A Cry at Midnight

by Chancellor, Victoria

  "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.

  Although there were waist-high railings around each deck, no one could stand upright. Women wailed and men shouted orders as possessions were carried with great difficulty by black field hands and white travelers alike.

  The gangplank tilted at an odd angle. Men tried to stand upright with their heavy loads as they held onto a railing. Randi thought back to her original story of her trunk falling into the river and her jumping in after it. The scenario now seemed very probable--except she knew that falling off an upright boat would be virtually impossible.

  If another paddlewheeler had crashed into a dock or levee, Jackson would have known about it. That meant he'd known all along that she was lying . . .

  She didn't have time to follow through with that thought right now. With all the chaos, she needed to find where they'd taken the injured passengers.

  "Who's in charge?" she asked Jackson.

  "Franklin should be, but I don't see him. Let me ask around."

  He rode up to a man who obviously recognized him. Dismounting from the chestnut horse who had carried them here so quickly, Jackson reached up and lifted her from the back of the nervous animal. Only once before did she remember being so grateful to be on dry land.

  Of course, the sogginess below her feet wasn't really dry.

  "Where's Franklin?" Jackson shouted to the man.

  "At the house. They've taken the passengers there."

  "The injured ones too?" Randi asked.

  The man looked at her with raised eyebrows, but answered, "Yes." His eyes raked over her, probably wondering who she was and why she was here.

  "Can you ride by yourself to the house?" Jackson asked.

  "Are you kidding? On that beast?"

  He shook his head.

  "Where is the house?" Randi asked, shading her eyes from the torches as she looked into the darkness.

  "Not far," Jackson said, pointing away from the chaos. Can you see?"

  "Yes. Sure enough, the faint lights from the windows were visible through the gloomy twilight. "I can walk."

  "I'll take her," the man said.

  Jackson looked between them, then shook his head. "Thanks, but I believe I'll deliver Miss Galloway myself."

  Within seconds, he'd mounted the horse. The man they'd talked to handed her up, his hands sweeping down her leg once she was settled on Jackson's lap. A shiver passed through her. The man thought she was a woman of no consequence, someone he could approach with no repercussions. Well, he'd better not try anything with her, because she'd kick him where it hurt the most.

  Before she reacted to the lecher, Jackson wheeled the horse away from the scene of the wreck and into the darkness. She held tight, settling her head against his strong shoulder, feeling his heartbeat against her hand as it crossed his chest.

  "That was Franklin's overseer," Jackson informed her. "Stay away from him."

  "No problem." For once, she and Jackson agreed.

  The ground was much wetter here than on Jackson's land. The horse struggled through sucking mud, slipping several times. Randi held tight, her left arm around his back, her right looped around his neck. He seemed to welcome her presence, encouraging her snuggling by holding her tight. Far too soon, the ride was over.

  He reined the horse beside the front porch. She felt his arms tighten as if he was preparing to lift her down. Her gaze raised to his, then caught and held. Lamplight from inside the house gilded his tanned skin with a golden glimmer and his dark eyes with a shimmering, mysterious look. He took in a deep breath, then leaned over her so quickly her breath caught. He kissed her deeply, fiercely, until she responded by meeting his tongue with thrusts of her own. As quickly as he'd placed his lips over hers, the kiss ended.

  The distant sounds of footsteps and conversation filtered into her consciousness as Jackson lifted her from across his thighs and onto the porch. He looked as unsteady as she felt. Leaning against a white column, she couldn't turn away from his intense look.

  He broke eye contact, looking toward the doorway. "Franklin!" he called out.

  Within a few seconds, a middle-aged man in a rumpled coat and mud-splattered pants joined them.

  "This is Miss Galloway, my daughter's governess. She has some knowledge of the healing arts."

  "We could use some help. The doctor is setting broken bones."

  "I'll do whatever I can," Randi offered the flustered planter.

  "But with the greatest care," Jackson added. When she looked up at him, she saw possession and desire written on his face. For me, she thought, amazed that she'd evoked such strong emotion in a man who prided himself on being in control.

  "You will be cautious, Miss Galloway," he added. "I'll be back for you later."

  With those meaningful words hanging in the rain-drenched air, Jackson pivoted his horse and galloped across the muddy lawn, back toward the wreck. She shivered, knowing that if he decided to take her somewhere dark and private when all this was over, she'd gladly go. No thoughts of her future or past, no worries about when she could leave or how.

  As she followed Mr. Franklin into the house, she felt as though she was losing herself in the past. Frightened by the idea, she knew she had to keep her head on straight, even when her mind was spinning from Jackson's kisses.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The hard physical labor felt good. Jackson had discarded his coat, working alongside stevedores and weary travelers, planters and field hands. They hurried to get the heavily laden vessel unloaded. Items in the lower deck had shifted to the submerged side when the packet hit the levee, keeping the boat wedged even farther into the mud of the Mississippi.

  They needed to get the boat out, whatever the effort cost. When . . . if the water rose higher, the boat would be pulled loose by the current and run into the levee again. Next time, the entire earthen wall could collapse from the impact.

  Another problem was that the wreck left many travelers without a place to stay, clean clothing, and hot food. Each planter could take a certain number of guests into their homes, and no one should be terribly inconvenienced, but who knew when another packet could carry these stranded people to their destinations? And if the river continued to rise, as he suspected it would, then transportation could be a long, long time coming.

  Working up to his knees in muddy water, he twisted a barrel free and passed it to a burly field hand who worked on Franklin's plantation, who passed it to a stevedore who usually worked the docks at Randolph. Jackson's lower legs had gone numb an hour ago, at least. His arms and shoulders ached with the repetitive effort, but he hadn't felt this good in years. The only better outcome of this night would be to go home with Randi Galloway and
make sweet love to her until they were both exhausted.

  He'd stopped last night when she'd asked him to. He'd stop again, but he didn't think that's what she wanted. Holding her in his arms on the ride to Eastland, kissing her before he rode away from Franklin's house, he'd understood her desire was as great as his.

  Yet he had to tell Randi they were unsuitable for any relationship more permanent. Surely she realized this, but for the sake of honesty, he needed to say the words. He would find a suitable woman among the planter class, and he would marry her for the sake of having an heir and a mother for Rose.

  Having a liaison with his daughter's governess had a certain unpleasantness that he refused to heed. If he'd discovered another man in his position had taken advantage of a young woman's position in his home, Jackson knew he'd condemn the man as a lecher. Even knowing he was applying a double standard, he couldn't stop himself from thinking about Randi--and about losing himself in her warmth.

  "Watch out!"

  The deck beneath him shifted, along with the cargo, and Jackson slipped down into the dark water. Something crashed into his shoulder, sending sharp pains down his arm. A barrel rolled into his chest, knocking the air from is lungs and slamming him against the wall. He struggled from the water, gulping, panicked, shaking the water from his eyes.

  Across the deck, he heard another man moan. The field hand, probably, who had been mid-way across the cargo deck when the warning was shouted. The torch they'd used for light had apparently fallen into the water, but he saw the bobbing glow of someone coming down the stairs, carrying a lantern or another torch.

  "Over here," he called out.

  Within minutes, three men helped him pull the other man from beneath barrels that had rolled and shifted, nearly burying him in a watery grave. The field hand's arm appeared to be broken, with a long gash that looked painful. Jackson's own bruises paled to insignificance as he helped the man to the fresh air and help.