A Cry at Midnight

  Surprisingly, the rain had stopped. Fleeting clouds rushed across the half-moon, and a cool wind made him shiver in his wet clothes. The man he supported began to shake.

  "Bring a wagon around," he called out to one of his drivers.

  Within minutes, Jackson had the injured man loaded into the wagon with a blanket around his shoulders and bleeding arm.

  "You'd better go too, Mas'r Jackson," the driver said, pointing to his side.

  "That's his blood," Jackson said, turning toward the torchlight and peering at his wet, clinging, stained shirt.

  "Naw, Mas'r Jackson. I think you got a cut of your own."

  He ran his fingers along the tear in the linen and found a slash across several ribs. He hadn't even noticed until now.

  "I suppose I should have it bandaged." Besides, he'd get to see Randi again, find out how she was faring at the house.

  He hoped she possessed some nursing skills, because he was in the mood for some coddling. Now that he'd noticed the slash on his side, the damn cut hurt like hell. Besides, he was wet and cold. He hoped Franklin had some clothes that would fit him because he hadn't thought to bring extras.

  The wagon made slow time through the mire separating the partially breached levee from the plantation house. Jackson tried to concentrate on the logistics of water flow and levee repair, but he was shivering too hard to think. His shoulder ached and the cut bled slowly. His blood was the only warmth he could detect on his body.

  By the time the driver pulled up at the front steps, exhaustion had claimed the rest of his energy. He helped the more severely injured man out, even though he shook uncontrollably himself. With the driver on the other side of the field hand, they pushed through the front door into light and warmth.

  Jackson's eyes focused on the woman rushing to meet him, concern shining from her wide eyes. Her expression felt so warm, so intoxicating, that he almost reached out his arms to grab her. Instead, he held onto the injured man and continued walking into the house, hoping he didn't do or say anything in a weak moment that would embarrass him . . . or show others his inappropriate feelings toward his daughter's governess.

  #

  Randi rushed toward the three men: two black, one white, all three wet and dripping on the Franklin's marble foyer. When she got close enough to smell the muddy Mississippi River water, she also saw the blood on Jackson. The knowledge that he was injured and bleeding made her stumble, but she caught herself before she acted like a complete fool and embarrassed Jackson.

  He was so sensitive about how others perceived him. Someday, she was going to have to find out why.

  "What happened?" She looked first at the man they were supporting, one on each side. Jackson should be lying down, not holding up a guy who looked like a professional football player.

  "My arm's broke," the big man ground out.

  "Hold still," she told him as she peeled the shirt away. The bone appeared to have snapped and broken the skin. Setting it would be awfully painful. She turned to look at Jackson's side.

  "The boat shifted when we were unloading the cargo hold. He's hurt worse than I am," Jackson said.

  "I'll be the judge of that. Where are you hurt?'

  "Just a little cut on my ribs. Nothing important."

  Of course he'd say that. "It's full of dirty river water. We need to get it clean, at least."

  "As long as you treat him first."

  "What's your name?" Randi asked the man with the broken arm.

  "George, ma'am," he said through gritted teeth.

  "Let's get you settled back in the kitchen, George. That's where the doctor has been taking care of the people who are more seriously injured. Not that there were that many, thank heavens."

  "You're not going to take off my arm, are you?" he asked in fear and pain.

  "Of course not!" Randi was shocked that anyone would jump to that sort of conclusion for a broken arm, even a compound fracture.

  "I'll have to take a look first," the doctor said, joining them from where he'd been resting in the parlor.

  "Please, don't let him take my arm," George pleaded to Jackson.

  "I won't."

  They went to the detached kitchen where patients could be laid flat for medical procedures. Thankfully, the stove provided heat against the damp chill outside. Folded towels rested on a nearby shelf. Not exactly a high tech ER, but this was all they had to work with.

  George passed out from the pain of getting him up on the oak table.

  "That's okay," she told Jackson, standing close beside him and pressing a clean cloth to his wound. "The doctor can set his arm while he's out cold."

  "I'm not letting him take off the arm."

  "Of course not! It's broken, not mangled."

  Jackson looked at her as though she was crazy. "Broken arms are removed fairly often when they push through the skin like this."

  "Really? Not in the land of Randi Mae Galloway."

  Jackson tried a slight smile at their ongoing jest, but failed miserably. She'd never seen him so tired.

  "Can you get us a chair?" she asked the other man who'd helped Jackson get George into the house.

  "Sure, Miz Randi."

  He even knew her name. How was that? She'd never seen him before. From the way he was dressed, she supposed he worked outside. Of course, it was hard to tell when even Jackson looked like a dockworker.

  "For you, Miz Randi," the man said, setting a chair before her.

  "Thanks, but it's not for me. For Jackson."

  She urged him to sit, then began pulling the wet, tattered shirt from his body.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Getting you out of these wet clothes," she answered, tugging the sleeve down his arm.

  "Miss Galloway!" His shocked tone of voice surprised her as much as the other occupants of the room, who all stared at her.

  "What?"

  "You shouldn't be doing that. You're an unmarried woman," Jackson whispered in a fierce, condemning tone.

  "Oh, don't be silly. You don't have anything I haven't seen before. I have an older brother, you know."

  "Yes, I believe you mentioned that. However, I'm not your brother, and--"

  "Hold still."

  "Ouch!"

  "You've got a nasty bruise," she said, pulling the shirt away from the wound and surrounding area. "Are you sure somebody didn't just beat the--heck out of you? You look like you just went a few rounds with Evander Holyfield."

  "Who?" Jackson looked away from the doctor and turned his confused gaze toward her.

  "He's a boxer." Vaguely, she remembered that the sport had another name, long ago, but she couldn't recall the name.

  Jackson looked at her blankly. "I assure you, only barrels inflicted this damage, although some boxes were stored below."

  "You may have broken some ribs. Does it hurt to breathe?"

  "Not especially."

  George moaned, returning their attention to him.

  "I'll need assistance holding his arm straight," the doctor said.

  Jackson started to rise, but she pushed him down in the chair. "Not you. We need to see how badly you're hurt before you start exerting yourself again. If you're feeling okay, then get yourself the rest of the way out of that wet shirt and find something dry to put around you."

  She motioned for the other black man to come over. "We'll help you, Dr. Shelton."

  "Aren't you going to disinfect the wound?" she asked when they leaned over the table.

  "I don't think that's necessary. These people have much tougher skin and they--"

  "Dr. Shelton, that's ridiculous! He's just as prone to infection as anyone. Now where is that whiskey you used earlier. I saw you use some on that young man with the scrape on the side of his neck."

  The doctor glared at her, but retrieved the bottle from the table beside the stove.

  "A waste of good spirits," the doctor complained as he poured whiskey over the raw skin.

  Randi insisted he wash his hands before
touching the wound, then, with a minimum amount of grumbling and their help, he managed to pull the bone back into place. Thankfully, George stayed passed out through the entire ordeal. Randi didn't want to think how painful the procedure must be.

  He started to bind the wound, but Randi interrupted him. "Shouldn't that wound be stitched?"

  "He's a field hand, Miss Galloway," the doctor replied in a long suffering voice. "His scar doesn't have to look pretty."

  "No, but skin the best way to keep out germs. If the cut doesn't heal properly, he might get infected."

  "What are you talking about?" Dr. Shelton asked incredulously.

  "She knows many things from her homeland," Jackson interjected.

  "I know that infections aren't caused by evil spirits or bad air," Randi said. "Look, if you don't want to sew him up, then I will." As long as he stayed passed out. Otherwise, she'd have to stick a needle through his skin while he watched her and flinched, and she just didn't think she could do that.

  The doctor shook his head, but headed for his medical kit. "I've never had such a fussy assistant before. There's a reason women aren't involved in the medical profession."

  Randi laughed. "Just wait! You should only live so long."

  She realized what she said, but could bring it back. Oh, well. No one would pick up on the fact she'd referred to the future, not just another place.

  When she hazarded a glance at Jackson, she noticed he was watching her closely. Too closely.

  The doctor began to sew the skin together, large stitches that wouldn't serve this poor injured man well at all. "Look, Dr. Shelton, I know you're tired. Why don't I finish that up? Women are good at sewing, right?"

  No one seemed to notice her sarcasm, and the doctor gave her only a withering stare before handing over the needle. She'd never done this before, but her efforts must be better than that old quack. Taking her bottom lip between her teeth, she tried not to wince too much when she poked the metal through George's ragged skin.

  She'd watched a doctor in the emergency room do this to Russell one time when he fell from the loft in a friend's old barn onto some sheet metal. Of course, he'd also gotten a shot to numb the area, an antibiotic, plus a tetanus booster. This poor worker wouldn't have any of those, so who knew what kind of infections he could get or pain he would suffer?

  Just to be sure, she poured a little more whiskey on the wound, the needle, and thread. If she didn't think it would put her to sleep, she'd take a good swig herself.

  "You have good hands," Jackson said, looking over her shoulder. Once again, he'd moved silently.

  "Don't startle me when I'm doing this," she said. "I'm not exactly a pro."

  "A what?"

  "A professional. You know, like someone who went to school to know how to do this right."

  "Your stitches are better than the good doctor's, and he went to Harvard." Jackson grabbed the bottle of whisky and took a long drink, grimacing when he swallowed.

  "Really? Well, I didn't go there. Maybe the University of Tennessee . . . someday."

  Jackson shook his head. "You're talking in riddles again."

  "Sorry." She glanced down at his bare, bruised chest. "Shouldn't you find some clothes to wear? You look . . . cold."

  She didn't want to think about his olive-toned skin, lean muscles, or cold-pebbled male nipples. Cheeks warm, she turned back to her task of sewing up the worker's damaged arm, careful not to disturb the set bone. At least he wasn't bleeding any longer. She had no idea how to stop massive bleeding. First aid was the only course she'd taken, and only because she should have those skills since she was around her nieces and nephews.

  As soon as she was finished sewing up the gash, she called Dr. Shelton back. He glanced briefly at the neat stitches, then set the bone in splints and bandages. Luckily, as they were finishing, George came to, moaning when he tried to move his arm.

  "You need to keep the bandages clean and changed daily," Randi told him when she saw the doctor had little interest in treating George like a regular patient. "Don't take the splint off, though. That bone has to mend. If the wound gets red or feverish, you'll need medical treatment."

  "Thank you," he said, looking around the room as though wondering who had actually patched him up.

  "Thank Miss Galloway," Jackson said. "She did a neat job sewing up that gash in your arm."

  Randi smiled at the man's thanks, then promised to come and see him if she could. Before long, he returned to his family. Finally, the doctor was ready to look at Jackson's injuries.

  Sitting on the wide oak table, he looked very uncomfortable, Randi thought. Jackson didn't to like being the center of attention. He took another drink of whiskey, which Randi couldn't criticize since no pain killers existed in 1849.

  The doctor had him breathe deeply, testing his ribs. After making sure nothing was broken, he cleaned the wound and bound it tightly with clean cotton cloth strips.

  Randi stood back and watched, ready to intervene if the doctor performed an unsanitary or, in her opinion, an unwise procedure. She wasn't taking any chances with Jackson's health--while she was here. Eventually she'd go back to her time, leaving him to his fate in this horrible, dirty, harsh world.

  The idea made her to swallow a moan, then blink back tears. When Jackson looked up and saw her, she yawned.

  "Sorry," she said. "It's late."

  "Yes, it is. I thought I should work on the boat some more, but I imagine they've finished unloading by now. We were almost done when the accident happened."

  The doctor turned away from the table, loading unused bandages and vials into his bag.

  "You definitely need to go home," Randi told Jackson. "You're covered in bruises, that cut has barely quit bleeding, and your ribs are going to be as sore as all get out tomorrow."

  "You're predicting the future again," Jackson asked with a weary smile.

  "Yes, and I'm as sure of that as I am the other," she said briskly, hating the way she couldn't stop eating him up with her eyes. Darn, but Jackson looked sexy even when he was dirty and injured. There was no fairness in life. Why did she have to be attracted to a man who looked that good? If he resembled a toad more than a prince, she might be able to resist her urge to run her hands over his tight, smooth skin. Soothe his lean ribs. Kiss his bruises until they healed.

  "I'm going back to the parlor," the doctor said, yawning in earnest. "It's been a long night."

  "That it has, doctor. Thank you for patching me up."

  "Anytime, Durant."

  Jackson sent the driver from Black Willow Grove out to find some clothes, leaving Randi alone with the object of her lustful thoughts. Not a good idea.

  He wasted no time, pulling her forward between his legs as he stayed on the table. His trousers were still damp, but all she felt was the warmth of his body surrounding her. He smelled of muddy river water and whiskey, but she didn't mind. She wanted to brace her hands on his chest and show him how relieved she was that he wasn't seriously hurt. He could have been smashed, his arm or leg broken, or lots of injuries worse than some bruises and a gash on his side.

  "Jackson, don't. Anyone could walk in."

  "Then pretend you're treating me," he suggested, settling his hand on her waist. "Use some of your skills to make me feel better."

  She had lots of idea on how to make him feel better, but few of them involved medical skills. "Is that what you really want? I thought you were more concerned about appearances than that. Are you willing to risk getting caught kissing your daughter's governess?"

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jackson let the smile die on his face, weariness replacing the temporary boost from the two shots of whiskey. He let his hands drop from her waist, careful not to brush against any other part of her body as he rested his palms against his thighs. "You're right. That was the whiskey talking."

  "And the pain, and the exhaustion," Randi added, stepping back from between his legs.

  He smiled slightly at her concerned expression,
missing her warmth and nearness. "Perhaps. I won't deny that I'm a bit sore, and I could use a good night's sleep. The problem is, so could the rest of these people."

  "Then why don't we gather some of them up and take them to Black Willow Grove? That's what other planters are doing."

  "Yes, bringing travelers into our homes is the usual procedure."

  "Usual? You have these accidents often enough to have a procedure?" she asked with wide eyes.

  "Not too often. Sometimes a boiler explodes. Sometimes a snag on the river catches the paddlewheel or rudder."

  "Sounds dangerous."

  He tilted his head to the side and assessed her carefully. "You should know. Didn't you arrive on a packet? Haven't you heard stories of river travel, especially since you're from New Orleans?"

  She broke eye contact, busying herself with folding the soiled clothes she and the doctor had used earlier. "Oh, I've been rather sheltered. My parents didn't talk much about disasters."

  "But you know the perils of traveling on the river? You heard of the fire and explosion aboard the Ben Sherrod, didn't you?"

  "Oh, sure. The Ben Sherrod. Of course."

  "That was several years ago."

  "Really? Well, it seems like just yesterday."

  "1837, I believe."

  "I was very young then."

  "I suppose so. You never did tell me how old you are."

  "Does it matter?"

  "I don't believe so, unless you try to make up some ridiculous number. Thirteen perhaps, or maybe fifty."

  That brought forth a smile. "No, I won't deceive you. I'm twenty five."

  "That old," he said, and smiled back as he eased himself off the table. He ached all over. Tomorrow he'd have bruises on top of bruises where he'd been slammed against the wall of the cargo hold.

  "I thought you might think I'm too young to know much about children, but that's not true. I have three nieces and nephews I've cared for since they came home from the hospital."

  "Hospital? Why were they in the hospital?"

  "When they were . . . Oh, I meant, since when they were born. They went to the hospital later, when they were sick."

  "Confusing the two events seems odd. Is there something else you want to tell me?"