A Cry at Midnight (24 page)

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.

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.

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.