"What happened?"
She laughed, the sound hollow and sad in the silence of Jackson's library. "We weren't very good shipbuilders, I'm afraid. The water was high, the current fast. Our raft lasted long enough for us to be swept into the deeper water, then it started to break apart. I tried to hold onto the driftwood, but the river twirled it around, pulling it under. I screamed. I swallowed water. Horrible, muddy water." Randi shuddered, closing her eyes against the memories. "Russell was a good swimmer. He pulled me to the shore, half drowned. I thought I was dying, but he saved me."
She looked into Jackson's black eyes, the candlelight causing flickering golden images that distracted her from the horror of the near drowning. "I've never gone into the river since. I can't stay here. I won't be able to stand it, even if the water only gets to the bottom floor of the house. I'd look out the windows and see nothing but the muddy flood, and I'd know . . ."
"Know what?" he asked softly.
"Know what will happen," she whispered, looking away.
"You don't believe that I'll protect you?"
She placed a hand on his cheek, the late-night stubble real and very male against her palm. "I believe you'll try. I also believe that this house will not survive."
"Dreams," he said. "Nightmares. That's all they are."
She shook her head. "I wish they were."
"You told me--"
"I told you what you wanted to hear. I told you what I needed to say in order to stay. But Jackson, I
know
. Something terrible is going to happen here. I thought I could come and save you . . . save Rose. But not if you won't listen."
"I've listened," he said, pushing away from her.
Her arms slipped from his shoulders, hanging empty and cold in the darkened study. "You don't believe me."
"Of course not." He ran a hand through his hair, then turned away. "But I believe that you're convinced you know the future. I see no harm in you thinking a tragedy will happen. When the flood passes us by, you'll see that I'm right."
She remained silent, his nineteenth century rationale easy to accept only because he wasn't calling her as a lunatic. Still, she couldn't drop the subject. "What if the flood doesn't pass by?"
He turned back to stare at her, his eyes intense and burning. "I'll see that it does."
She took a step toward him, touching his cheek with her palm. "I know you'll try. You love Rose. You love Black Willow Grove. If anyone can save this place and the people who live here, it's you."
She stepped back until she reached the doorway. Placing one trembling hand on the frame, she said, "But I can't stay. I must go home . . . before . . ." She stopped, unable to continue because the image of leaving him and Rose was too overwhelming.
Before he could respond, she hurried from the study, her arms wrapped around herself as she fled to the relative safety of her room.
Her heart breaking for what could never be, she turned the lock on her door, then pushed aside her paper and snubby pencil.
There would be no more sketching tonight.
#
Jackson came downstairs late the next morning after a night of fretful sleep and nightmarish dreams of his own, and settled in his study behind a closed door. He blamed his foul mood on the brandy, which had left him with a cottony mouth and pounding headache. What a waste of the imported spirits he'd spent a good sum to acquire.
But the real waste was the passion that he
hadn't
shared with Randi. They would have been so good together. He'd known it, deep inside his soul, from the first time they'd touched.
He didn't know who she was, but now knew why she believed she was here. To save him and his daughter. He'd been alarmed about her predictions of a flood destroying Black Willow Grove at first. Those feelings had changed to concern for her mental abilities, then, last night, anger that she didn't trust him to keep them safe.
This morning, frustration warred with that anger. He wanted to believe she'd escaped from an institution, that her premonitions of disaster were caused by nearly drowning on that raft she and her brother had so carelessly built. But when he looked into her eyes, he didn't see madness. He saw sincerity and openness.
Randi Galloway seemed even more open and honest in her feelings than his mother, who had always told the truth, even when her family wanted to hear a comforting lie. As a child, he'd needed assurance that times would get better, and they'd have plenty of food to eat and warm blankets when the damp cold wind blew through the boards of their shack.
She'd never promised him those things. All she'd said was they would have each other, and somehow they would get by. She'd told him to say his prayers before she tucked him in beside his younger brother each night on their narrow cot.
She'd asked him not to leave when he was only fourteen years old, tall but thin as a rail. Full of anger and dreams, he'd said he'd be back with a pot of gold that would take them all out of poverty.
He didn't come back in time, though. The pot of gold hadn't materialized as quickly as he'd hoped, and he found that he'd lied to the one woman he'd loved. His family died in a fire, in their sleep, alone and wondering what had happened to their oldest son.
The son with all the dreams, who had lied when he said he'd be back to take them all away.
He rested his head between his hands on the desk where he'd almost made love to Randi last night. The brandy-induced headache pounded in his temples, but the pain wasn't as severe as that in his heart. He missed his family, especially the strong woman who had made their shack a home. He wished he could go home, just one more time, and find the closeness he'd known in the poverty they'd shared.
He'd found no strong women, no real closeness for him, among the planter families. He'd forgotten the importance of strength . . . and maybe even love. When he'd looked for a wife, he'd wanted land and family. Connections to the wealthy, the elite. Acceptance into their society. Pansy had been exactly what he was looking for, and everything he now realized he didn't want.
A knock interrupted his musings. Jackson lifted his head, running his hands through his hair. "Come in."
Lebeau opened the door, slipping inside silently. "Miss Violet is here to see you."
A vision of her blond loveliness did nothing to dispel the unease he felt about his dead wife's sister. Violet was looking for a sign that he welcomed her interest. She'd never understood that he was being polite only in a familiar manner. A gentle snub would set her straight.
"Tell Miss Crowder that I'm unavailable." He sighed. "I'm not feeling my best, but don't tell her that."
Lebeau raised one eyebrow, gave Jackson an assessing look, then left the library.
Jackson went to the window which overlooked the lawn. He heard faint voices, then the front door closing. In a moment, the Crowder's carriage wheeled down the drive, the horses at a fast trot.
Smiling, Jackson returned to the desk. He was just taking his seat when another knock sounded.
"Yes. What is it?" He wasn't in the mood for any more interruptions.
A feminine hand pushed open the door, then the object of his most recent frustration poked her head inside the study.
Her expression betrayed her feelings clearly: embarrassment, caution, and the same frustration he felt. "Sorry to bother you."
"No bother. I assumed Lebeau wanted something else."
"I need a new pencil, or a way to sharpen the one I have."
"Of course. Come in."
She slipped inside, wearing the lavender dress this morning. She looked prim and proper, the opposite of the disheveled, passionate woman he'd kissed and caressed last night. He tore his eyes away, focusing on the grain of wood, the sparkle of brass. Memories of their minutes together burned a path through his gut, producing an arousal he hid by remaining seated. He pretended to look for a pencil when in fact he knew exactly where he kept the writing instruments.
"Here you go," he said, trying to sound normal, even cheerful, as he handed Randi a handful of the requested items. Only then did he look at her again.
She'd plastered a strained smile on her face. "Thank you."
"You're welcome."
She backed away, the color in her cheeks high. "I'd better get back to Rose. She's with Suzette."
"Of course." He nodded. "Until later then."
"Yes . . . later."
She closed the door behind her. Jackson slumped in his chair, feeling much older than his thirty years. At the same time, he felt as awkward as a lad. What could he say to her after drinking too much brandy, pressing his advantage when she was in his employ? He'd never coerced a woman into his bed; he didn't believe he'd tried to press his advantage unfairly with Randi. But perhaps he had. He wasn't thinking too clearly--last night or this morning.
Soon, he'd return to his senses.
With a sigh, he walked across the room to the credenza and pulled out a surveyor's map of the area. He needed work to keep his mind busy and off Miss Randi Galloway's charms. He'd made a mistake last night, allowing himself the luxury of wallowing in his desire for his daughter's governess. He should never have kissed her the first time; he shouldn't have done the same--and more--last night.
At least she wasn't angry with him. For that, he was grateful. They could return to their previous uneasy relationship. In time, they'd forget than in a moment of brandy-induced passion, he'd kissed a woman he'd grown to admire for her strength of will, and she'd kissed him back with an honesty he'd all but forgotten.
Randi
felt lucky that Jackson hadn't made a very unpleasant scene over their encounter last night. She'd been half afraid that he'd accuse her of being a loose woman, or scheming in some way, or come up with another reason to distrust her. He hadn't. Apparently he wasn't as narrow minded as she'd once thought--although he wouldn't exactly qualify as a sensitive nineties male.
Of course, not many men she knew would fit that description. Sometimes she thought those guys were dreamed up by magazine editors and talk show hosts.
With a sigh, she picked up Rose from the quilt they'd spread on the floor earlier. Rain kept them indoors, making Randi nervous about the water level. Time was running out, and despite the belief the river wasn't going to rise very far or very fast, she knew differently.
"Your daddy is too cocky for his own good," she told the baby, holding Rose high over her head and twisting her gently side to side. Rose squealed in delight, drooling on the bodice of the lavender dress.
"Oh, you stinker," Randi said, smiling at the baby's apple cheeks and pink bow mouth as she settled the infant on her hip. "You just love to get me dirty, don't you? Do you know how much trouble it is to change out of these dresses? And I can't just throw them in the washing machine, either, like I can my jeans and sweats. Somebody has to wash these with their very own hands."
Randi tickled Rose's tummy until she giggled and wiggled. Only when she looked up did she notice Suzette standing in the doorway, a look of confusion on her face.
"Oh," Randi said. "How long have you been there?"
"I heard what you said," Suzette answered cautiously. "I don't know what those words mean, but it sounds to me like you're talkin' 'bout things I never heard of."
Randi took a deep breath. "You're right. You haven't heard of washing machines or jeans or sweat suits. They exist only where I come from."
"Where's that, Miss Randi?" Suzette asked tentatively, easing into the room with an armload of folded diapers.
"Far away from here," Randi answered, looking out the window at the pounding rain as she bounced Rose on her hip. "I wish I could go back home, too. I'm afraid . . ."
"What's you afraid of?"
"The river," Randi said softly. "The rising water."
"Birdie said the water ain't gonna come as high as the house, but we're gonna have wet fields and poor crops. She knows 'bout things like that."
Randi shook her head. "I think the river will get as high as this house, Suzette. I know we're all in danger if the planters don't build high levees and watch carefully every day."
"Mas'r Jackson will take care of us," Suzette responded automatically.
Randi smiled as reassuringly as possible. After learning that Suzette had been raped by her former owner, Randi found the girl's faith in any man incredible. "I know he'll try. At least he's aware of the problem. He seems to be more concerned than the rest of the men around here."
"Birdie says he'll take care of us."
"Do you like that? What if you had to take care of yourself?"
"All alone?" Suzette asked with alarm in her voice, her dark eyes wide.
"No, I mean what if you didn't have a 'master' to tell you what to do and when. What if you could go out and get a job where you were paid a wage for working? Would you like that?"
"I don't know, Miss Randi. Maybe . . . but Birdie says we're better off here at Black Willow Grove 'cause we have a good master."
Randi sighed. The concept of slavery was so ingrained that many of the people who worked the fields and in the house didn't have any idea how they'd get by without someone providing food, clothing, shelter, and direction to their lives. How sad. How were they going to survive after the Civil War?