A Cry at Midnight (31 page)

"My baby," she answered, dabbing her eyes with her sleeves. "I lost my baby before she was old enough to live on her own."

"You had a miscarriage?"

"I had an accident. I slipped down the stairs on the ice last winter. One minute I was carrying in my groceries, the next I was lying at the bottom of the steps, bleeding. It happened so fast . . ."

She paused, sniffing back tears. Jackson held her, the rubs on her back comforting as she relived the pain and shock.

"The doctors tried to help me, but I was bleeding inside. The said the placenta detached. She didn't have a chance of surviving at five months. They can work wonders with premature babies, but not that young."

"Of course not. Babies sometimes die."

"Not so much in my . . . home."

Thankfully, he didn't say anything about her near slip. "Losing the baby wasn't your fault. It was an accident."

"I know, but I keep thinking that I could have been more careful. I didn't know there was any ice on the steps. There hadn't been any snow or sleet . . ."

"It was an accident," he said again gently.

"That's what my family kept telling me, over and over, until I believed them."

"And the father?"

"He didn't want to be a father. The pregnancy was an accident. I thought we'd been careful, but I still got pregnant."

"He didn't offer to marry you?"

"No, and I wouldn't have married him if he had. I didn't realize until too late that Cleve would have been a miserable husband and an even worse father. He was too tied up in himself, always scheming, always making big plans, telling me all these wonderful things." She shook her head, still not sure why she'd fallen for such a good-looking, insecure, untrustworthy man.

"I learned from him not to depend on anyone else for my happiness. I'd wanted out relationship to work out so much that I overlooked the fact his stories never quite seemed true. I didn't ask him tough questions because I wanted to believe he was the kind of person he said he was.

"No, he would have made a terrible father. If my baby had lived, I would have let her see her dad, but when she was old enough to understand, I would have told her that she just couldn't believe at least half of anything he said."

Jackson eased his arm from around her shoulders. "Truth is important to you."

"Yes."

He sighed. "Sometimes people don't lie, but they don't tell the whole truth."

"If they know that the whole truth would make a difference, then they're lying."

"You're quick in your opinion. Are you so sure?"

"Yes."

"Then if I haven't told you the whole story of my life, does that mean I'm lying?"

"Only if there's something in your past that you're keeping from me on purpose, something you know would be important."

He squinted into the mid-morning haze, not answering her.

"What are you keeping from me, Jackson Durant?"

He still didn't answer, but turned to her, cradling her jaw in one hand. "I'm sorry about your baby." He kissed her sweetly on the forehead, then leaned back just a little and looked into her eyes. "And I was wrong to condemn you for thinking yourself in love."

This time he kissed her on the on the lips, gently at first, then stronger, more sure. She parted her mouth, kissing him back with a growing awareness that they'd shared some truth today. Maybe not the whole truth, but they'd come to a new level of understanding on this earthen levee. She hadn't expected to tell him about her baby. She hadn't expected him to comfort her, admit his mistake, and understand that society condemns far too easily.

He twisted over her, pushing her back onto the saddle blanket. When he broke their kiss to caress her neck, she breathed deeply. The smell of the muddy river was tempered by the slightly sweet smell of horse and the alluring scent of Jackson.

His fingers molded her breast through the cotton of her bodice and thin chemise. Her nipple pebbled hard and aching as she arched toward him. "I want you to touch me," she whispered into his ear. "I want to touch you."

Her words seemed to inflame him. He kissed her again, hard and urgent, and moved one leg over hers as he slipped his hand beneath her back.

"Damn all these hooks," he said, breaking the kiss as his hand skimmed down her spine.

She chuckled despite the situation--heavy arousal and urgent need. "I've said the same thing myself. I don't know how women stand these dresses."

"What? Never mind," he said, nuzzling her neck. "I'm insane to make love to you on a levee in broad daylight. On a saddle cloth, in the dirt."

"Then I'm insane too, because I would have let you," she said, hugging him close. "I still would, except maybe I'd ask if we could go somewhere more private."

"Are you sure?" he asked, pulling back to look into her eyes.

"Yes, I'm sure. I may be wrong again, but I don't think so. I've wanted you for a long time, too. I knew we shouldn't. I knew you didn't trust me, maybe even that you didn't like me."

"I didn't understand you."

She smiled lovingly at him. "You still don't."

He smiled back, his expression, along with his tousled hair and rumpled shirt, made him appear young and carefree. "I'm willing to listen."

"Then maybe I will tell you . . . sometime. I can't promise," she warned as she ran her hand through his raven-black hair.

He kissed her again, deeply but less urgent. Gently, but thoroughly. She knew he was still aroused; she felt the hardness against her thigh.

"What going to happen now?" she whispered when the kiss ended.

"Arrange our clothes. Saddle the horse. Go back to the house."

"Will you teach me how to ride?"

"A horse?" he asked, grinning down at her.

She pushed against his shoulder. "Yes, a horse. I think I can manage the other."

"Really?" he answered, rolling off her and kneeling on the blanket. "I may test your skills . . . later."

"I hope you do," she said, pushing herself up on her elbows. "I've always been good at taking tests."

Jackson
knew he couldn't run upstairs to his bedroom with his daughter's governess in the middle of the day, but he had big plans for later that night. He was certain his intentions showed clearly because Lebeau greeted him with a raised eyebrow as he eased Randi off the horse onto the front porch.

"Suzette was looking for Miss Randi," Lebeau told them.

"What's wrong?" she asked, brushing dirt off her skirts.

"Little Miss Rose is running a fever. She wanted your advice."

"I'll go up to her right away."

"I'll go with you," Jackson said, dismounting quickly and handing the reins to Lebeau. "Would you have him taken around to the stable?"

Lebeau nodded. "I don't think it's anything serious with Miss Rose."

"I'm sure it's not," Randi said over her shoulder as she hurried to the house. "Probably just a normal temperature with her teething."

Jackson followed, watching the sway of her skirts as she walked quickly up the stairs. He resisted the urge to reach out and grab her hips through the muslin of her dress. Her body--what's he'd felt of it before he realized they were about to make love in broad daylight on the top of a levee--had been firm, yet nicely rounded.

He thought back to the first time he'd seen her dressed. The odd shirt with stripes across the bodice had emphasized the swell of her breasts, and the soft, plush fabric had felt very inviting. The blue trousers molded to her legs, clearly showing the round curves of her bottom and the tempting vee where her legs joined.

He wondered if she still possessed the strange clothing . . . and perhaps if she would wear the items for him in private.

"Suzette?" Randi asked when she reached the top of the stairs.

They walked into the nursery to the sound of Rose's fretting. Jackson hadn't realized how uncommon the intermittent crying had been lately until he heard his daughter fussing again.

"Miz Randi, she's a little warm and flushed. I don't think she's serious-ill, but I thought you should look at her."

"Come here, Precious," Randi said, taking the baby from Suzette. She bent her blond head close to his daughter's nearly identically colored hair. If anyone saw them together, they'd think Randi was Rose's mother.

The thought intrigued him . . .

"Let's look at your gums," she said, walking with Rose toward the window. "Suzette, would you bring me a clean, wet cloth please?"

Randi carefully washed her hand, then inserted a finger in Rose's mouth despite her protests. "Jackson, come here and help, please. You're tall."

His surprise was short-lived as he walked to where they stood. She handed him the baby. "Try to hold her still so I can see her teeth. I think one of the upper ones is coming through, which is probably why she's fussy and a little feverish."

Between the two of them, they managed to accomplish the task, although at one point he thought he heard a muffled giggle coming from Suzette, across the room. She wasn't accustomed to seeing him caring for his child, but he felt a sense of accomplishment in helping Randi check his daughter's mouth.

"Yes, there it is. I sure wish I had some ice or teething medication," Randi said.

"It's nearly May," he reminded her.

"I know that. I wish you had an ice maker."

"Why would anyone want to make ice?"

She looked at him as though he were crazy. "To preserve food, cool down drinks, treat baby gums. I could name a dozen more."

He frowned, wondering how she'd come up with the idea of making something available only in nature. Randi Galloway had the most powerful imagination he'd ever encountered. As he stood near the window and gazed over his land, his thoughts weren't nearly as creative as hers. Whereas he'd once lived by his wits, he now thrived on the orderly planting, thinning, weeding, and picking of cotton.

There were few ways to improve production beyond taking good care of the plants. He'd increased his profits by using his workers more effectively, making sure they were healthy. In some cases, he'd given papers of manumission, freeing them to become wage earners who'd stayed on to share their skills with others. Most of the improvements he'd made to Black Willow Grove he'd learned at his first plantation in northern Louisiana.

However, in none of his experiences had he discovered a place where women wore trousers, sported short hair, dreamed of ways to make ice, and could treat serious injuries with the skill of a surgeon.

While he pondered Randi's unique perspective, she took the baby from his arms. "You might as well go, Jackson. I'm going to stay with Rose and see if I can help her. She likes me to rub her gums when they hurt, and that's about all I can do to help."

"Very well," he said, resisting the urge to kiss his daughter's downy hair . . . and Randi's soft, pink lips. "I'll see you later."

"I hope," she said, the wistful quality of her voice making him stop and smile.

Before he said or did anything revealing in front of Suzette, he turned and walked quickly down the stairs. He had to get his mind off his attraction to Randi and start thinking about what else he could do to ensure Black Willow Grove's safety.

One thing he could do was take extra precautions with the house, since Randi kept insisting that it would be destroyed in a flood. To his knowledge, large houses like his were never harmed extensively by rising water. For one thing, they were elevated slightly so at least two feet of standing water were necessary to get inside the house. If water did rise that high, some plaster and flooring would need repairs, but the structure itself would not be damaged. He'd heard of levee breaks near a frame house that caused a flimsy structure to be swept away, but that could hardly be compared to a house as large and well-built as his, more than a mile from the river.

Still, if she would be reassured, he'd build a second levee around the house. Workers would take dirt from the closer field, which he'd planned to plant in corn this coming month. The disruption would be small since the levee didn't need to be more than two to three feet tall.

His pace quickened as he descended the stairs. When Randi saw he was serious, she'd feel much more sure of their safety. Then she'd stop talking about leaving Black Willow Grove . . . and him.

#

From the third floor nursery, Randi watched the men build a new levee around the house. She saw Jackson too, striding among the workers, black dirt clinging to his boots and pants--the same pants that covered his legs earlier, when they'd lain together on that small blanket on a very different levee.

As she watched them work, she realized what Jackson was telling her; she was safe. He was building this new levee to show her a flood wouldn't threaten the house. She could stay dry inside this grand building, and didn't need to leave Rose . . . or him.

She wished she could believe, but history wouldn't have lied about the fate of Black Willow Grove. Other homes had survived; she'd visited them as a teenager with her high school classmates on field trips, and once her family had taken a vacation to Natchez.