Besides, the museum was built on this exact spot, according to the books. The land looked a little different. The trees that grew around this plantation house had disappeared years before the museum was built. The river was in about the right spot, though, and the slight hills looked the same, except without telephone lines, fences, or roads.
She'd grown to love this house. Every time she thought about the destruction to come, she became sad. Of course, it was difficult to think beyond the deaths of Rose and Jackson. She had to find a way to save them. Something awful was going to happen, but he'd never see it coming if he was so certain they were safe behind two levees.
Rose had dropped off into a restless sleep. Randi decided to go downstairs and look into her fanny pack one more time. Perhaps she'd overlooked something that could help Rose deal with this teething pain. Maybe an aspirin, which could be ground into powder and given to the baby in some smashed up fruit. Under normal circumstances she'd never give an adult aspirin to an infant, but she didn't have much choice if she wanted to relieve pain and fever.
She tiptoed from the room, then hurried down the stairs. After locking the door, she knelt beside the bed and pulled the fanny pack free of the bed slats.
The familiar imitation leather pouch felt good in her hands. She longed to go back to her comfortable jeans and pullover top, but didn't dare. She was lucky that she'd been accepted so warmly by Jackson's servants. Showing up in Twentieth Century clothing would be frowned upon by everyone, from Jackson to Lebeau to Birdie, even though they'd accepted her tennis shoes without too many odd looks.
Dashing back upstairs, she sat in the rocker where spring sunshine slanted through the wavy panes of glass. She unzipped the fanny pack, then placed her wallet, car keys, and lipstick on her lap. She felt around the inside seams and found nothing but an empty, balled up foil candy wrapper and a fuzzball of indistinct origins.
"Darn it," she whispered. She would just love to have something useful from her own time. Medication, deodorant, disposable razors, toothpaste. Who needed a wallet and car keys when there weren't any places to show your ID and no car to drive? Heck, there weren't any roads to drive on even if her 1992 Beretta suddenly materialized like Cinderella's coach.
Randi flipped open her wallet, turning to the photos of her family. Russell and Darla with little Sandy, taken at one of the mall photo shops in Memphis last Christmas. They looked so happy and so real. She could almost reach out and touch them. The next photo was a single picture of Justin, taken at the house during his birthday party. His chubby pink cheeks were dotted with birthday cake, and his stubby fingers were streaked with icing. That first birthday party had been a fun day.
The final photo was a formal sitting of her parents, taken a few years ago for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Her dad had tried to smile, but he always appeared more gruff than gracious when he wore a suit and tie. Her mother, on the other hand, looked radiant, thrilled to be in the photo as she sat beside the man she loved.
Randi sighed, missing them so much. How many times would she have turned to her mother for advice these past few weeks? She would have loved to have confided her attraction to Jackson to her sister Tanya, who enjoyed giving advice more than most people. Randi knew that even Darla, who had married into the family four years ago, would have commiserated with her over the church incident, the unfair way the people of this century treated servants, and the lack of good, hot showers.
With a sigh, she snapped her wallet closed and placed it back inside the fanny pack. She zipped up her belongings and tucked the pouch beside her on the chair. She'd hide it later, when she went downstairs again. At least she'd gotten to "see" her family again.
After she went back to her own time, Randi wanted to remember Jackson and Rose in the same way she remembered her relatives--with love and good memories. There was no way to photograph them, so the next best thing would be a sketch. She'd been practicing, filling her hours with rooms and architectural details, but she could try a portrait sketch. She was no great artist, but she might be able to portray them pretty well. At least she had the motivation to create their image--to remember them forever when they could no longer be a part of her life.
She retrieved her sketch pad from the top of the chest of drawers, then moved the rocker closer to Rose's crib. Using a light touch, she began to draw the peaceful face of the sleeping child.
#
Jackson came in through the back door after spending the day constructing the new levee, dirty and sweat-stained like the rest of his workers. Randi watched him from the shadows in the hallway. He looked exhausted but satisfied with himself. She smiled at the image, one that was more endearing because she suddenly felt she was seeing through the layers of sophistication and breeding to the real man.
"You've had a busy day," she said, stepping into the glow of light from a wall sconce.
"You surprised me."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hide. I was just on my way to the kitchen to check on dinner." She took another step toward him.
"I'm filthy," he claimed, taking a small step back. I need to bathe and change."
"I know, but that doesn't mean I have to stay away, does it?"
He looked surprised. "I wouldn't think that a lady would want to be around me until I was more presentable."
"So now I'm a lady?" she asked, then chuckled at the image of herself all dressed up and styled like Violet or some of the other women she'd seen at church. "Really, Jackson, I thought you knew me better than that." She stepped a bit closer. "I'm a woman, not a lady."
"I meant it as a compliment," he said intimately.
"I know, and I'm flattered. I just wanted to let you know that I don't care how you're dressed or whether you have some honest sweat staining your shirt. Fancy clothes don't make the man."
"Then what does?" he asked, his tone soft and truly inquisitive.
"What's inside," she said, closing the gap and placing her hand over his heart. "You have real warmth inside here. And love. You love Rose, and you love Black Willow Grove."
"They're my whole life."
"I know. And if you didn't have that love inside you, you'd be empty in here."
"I feel very full inside right now. If I weren't so dirty, I'd take you in my arms and show you."
Randi smiled. "I'd let you, too." She let her hand drop from his chest and stepped back so she wouldn't be tempted to ignore his dirt and sweat, let her arms creep up around his neck, and plaster herself to his body. He was uncomfortable with the way he appeared, and she didn't want to make him even more aware of the hard work he'd done today. She imagined he didn't participate in physical labor that often.
On the other hand, he had a lean, muscular body that screamed "I work out." She sincerely doubted he had a weight bench and treadmill hiding in his bedroom.
"I'll let you go, then," she said. "When will you want dinner?"
"Give me half an hour. You will dine with me, won't you?"
"I'd love to." She'd like to dine
on
him, come to think of it. Her stomach clenched and she felt herself grow warm at the idea of feasting on a clean, damp, very warm Jackson Durant.
A wicked idea formed in her mind, one she couldn't ignore. "Jackson, since you're tired and you have to bathe and change anyway, why don't you have dinner in your room? That way you wouldn't have to get all dressed up, and you could relax for a change."
"That's a bit unusual."
"Yes, but I think you deserve to pamper yourself a little. After all, you've put up with houseguests for three days, you're under a lot of stress, and this is your house. If you want to do something different, then why not?"
He smiled at her. "Why do I suspect you have another motive for urging me upstairs to dine?"
"Me?" she answered innocently. "Why would you suspect me of anything?"
He laughed. "Because it seems to me that your mission in life is to get me either aggravated or . . ." His eyebrows rose and he leaned forward to whisper, "Miss Galloway, are you trying to seduce me?"
"Oh, absolutely," she whispered back, her hands clasped behind her back. "Is it working?"
"If I weren't filthy at the moment, I'd show you how well."
"You can show me later. Now go take a bath, put on something comfortable, and I'll have dinner brought up soon."
"Both Cook and Birdie will be scandalized."
"They'll get over it."
He laughed again, then headed up the back stairs. Randi watched his legs and backside, trying to imagine him naked. The thought was so inspiring that she sucked in a deep breath, turned, and hurried toward the kitchen.
"Jackson is going to have dinner in his room tonight," Randi told the two women who were busy fixing the meal. One stirred a small kettle, and the other was taking some delicious-smelling rolls out of the oven.
Birdie walked in from the other direction. "Is Mas'r Jackson feelin' poorly?"
"No, he's just tired, and he came in late. I saw him in the hallway and he said he'd eat his meal upstairs. I think that's a good idea. He won't have to get dressed up to sit in that big dining room."
"Um hmm," Birdie said, looking into the rough-hewn china cabinet and pulling out a big platter. "Sounds like takin' a meal upstairs was your idea, Miz Randi."
"Why, I'm surprised you're so suspicious of me, Birdie," Randi said, hardly keeping the amusement out of her voice. "Do you mind?"
"No. Mas'r Jackson did work mighty hard today, right alongside the field hands. I ain't never seen a white man work that hard."
"Maybe he feels strongly about saving his home from the flood."
"There ain't no flood yet."
"No, but I think there will be."
"You been tossin' the chicken bones or lookin' at the tea leaves?" Birdie asked suspiciously, with just a hint of skepticism.
Randi chuckled. "Neither one. Let's just say I have a feeling."
Birdie nodded. Mas'r Jackson'll take care of this house," she predicted. "He's powerful fond of the place."
"I know. But sometimes I remind him that people are more important than things."
Birdie scoffed. "I ain't seen a planter yet that thought that way."
"Well, until today, you hadn't seen one working alongside his field hands," Randi reminded her. "Maybe today will be the start of a new way of things. Maybe . . ."
"Maybe what, Miz Randi?"
"Nothing," she said, then shook her head. "I was just thinking out loud." Randi shook herself out of her thoughts of the future and turned her attention back to the present. "I think I'll fix myself a tray too, and eat upstairs."
"Go right ahead," Birdie said. "I'll be bringing the mas'r his supper directly."
"He's going to take a bath first. You might want to wait a half hour or so."
Birdie nodded just as Jackson's valet came into the kitchen.
"Mas'r Jackson needs a tub of hot water," he announced.
"I'll get out of your way in just a second," Randi said, easing toward the stove. She grabbed a plate, then let the cook dish up spoonsful of the various dishes. She didn't know their names, but from the smell, they were having some kind of beef in sauce, a white, diced-up vegetable that smelled a little like turnips, and greens. "Give me an extra roll, please," Randi asked, unsure whether she'd like the turnipy-thing tonight, but knowing she'd love the bread. Her mother said she was still a little picky when it came to veggies, but who could eat something that smelled like stinky feet?
"Thanks." Randi slipped out of the kitchen, past Jackson's valet and into the house. Skipping up the back stairs, she walked quickly to her room. She had to give Jackson some time to bathe and get dressed, but the urge to join him right now was nearly overwhelming. As she eased the door closed, she took a deep breath and looked around for something to occupy her time.
Her sketching. She sat the dinner plate down on the chest of drawers, then walked quickly to the bed. The drawings of Rose lay in a half-circle on the quilt where Randi had left them earlier. They were good, if she did say so herself. She'd created the tiny one for her wallet, so she could place it next to her nieces and nephew.
She needed one of Jackson, too. Maybe he'd pose for her. That might be a good ice-breaker, in case they were a little uncomfortable. Especially at first. They were taking their relationship to a new level, and although she was really excited about the prospect of finally making love to Jackson, she was nervous. Whatever happened could change the outcome of the future. If Jackson learned to trust her, perhaps he would heed her warnings . . . finally. If that was enough to save the house, then he and Rose wouldn't die in 1849.
Randi didn't know how their survival could change the future. Would there still be a museum on the site? Would she have a job cleaning there, or would there be a replica of Black Willow Grove for her to reach inside? If the house survived and there was no museum, how would that affect her travel back to the past?
Maybe she'd never gone back. Or maybe she couldn't go home.
Shaking her head against the depressing concepts that she couldn't resolve, she picked up the miniature picture. Yes, this one deserved to be in her wallet. She lay the paper down on the bed, then got down on her knees and retrieved her fanny pack from beneath the bed. She had just enough time to place her latest treasure in a plastic sleeve right behind Justin, hide her belongings again, then get ready for her special night with Jackson.