked amused for just a second, but quickly hid his expression by turning and walking across the room.

  Rose apparently didn't like his actions, because she began to fret and wiggle.

  "She's a lovely baby," Randi said.

  Rose let out an ear-piercing shriek, contradicting Randi's compliment.

  When Mr. Durant turned back toward her, he was frowning. "I don't know why she starts to cry like that. She's fine one moment, then begins to cry."

  "Are you sure she's not colicky?"

  "She doesn't cry after feeding. The servants have said they've treated other babies with that disorder, but Rose is not suffering from a problem with her digestion."

  "Maybe she just wants attention. She could be trying to get you to do what she wants you to do."

  "Miss Galloway," he said with exaggerated patience, "she's only eight months old. I hardly think she's capable of deliberation."

  "I wouldn't be so sure."

  "Although I admire my daughter's attributes, I try not to give her more than is reasonable."

  "Well, then maybe her nature is just more changeable. My nephew Justin was the same way when he was a baby--laughing one minute, fussy the next. We finally decided he was just temperamental."

  "Rose has a sweet temperament," he said defensively, frowning more as he grappled with the wiggling, crying baby in his arms.

  "Of course," Randi said, hiding a smile. Anyone could see that Jackson Durant adored his daughter. How it must have hurt to lose his wife so soon after Rose's birth, at the time when most families are just beginning to bond. Randi had seen the phenomena with her sister and brother-in-law after the birth of their son Justin, and with Russell, even though he and Darla had had to get married. That didn't mean they loved Sandy any less--or little Mickey, who'd come a year later.

  "Would you like for me to take her?" Randi offered.

  Jackson Durant looked as though she'd asked him to strip naked and quack like a duck. Randi barely suppressed a giggle at the image.

  "No, she's fine," he claimed, even as Little Miss Rose puckered up for a really good fuss.

  Randi took a chance and walked toward father and daughter. "Look, Mr. Durant, I realize you don't know me from Adam, but I'd make a great governess for you daughter. I know all about children. I have three nieces and nephews, and believe me, I've handled just about anything they can come up with. Why, with a sweet girl like Rose, I wouldn't have any trouble at all."

  He looked skeptical, but Randi could tell he was wavering. Rose continued to alternately whimper, then shriek, adding to the atmosphere of desperation. He finally loosened his hold on his daughter. "You can see what you can do," he reluctantly offered.

  Randi smiled at the baby, then held out her arms in a universal offer to "come to me." Rose sniffled, then quieted, then returned the smile with a tentative one of her own. Urging the baby one with facial gestures and soothing noises, Randi continued to hold out her arms.

  Within seconds, Rose leaned in her father's grasp toward Randi, holding out her own chubby arms. Randi settled her hands around the baby's middle, then pulled her away from her reluctant father.

  She settled the baby on her hip like she'd held her a hundred times before, then turned her smile on the frowning man who obviously didn't want his daughter in the arms of a near stranger. "See, I told you I was good with babies. Do I have the job?"

  "A decision of that magnitude is not so easy, Miss Galloway."

  "Of course it is. Either you trust me or you don't," she said with much more confidence than she felt. To hide her nervousness, Randi turned her attention back to Rose, who was reaching for her hair. "Rose trusts me, don't you, Sweetie?"

  Rose gurgled and grabbed, making Randi smile despite the lingering pain her memories caused. She loved babies; she'd always loved being around them, smelling that unmistakable baby smell, watching them discover the world. She wanted a child, her child, but that wish hadn't been granted. Someday . . . after she'd achieved her other dream.

  Randi Mae was going to be the Galloway's first career woman, as soon as she returned to her own time. And to do that, she had to stay at Black Willow Grove and very close to young Miss Rose.

  "I don't know you."

  "Then get to know me, Mr. Durant. I'm really very friendly."

  "That," he said succinctly, "is exactly what I'm afraid of."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Has no one brought to your attention the fact that you're an extremely unreserved young lady?"

  Her smile faded as she realized he'd misinterpreted her actions and her remarks. Instead of viewing her as friendly, he'd seen her as too forward, too aggressive. In short, she was acting like a twentieth century woman.

  Randi bowed her head, affecting her most submissive pose. "You're right, Mr. Durant. I've been told this before. I'm sorry."

  She peeked at him through the fringe of her bangs. He seemed surprised, his head slightly turned, his eyes narrowed and assessing. "You've had no success changing your behavior?"

  "Not very much, but I'm working on it," she answered honestly. In truth, she'd never seen any reason to curb her natural exuberance. Now that she was living in the nineteenth century, she certainly saw the need to act differently.

  Come to think of it, she hadn't yet determined how far she'd traveled back in time.

  "I won't have someone influencing my daughter who possesses less than the highest moral and personal standards."

  "Of course. I understand. However, I am really very good with babies. I can tell you from experience that Rose is too young to be influenced by social rules. Right now, she's more interested in colors and sounds than she is in using the right fork or judging the length of someone's hair. In short, Mr. Durant, I think that I could enhance her care without harming her at all."

  Randi waited for his reaction, praying that he didn't immediately reject her offer. If he'd just give her a chance . . . If she could find her way back home, then she wouldn't influence this baby at all. She'd be out of the past, and things could go on as they should.

  Which meant, she realized with a start, that sometime in the near future Rose and her father would die in the rising muddy water of the Mississippi. Despite the hand she placed over her mouth, Randi couldn't suppress a moan at the image of them trapped in this house, the river covering their heads, pulling them under to a watery grave.

  "What's wrong, Miss Galloway?"

  "The river . . ." she tried to explain, but realized she couldn't. There was no way he'd accept the fact that a flood would come. She had to improvise, and fast. He looked at her as though she was acting strangely again, which, she supposed, she was.

  She took a deep breath, trying not to alarm baby or father. "What I meant was that my head still hurts from falling into the river."

  "When you lost your clothes."

  "That's right. I hit my head, too."

  "Yes, I seem to remember you mentioning that."

  "I have a headache sometimes."

  "And you can't remember things correctly."

  "Exactly," she said, glad that he'd been paying attention earlier when they talked. "As a matter of fact, one of the things I'm having trouble recalling is the date. Could you please tell me?" She shifted Rose to the other hip, not taking her eyes off the baby's father.

  "The date?"

  "Yes. The month, date, and year, please," she asked politely.

  He took two steps toward her, then folded his arms across his chest. The sleeves of his shirt
pulled taut against his shoulders, emphasizing his lean but muscular build. And he was tall, looming over her short frame in a way that made her feel extremely vulnerable. Again, she reminded herself that she had to be very careful around this man . . . around all these people in the past.

  The only one she could possibly let down her guard around was this sweet baby. Her arms tightened around Rose as Randi blinked back the tears that constantly threatened when she thought of the tragedy yet to come.

  "Today is April 5, 1849."

  His words slowly registered. Less than a month. By the end of April, the plantation would be flooded. Jackson Durant and his daughter would be swept away, drowned in the horrible, muddy water that rarely gave up its victims.

  She felt weak, her stomach churning. Normally, she was as healthy as a horse, but since she'd heard the baby's cries inside the replica, and especially since she'd been hurled back in time, she hadn't felt very good. The knowledge that everyone she met was going to be either homeless or dead didn't help.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Durant, but my head is really hurting. Perhaps I'd better lie down now," Randi said quietly, not meeting his gaze. Instead, she buried her face next to Rose, breathing in the distinctive baby fragrance, feeling the soft, warm skin that was so darn alive.

  How could she let this baby die? Was that why she'd gone back into the past--to save a life? She wished she had some answers, but knew that she might never find out the reason she'd fallen into the dollhouse. Or the way to back to her own time.

  The tug of the baby jolted Randi into awareness. "I'll take Rose from you," her father said.

  "I could put her to bed," Randi said, reluctant to let go of the infant. Rose felt so good, so right, in her arms.

  "No, I'll have Suzette perform her usual duties. You obviously need your rest, Miss Galloway. I'm sure falling into the river and losing your personal belongings is quite unsettling. We can talk some more tomorrow, when you're feeling better."

  "Yes, tomorrow . . ." Randi said, distracted by the sight of the very virile man and his sleepy baby daughter, wishing her head wasn't swirling with images and feelings she'd rather not face. As Mr. Durant settled Rose more comfortably on his shoulder, Randi's hand drifted to her stomach, feeling the emptiness more strongly than ever.