CRAIG LEGACY

By Terry Campbell

ISBN 1-55316-121-1

Published by LTDBooks

www.ltdbooks.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Published in Canada by LTDBooks, 200 North Service Road West, Unit 1, Suite 301, Oakville, ON L6M 2Y1

All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the publisher is an infringement of the copyright law.

National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data

Campbell, Terry

Craig legacy [electronic resource] / Terry Campbell.

ISBN 1-55316-121-1

I. Title.

PS3553.A48744C73 2004 813'.54 C2003-907453-6

Dedication

To Barbara Rutherford in memory of her husband Billy. He was the inspiration for writing the book and was nothing like John Broady. Instead, he was a noble and good man who, after retirement as a state employee, drove his mules across the property of the real Craig Knoll and kept it spotlessly groomed. He'll always be remembered.

Excerpt from BEAUDRY'S GHOST

Excerpt from FEATHER ON THE WIND

About The Author

Publisher info:

CHAPTER ONE

Goochland, Virginia, Present Day

Women! They were as unreadable as the wilderness and as ruthless as General Sherman.

Colonel Benjamin Craig's gaze drifted from the woman setting up her computer to a framed photo of her on the wall--this month's cover of Forbes magazine. The headline screamed: 21ST CENTURY'S FINANCIAL WUNDERKIND.

And Frankie Matthews, all-woman wunderkind, was about to be defeated. His legacy-- no, his life--depended upon it.

Time was running out. Minute by minute the clock ticked down. He had only until the end of the year, ten days to convince her she must enter the portal and travel back to when he had lived. Because on the eleventh day, she would turn thirty and would be too old to go back. How he knew this, he couldn't explain. He just knew it was true.

Ben pushed the fear of time and failure from his mind. Being alone at Craig Knoll for the past one hundred and forty plus years had given him many hours to carefully design his battle strategy. He'd waited for the one person who could carry out his plan. With Frankie's arrival, he'd found his key.

He frowned at an unwanted twinge of regret, refusing to allow scruples to stand in the way of his correcting history, returning it to its rightful course with him as the head of the Craig family legacy--not his younger brother Noah.

How much longer did she plan to work on that infernal machine? He glanced at the family's grandfather clock. Four-thirty in the morning was time to get up, not go to bed.

He crossed the room, then knelt beside Frankie. "It's late. Go to bed. This can wait," he whispered.

Frankie flicked her hand over her ear as if brushing aside a bothersome gnat.

Ben reared back and rose. Fists on his hips, he glared down at her. Damn, when did she become immune to my suggestions?

Moments later, she rolled her shoulders, then stood and moved toward her bedroom.

If he'd been capable of breathing, he would have exhaled in a whoosh. No way she wouldn't do as he commanded. After all, he'd never failed at anything in his life; Frankie, a mere chit of a woman, was doomed to failure. That, he guaranteed.

He watched, mesmerized, as Frankie removed her clothes. Yes, she was short, shorter than most women, even those in his time. But God help him, she had a figure that turned a man's mind to mush. Then there was her hair--strands of gold caressing one of the nicest asses he'd ever seen; firm cheeks that would have filled his hands to perfection. Too bad she hadn't lived in his time.

Then again, before long she would.

"Sweet dreams, Frankie!"

* * *

The moon pulled free of the clouds and shone down upon the carnage littering the yard. Good. He'd killed all three. The man's knees buckled. He fell forward, barely holding himself half erect with the rifle. He looked down at his chest and saw the spreading red mark. "No!"

An old black man ran forward. "Hang on, Masta Ben. Hang on," he said, taking the rifle from Ben's hands and easing him onto the ground.

Ben closed his eyes and grabbed the old man's hand. A single tear traced his cheek. "I haven't found her yet, Uncle Henry. I was supposed to find her."

"Have faith Masta Ben. The gods, your God, he knows what he's doin'. You'll find her."

Ben shook his head. "Take care of Mama and the sisters." His eyes drifted closed. "Where are you, my love?" He gasped the words, then lay still...

* * *

Frankie jerked upright in her bed. A thin sheen of perspiration covered her. Scalding tears ran down her cheeks.

She'd had dreams before, but nothing like this. One moment she'd been floating above Craig Knoll. Not her Craig Knoll, but the one she'd seen in photos from over a hundred years ago. The next moment she was inside a man's head--a man named Ben.

She's seen through his eyes, felt his fear and experienced his feelings of inadequacy, self- recrimination and finally his howl of anguish and refusal to allow death to take him.

Frankie wondered if it were possible for a person to will himself not to die. If so, Ben Craig would have been the man to accomplish it.

She shook her head. Jeez, what was it with her and Craig Knoll? Ben was a figment of her imagination, a character in a dream.

So why did she smell magnolias in December?

Frowning, Frankie slid back under the bedcovers. There had to be a logical explanation. The trick would be to find it.

"Never should've come home." She punched her pillow, then buried her face in it. "Damn, the dreams've started again!"

Ben grinned at Frankie's reaction. So what if that wasn't the way he'd really died. True, the damned yellow-bellied Yank had shot him; but the added part about not finding his true love was, in his humble opinion, a brilliant stroke of genius. It pulled every tender heartstring Frankie had.

He bent and whispered in her ear, "Get up and go to your thinking place."

Frankie glanced at her bedside alarm clock. "Rats. It's already eight-thirty."

Ben rubbed his hands together. Step one, as with all his plans, had been flawlessly executed.

* * *

Frankie settled herself comfortably against the blanket-covered antique wrought-iron bench, then studied the icy four-acre pond. What was wrong with her? All her life she had called the pond her thinking place. Her gaze drifted over the surrounding countryside as she looked at it as she had the first time she'd seen it.

In summer, green rolling plains of land hugged the water, caressing it. In full leaf, the trees hid this spot from the distant fields and the road, only several hundred yards away. This oasis of life sang to her. Its lapping waves were notes of a love ballad deep within her soul.

Even in winter with naked trees and ice-tipped grass, its stark beauty had always spoken to her. The mansion and this hidden sanctuary had created the woman she'd become.

Yet today she sat blindly staring at the pond, unable to figure out why coming home felt like a double-digit loss.

Frankie sighed and, closing her eyes against the glare off the ice, looked deep inside herself.

She'd like to blame her inability to fall in love on her parents' deaths, but she couldn't. Yes, she had retreated from people. Yes, she had closed off a part of her heart, afraid to let anyone too near for fear they too would desert her.

Then again, she'd only been six at the time, and Aunt Ginnie and Uncle Max had refused to allow her to stay in her self-imposed shell. With their unconditional love she'd relearned to trust. Well, everyone except men.

Frowning, Frankie opened her eyes. Why not men? Her refusal to get involved was visceral, and it made no sense. If she didn't know better, she'd swear she'd been brainwashed into avoiding romantic entanglements.

She chuckled at the absurd thought. She wasn't controlled by an outside force, bending her will to its own, making her nothing more than a marionette. She was a portfolio manager for an investment fund for God's sake. No, her problem was closer to home. It was Craig Knoll to be exact. It drew her.

Drew her?

Hell, it talked to her, invaded her dreams, and being away too long left her feeling like an amputee suffering the phantom pain of a missing limb. The question was, why?

Except for when she'd been away at college, she'd never managed more than four months absence before returning home. Until this time. Pride filled her. This time, she had succeeded in staying away for thirteen months, nine days and six hours. She knew the exact time because the house had told her as it whispered its welcome.

Goosebumps covered her. Someone was watching her.

A warm breeze brushed strands of her long hair back from her face. "Oh, my God," she whispered at the sensation of lips searing a path down her neck. Shocked, Frankie sat frozen as an unseen hand tipped her head back and to the side.

She tried to fight the lassitude overwhelming her, only to find herself enjoying the strange sensations flooding her senses.

When a low deep voice murmured, "You're mine, Frankie. Now and forever," she bolted upright. Shame filled her. Her longing for love and a lover no longer limited themselves to dreams. They now consumed her waking hours too.

Shaking, she hugged herself. "I'm overworked, that's all. Not to mention my overactive imagination." Frankie inhaled deeply, then bit her lower lip.

The fragrance of magnolias hung in the sharp, clean winter air. "That's impossible." Magnolias bloomed in late May and through June, not during the icy month of December. Yet, the distinctive scent she smelled couldn't be denied.

Her gaze drifted slowly across Craig Knoll's landscape. For a few seconds, it had seemed like...

Frankie shook her head in denial. So why did she feel as if her dream lover were with her, beside her, waiting for her to acknowledge him?

"Hey, Frankie!"

"Then again, maybe not," she mumbled. She shaded her eyes from the glare of the sun and squinted in the direction of the voice. Two mules pulled a flatbed wagon toward her from the far side of the pond. She watched in silence as the man drove his team along the narrow path toward her.

Her nightmare had arrived. Its name: John Broady.

After tethering his mules next to her rider-mower, Broady walked over to her. "Hi, you, Frankie." He glanced at his hand, then wiped it on his grubby overalls. Grabbing her right hand, he squeezed. "Good to see you home. Wasn't expectin' to see you 'til spring."

He plopped down beside her on the bench, his bulk covering half of it. "Where're Mr. and Mrs. Craig? Haven't seen 'em around."

Frankie pulled the hood of her ski jacket up and hunkered down into it, then slanted him a glance. Spying with binoculars, again. "They're still in Richmond and will be down within a week," she said, staring at the frozen pond.

Moving further to her left on the bench, Frankie turned and smiled. "I'm surprised you didn't come over in your truck instead of driving your mules."

"I drive 'em everywhere I can. You ought to know that by now, Frankie. Hell, they're a whole lot more reliable than a car. Especially durin' the winter." Broady shrugged, then grinned. "I saw your car and figured it best to check on things."

"You're right. I should know better." Frankie pasted a polite smile on her face and met his gaze. "I know for a fact Aunt Ginnie and Uncle Max are pleased you're so diligent. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll be getting back."

She stood and looked down at Broady, still sitting on her quilt. "I hate to inconvenience you, John, but I need the blanket."

He lumbered to his feet. "I'll carry it for you, Frankie." Grinning, he jerked it off the bench and followed her. "Still can't believe how small you are. Why, you ain't a bit taller than when you was fourteen."

At the tractor, he lurched forward to grasp her elbow. "Let me help. I noticed you still have trouble gettin' up that old lawn tractor."

Shooting him a dark look, she jerked free of his tight hold. "I can manage." The last thing she wanted was Broady's help. Why did he have to bring up her height? Damn and double damn. Like she needed to be reminded she barely cleared five feet.

"Your Uncle Max told me last summer you was talkin' about movin' that investment business of yours here to Craig Knoll. Surprised it took so long."

"Really? I'm surprised it didn't take longer. In fact, I'd changed my mind all together and was going to stay in Richmond."

"You love the homestead too much to go do a fool thing like that. Your uncle says you've hit the big time and are handlin' the Craig Foundation investments." Broady's gaze slid over her. "Who'd've ever guessed, you being such a small, little thing an' all."

"Wonders never cease. Imagine that, a small, little thing figuring out the big bad world of high finance." Turning, she climbed onto the tractor.

"Now don't go gettin' your pretty feathers ruffled. I didn't mean no harm."

Frankie winced. He was right. She'd been rude, and why? Because he'd pointed out how small she was. Get a grip. It's not as if it were a news flash.

As she sat, Broady leaned against the vehicle and smiled. "Have you seen the ghost yet?"

Frankie's fingers froze on the ignition key. "Ghost?"

"Didn't your aunt tell you about the tricks he played on 'em?"

A tremor shot through her. "Not really. She said there'd been a couple of minor incidents and that's why people are claiming the house is haunted."

"A couple of minor incidents?" He hooted, smacking the side of the tractor with a fist. "She'd sure enough get an argument from them construction workers who remodeled the milk rooms."

"Why?"

"It was that old wardrobe that spooked 'em. Your aunt, she lost lots of workers over that wooden closet."

Frankie swallowed hard. There was only one armoire in the apartment. The one facing her bed.

At the gleam in Broady's eye, she stiffened her back. He was doing it again, telling her tales so she would turn to him for help.

"The wardrobe is nothing but a piece of furniture," she said, staring down at him as if he were one of her assistants who hadn't completed the necessary research on a potential investment.

Broady winked. "That's what your aunt kept saying. Course, that didn't explain why every time she had the men move it up to the attic and come the next mornin' the dag-nab thing was right back where it started. Happened every day for a week. I'm tellin' you true, Frankie, them workers was gettin' to the point they needed to bring an extra pair of shorts to work."

"Give it up, John. Everyone knows Aunt Ginnie loves anything to do with the paranormal. Besides, she'd have told me about this business, trust me. Heck, she's seen Ghost over a dozen times."

"And how many times did you see it with her?"

Frankie knew better than to answer that question. The truth would sink her.

"She probably didn't say nothin' 'cause she's afraid she'd give you the creeps and you wouldn't come home."

"These are just tales, John. Tall tales. And they have no basis in reality."

Broady grinned, then pulled his knit cap off and scratched his oily thinning hair. "Yep, I was right. Your aunt still hasn't told you ole William Craig's oldest son was named Ben, has she?" Broady grinned, then spit a stream of tobacco juice. "It's Ben Craig that's been hauntin' Craig Knoll."

He pointed toward the backyard. "I hear most of the time he appears downstairs in the old milk room. Sometimes he's even around the yard or here at the pond. They say his spirit still roams the family homestead 'cause he wasn't supposed to die."

Frankie blinked several times, then took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. If she swallowed Broady's story, then her dream man was Ben Craig. She wanted to swear on a stack of bibles her dream had been a product of old stories she'd heard in her youth.

She knew better.

She knew little of the history surrounding the original owners. They were Uncle Max's ancestors, not hers. Besides, Aunt Ginnie had only discovered some old family photos two months ago and placed them on display in the upstairs front room.

Unlinking her fingers, she leaned forward and turned the ignition key. Once the motor sputtered to life, she nodded to Broady. "Thanks for the interesting tale, John. Although, in my experience, it isn't the dead I have to worry about, but the living."

"Don't you go frettin' none." Broady patted her thigh, then gave it a slight squeeze. "I'll keep a good eye on you. Make sure no one bothers you."

"I'm sure you will, John." Shoving the small tractor into drive, she headed for the family cemetery.

Five minutes later, Frankie stared down at Ben's headstone. Kneeling, she traced the words craved in the granite.

Colonel Benjamin William Craig
September 14, 1835 - June 21, 1864
Murdered.
His honor lives on.

The man had died almost a hundred and forty years ago. Yet, until Broady had told her his sorry tale, she hadn't known he'd existed. So why did she feel like crying?

* * *

Ben watched Frankie's fingers lightly touch the words on his headstone. He wished he could become corporeal again as he had when Frankie, a heartbroken child, had arrived at Craig Knoll. He'd known that night as he'd comforted the sobbing six-year-old that she was his salvation. From that day forward, he'd stayed at Frankie's side whenever she'd been home.

Then again, maybe it was just as well he didn't materialize with a solid form. She'd grown into a beautiful woman.

Keep focused on the goal.

Her romantic soul was her Achilles' heel. And he was a master at playing on another's weakness. How to reach it was another matter. Once she'd believed in true love. She'd thought certain souls were destined to be together, and neither time nor place could prevent them from joining.

He chuckled, as he often had, over her naivete. Once he'd been like her, even through the bloodshed and incessant slaughters of the war. Through it all, he'd held onto his dreams. Dreams of comfort. Dreams of writing the stories within him that begged to be told. The only thing missing had been the perfect woman who would be his lover and the mother of his children.

Then Beatrice had gotten her hooks into him and had begun to teach him the shattering truth. Her brutal lessons had murdered his spirit as surely as the bullet from the Northern traitor had extinguished his life.

Love was for romantic fools. Now he was neither.

Romance had been severed from his being as completely as the ligament in his lower leg. As for being a fool, he would never fall captive. Since Joseph's death and his ensuing betrothal to his brother's widow, he'd forbade himself the freedom of hope. Perhaps that alone had saved him on the battlefield. Yet, ever since his physical death, he'd known that his rejection of faith had left him withered and incomplete, never to be a fulfilled man.

Not that it mattered. He had a more pressing problem to solve: John Broady's effect on Frankie. With his half-truths, the man had almost single-handedly ruined Ben's years of work-- his gentle nudges and loving words.

He now saw how instead of welcoming the idea of his existence, the thought he might have controlled her would repel her. And if she discovered the truth, she would refuse to help him just on principle.

Unfortunately, finesse was no longer an option. The time for action had arrived.

He lifted her hair into the air, then let it drift down a few strands at a time while kissing her neck.

CHAPTER TWO

Frankie shook her head. It'd taken her an hour and three airplane size bottles of Scotch to calm down. "Some Ice Queen." Praise the Lord that the foundation's board wasn't aware she'd turned to alcohol to calm down.

Filled with self-disgust at her display of weakness, she inspected the provisions Aunt Ginnie and Uncle Max had supplied. The cupboards contained canned goods, including paté, tins of truffles and assorted condiments.

She jerked open the refrigerator door, then laughed. Good old Uncle Max. He always thought in terms of life's necessities--she found two precooked marinated chicken breasts, a rice- mold and bowl of fruit salad.

In contrast, Aunt Ginnie, believing life without romance was nothing more than existence, had stocked a shelf with French wines--Pouilly-Fumé and Avenay Champagne.

Frankie removed the chicken, then winced as she read the note taped on it. "Nuking will dry it out. Reheat at three hundred and fifty degrees for twenty minutes. For best flavor, use the barbecue."

She didn't need Uncle Max to remind her she couldn't cook worth a damn. Boil water, yes. Microwave something, yes. Call a five-star restaurant and have the meal delivered, oh yes! But cook? Not in this lifetime. At least he'd provided enough precooked meals to last the few days until they arrived at the homestead.

Frankie glanced out the window. In spite of the dusting of snow on the ground, she decided to try the barbecue.

"Thank God, it's gas." She wondered if she'd ever live down the humiliation of emptying a can of lighter fluid onto ready-to-start charcoal only to have it sit there--wet, black and dead.

With a sigh, she jerked herself back from her one failed moment of domesticity and studied the sky. If the weather held another thirty minutes, she'd have the perfect summer meal during the dead of winter.

Once back in the kitchen, Frankie put the plate with the marinated chicken breast on a tray. As she placed the other piece of chicken back in the refrigerator, her gaze lit on the chilled champagne.

"Why not." She removed the cold bubbly and grabbed a glass. After setting them on the tray, she headed outside.

Moments later, she gazed out over the large open backyard and took a deep breath, inhaling the clean crisp air of the homestead. It was good to be back home.

Once dinner began to cook, she reached for the champagne. Her gaze narrowed on the two glasses. "I'd swear I only picked up one." With a shrug, she filled both long-stemmed flutes. She'd pretend she was here with her lover.

Not that she'd ever had a lover. Thanks to her shyness, love of horses and preference for books, she hadn't dated much. And those she had gone out with hadn't touched that secret place in her heart.

Then later, when she'd finished college and had entered the workforce, she'd refused to get involved with anyone who didn't meet her demanding criteria. How and where she'd developed that criteria she'd still never figured out. The only thing she did know was that at twenty-nine she was that rare anachronism, a virgin.

With eyes closed, Frankie sipped her champagne and fantasized about her soul mate. He'd be a gentleman of the old school--genial and good-hearted. He needed to be confident but not cocky. Someone strong enough in his own right that he wouldn't be overwhelmed by her, and perhaps most important, she wanted a sensuous lover, the kind her romance novels raved about.

She clinked the glasses together. Leaning back against the brick stair, she saluted the deep rose light of the fading day. "To my lover. May I find him soon."

The wind murmured by her from the south, rustling the few dry leaves left in the yard. Frankie bolted upright and sniffed. The scent of magnolias filled the air. As the heavy scent swirled around her, thoughts of Ben flooded her mind.

His long dark lashes and Union-blue eyes, his strength, both of body and mind drew her. Suddenly, Frankie knew that if she couldn't have Ben, she wanted his modern day clone.

A gust of wind once again brushed her face, lifting her long hair off her neck. Frankie shivered. She'd swear fingers, not the wind, had threaded through the strands and were slowly releasing them.

A deep voice whispered next to her ear, "I'm coming soon, my love."

Frankie jumped. Champagne drenched her blouse. As the scent of magnolias faded along with the breeze, she quickly scanned the yard. Fields of snow and bare trees stared back, mocking her. Rushing to the grill, she removed her chicken, then bolted back into the house.

Entering the kitchen, she set the plate of chicken on the counter. "You're being a ninny, Frankie. Chill."

She reached for the bottle of champagne, then bit her lower lip. "Damn!" Did she dare go outside and retrieve it? Of course she did. She wasn't a wuss who jumped at her own shadow. Damn it all, she was a hard-boiled businesswoman. A bottom-liner.

Stiffening her back, Frankie marched to the front door and opened it. Then, through narrowed eyes, she studied the area as if it were a minefield.

"Don't be a goose. Just do it," she hissed.

After taking several deep breaths, she rushed over to the bottle of champagne and glasses. With a speed unknown to Southern ladies, she placed the bottle on the tray, then her empty glass. Her hand touched the second crystal flute, and she froze. It was empty.

"I drank it. Yeah, that's what happened. I drank it," she said, lifting the glass.

A breeze caressed her cheek. With it came a whisper as soft and gentle as a sigh, "Soon, my love. Soon."

The fragile crystal crashed to the brick patio.

* * *

"Don't leave me! Frankie!"

She jerked upright in her bed. She'd had the same dream for three nights straight. Yet this one had been different. Tonight, the man had begged her not to leave him.

"Damn it, it's a dream! Nothing more!" So why did she feel it was much more? With a shrug, she stretched and inhaled.

Magnolias in December? Again?

Frankie ignored the rest of the room and focused her gaze on Ben Craig, in full Confederate dress uniform, seated in her Queen Anne winged-chair beside the waning fire. On the table beside him rested an unblemished white magnolia blossom.

Frankie squeezed her eyes shut. Obviously drinking that entire bottle of champagne was not one of my brighter moves. You, my dear Frankie, are off the sauce for a good, long while.

She slowly opened her eyes.

He's still sitting there. Talk about a hallucination, this one's got to be one of the all time greats. I mean, he's one magnificent hunk. Jeez, he even has the ruggedly chiseled features of the heroes in romances. Whatever that means.

As aberrations went, he was a beaut, real eye candy. He was also studying her. Oh, well, at least he isn't a pink elephant. Although, she wasn't too sure how she felt about his roguish smile.

"Good. You are not frightened. But then, I knew you would not be."

His voice reminded her of water washing over her naked body on hot summer nights skinny-dipping in the pond--cool, soothing, yet sinfully delicious.

"Frightened? Not a chance. You're not real. You're just an alcohol induced dream." Frankie giggled. "Only this time, I'm in it. Directing what's happening."

Afraid he'd disappear if she glanced away, Frankie kept her gaze on him while she fumbled with the switch of the lamp next to her bed.

He seemed to exude a vitality that transcended the grave. It felt as if his life force was touching her soul. She also sensed that beneath its strength lay a gentleness waiting to be released.

Ben picked up the magnolia and, twirling the stem between his fingers, rose. With a smile, he moved toward her. Despite the slight limp that marred his gait, his movements were smooth.

He stopped beside her bed.

Ben knew how he handled her now would determine his future. Or was that his past, he wondered. "Allow me to introduce myself. Colonel Benjamin Craig at your service," he said, executing a small bow. "But you may call me Ben."

"Hi there, Ben," she said with another giggle.

"I fear it is time you learned that I am neither a dream, nor a hallucination nor an apparition." He found himself wishing he were more than mere mist as he cupped her head in his hands. He bent forward. To his shock, his lips firmed as they brushed hers. A light electric current, starting where his mouth touched hers, danced through him.

He slowly pulled back. My God, what had happened? He wasn't supposed to feel corporeal pleasure. Yet he had. His body had gone on alert.

This is not good.

He refused to let anything, including lust, deter him from his ultimate goal. Not even his second taste of desire in almost one hundred and forty years. He needed, as they said in today's world, to get his act together.

"My dear Frankie, I have waited a very long time for you." His energy moved her hair from her face. "You already know that, do you not?"

Frankie shook her head. "Boy, I'm now having waking dreams. Not that I'm complaining, mind you."

Ben tried not to preen as Frankie slowly perused him, but it was hard. He remembered the effect he'd had on women during his life. They'd never been shy about telling him of his attractiveness or their desire to have him as a husband.

He felt a surge of old pride. Frankie looked at him with the same longing as women always had, even after Beatrice had made him hard and cynical.

Over the intervening years he'd often wondered which of the two had changed him the most. Yet, Beatrice and the war were much the same--emasculating and irreversibly destructive. Ben smothered a chuckle. The joke was on him. The world's darkest forces had made him what he was today--a splintered soul with no refuge.

"Amazing," she muttered.

"What's amazing?"

"Your eyes. They're Union blue."

Ben snapped backward. Strange, how even after all these years the word "Union" brought him up short. Forcing an indifference he didn't feel, Ben laughed. "They're navy blue. And I am not a dream, Frankie."

"I know a dream when I have one. And this is a dream, because ghosts don't exist."

"Have it your way, little one." Ben took a step back and looked down at her. "I enjoy watching you sleep. You're enchanting with your hair in disarray over the pillow." His gaze slid over her face. Smiling, he reached out and with a finger of pure energy traced her cheekbone.

"Your skin is as soft and delicate as this flower." His fingers left her face and stroked the large magnolia bloom. "I have touched you before. Many times. I know your feel and scent. And one day soon, you will know mine."

Frankie closed her eyes, then slowly opened them again.

"I am still here," Ben said with a chuckle. "I have waited for you. Through the years, your soul has beckoned me."

"M-my soul b-beckoned yours?"

He sat beside her, his body making a slight imprint on the mattress.

"I'm going to die, aren't I? You're one of those guiding spirits here to help me make the transition, aren't you?" she asked, inching away from him.

"No. That is not what fate has in store for us." He leaned forward. This time as his lips brushed hers he knew all she felt was a summer breeze. "One day soon, we will be lovers."

"How? You're dead. A ghost. No offense, but I don't want to join you in the great beyond. At least, not for another sixty or so years."

Ben grinned, then laughed, his first true, heartfelt laugh since the war had come upon them. "You are mine. We were meant to be together. You will save me--soon." With a graceful movement, he removed the blossom from her lap and stood.

He waved his hand and the pillows returned to their previous position.

"You aren't real!"

"But I am. In my time," he said with a sigh. "And soon you will join me. I need you, Frankie. You are my salvation."

Frankie pushed herself upright. "Bottom-line it. How am I your salvation and what is it you need from me?"

Ben frowned. She was supposed to drop at his feet and willingly do his bidding. He'd worked on her for over twenty-three years. Yet here she sat defying him, demanding that he answer her questions. When had she turned into such a termagant?

"You want my help, lay out the problem."

Glaring at her, Ben paced the room. How could he have forgotten that in the last six years she had gained the reputation as a financial wizard? As a result of this folly, he had underestimated her. Hopefully, it would not prove fatal.

Ben faced her. He appreciated neither her grim expression nor her rigid back. Slowly, he forced himself to rein in his anger. While she was a hard-nosed businesswoman, she had also devoured romance novels from her early teen years.

It was critical he find and touch that young woman. For she was the one who would travel through time to save him, not this hard-edged piece of baggage. "This is not a contract negotiation, Frankie."

"Seems like it to me. You want me to do something. Until I know what it is, I won't tell you if I can or will help. Or what it'll cost you."

"Always the businesswoman." Ben folded his arms across his chest. "I wonder where that romantic, history-loving young woman went."

"She discovered her degree in history wouldn't put food on the table, went back to college, and got an MBA."

A shudder of relief shot through Ben. The impulsive, accident-prone girl he'd watched grow up was not dead, just buried.

"We'll talk later." After I've figured out how to breach your walls.

* * *

Frankie stretched and wiggled her toes, then gasped. No way. I'm still asleep, still dreaming.

She refused to open her eyes. The last thing she needed was to discover that last night's encounter hadn't been a dream. "There's no such thing as ghosts."

Though she said the words, she didn't believe them. Frankie wished she did, but she didn't. She'd never lied to herself before and wasn't about to start now. Much as she wanted to believe her subconscious had reacted to John Broady's tale, she knew something important and real had taken place.

With a sigh, she opened her eyes. Sunlight filtered into the bedroom between the drawn drapes. As she scooted up and leaned back against her bed's headboard, she scanned the room and sniffed again. Her gaze slid to the right. On the spare pillow beside her lay a magnolia-- fresh, white and unblemished.

She closed her eyes and swallowed hard. Eyes squeezed shut, she inhaled deeply, then winced. Oh, my God, it wasn't a dream. The blossom's real.

She reined in her rising panic. If she could handle investing in volatile high-tech stocks without losing control, she'd be damned if she'd allow a ghost to unnerve her.

Slowly opening her eyes, she reached for the magnolia. As her fingers closed around its stem, a whisper on the air kissed her ear. "I am real. Last night happened. We will talk again. Soon."

Frankie dropped the flower. She grabbed the spare pillow and buried her sweat-drenched face in the dry cool linen case. It was one thing to fantasize about Ben. It was quite another to be haunted by his ghost.

God help her. If the foundation discovered this new wrinkle in her life, they would withdraw their money from her faster than Ben dematerialized.

Tossing the pillow aside, Frankie wrapped her arms around her middle and rocked back and forth. She was a rational, career-oriented woman. Women like her didn't believe in ghosts, much less see them. Yet, she'd met Ben, and he seemed bent on persuading, if not outright pressuring her to do as he wished.

Two things were obvious: Ben Craig's soul was not at rest. And for some reason, he'd chosen her as the vehicle to remedy the situation.

Frankie scowled. That left her with two choices.

Convince Ben he was wrong. Make him understand that there was no way she'd make out with a dead man--or was that a vapor? No matter how solid he appeared he had less substance than an early morning fog. Hell, her internet stocks had more stability.

Failing getting Ben off her back, she'd have to leave Craig Knoll and never return.

Given the choice, she'd rather take on Ben Craig's ghost than her aunt and uncle when she tried to explain why she'd left the homestead and recoiled at the thought of returning.

* * *

Frankie stared at the coffeemaker. Ah, soon she'd have access to her lifeline--strong and highly caffeinated coffee. As soon as enough of her early morning elixir had dripped into the pot, she jerked the glass container free and filled the largest mug she owned.

Thirty minutes later, Frankie set her fourth cup of java on the dining room table beside a yellow legal pad and two pens--one red, the other black. After a quick glance around the room, she flopped onto one of the needlepoint chairs.

Picking up the black pen, she drew a line down the middle of the paper. The left side, she labeled "Sane/Rational." In red ink, she titled the right side "Looney Tunes."

Twenty minutes later, Frankie stared in disgust at the sheet of paper. The list on the left was short and to the point. It contained her name, age, job, lack of a boyfriend and nothing else. She studied the last entry, no boyfriend, and frowned. Given the last twenty-four hours, I ought to rethink which column that one belongs in.

A quick glance at the red ink convinced her she didn't need another item on that side of the ledger. Slowly exhaling, she reread the list. "Drawn to a ghost. Ghost calls me, 'my love'. Ghost insists we will be together but I'm not dying. So how do we come together? Just as I thought, no answer."

Frankie tore the sheet from the pad. She quickly walked to the fireplace, lit a match and touched it to a corner of the paper. Once the flames flared up the offending document's edges, she pitched it into the hearth and watched as it curled and blackened. When reduced to ashes, Frankie mixed them with those of the previous evening's blaze.

She was safe.

With the evidence destroyed, no one could now judge her unbalanced. Unfortunately, that didn't change the fact she knew differently. She was in trouble, big trouble. Heading for the mother of all breakdowns.

* * *

The characters on the computer monitor blurred together. She'd spent five straight hours researching the Craig family, ghosts, telekinesis and poltergeists with the same single-minded focus she used when researching a company for possible investment.

She shoved her fingers through her mane of hair. If this were all she had to show for her efforts at work, she'd be pounding the pavement looking for a new job. Information on the Craig family made Howard Hughes during his final years seem positively voluble. She'd found almost nothing on the family prior to 1866. What little she did have postdated the Civil War.

Ben's father, William Craig, had owned several parcels of land throughout central Virginia. Although he'd grown tobacco and other crops, the bulk of his fortune had come from the shipment of goods and liquor down river to Richmond on bateaux.

If possible, there was even less information about Ben. Other than how he'd died--gunned down by three Union deserters while saving the family--she'd found nothing to explain his haunting.

Her investigation of the paranormal showed he was atypical. He appeared as a solid being until she touched him. The faint scent of magnolia preceded his materialization. He moved objects and people with ease.

None of her findings made sense. Then again, why should they? Nothing about the past few days made sense.

Why had he suddenly appeared? And why to her, a nonbeliever of all people?

Frankie propped her elbows on the table and placed her chin on her hands. What was it he'd said? Something about having waited for her and her soul beckoning his.

She pushed away from the computer and stood. "Time for another infusion of caffeine." She headed for the kitchen.

She opened the refrigerator and removed a can of diet cola. With a wince, she leaned against the counter. Forget the kick from caffeine, she needed an ice pack more. She pressed, then rolled the cold, unopened can against her throbbing forehead. As the vise-like grip around her eyes lessened, she popped the can open and gulped the icy liquid.

Ten minutes later, she was back in front of her computer. Using her mouse, she cleared the screen saver. "What..."

Two sentences glowed up from the seventeen-inch monitor, daring her with their message:

You cannot fight it.
We belong together, forever.

How had a nineteenth-century man operated her computer, especially one who was dead? Typewriters were only developed in the mid-eighteen hundreds, and she doubted a man of Ben's position would have used one.

She needed proof that a ghost existed, if only for her sanity. She clicked on the print icon.

The paper slid from her laser printer print side down. Frankie picked up the sheet. Blank white paper stared back at her. Biting her lower lip, Frankie glanced back at the screen. The two sentences flickered, then faded from view, leaving behind a momentary phosphorescent outline.

"That does it. I'm outta here." Grabbing her jacket, Frankie raced from the house. As she charged toward the pond, frost-coated blades of grass crunched. Her breath fogged in the air.

Suddenly her foot shot out from under her and she slammed onto the frozen ground. "You're reverting to old reckless habits," she ground out.

Pushing herself upright, she wrapped her arms around her legs and rested her chin on her knees. "Not comfortable, but at least it's safe."

CHAPTER THREE

Frankie pushed the door open and peeked inside. "Ben?" Silence answered her. Maybe he'd left. With luck he'd gone off to haunt some other unsuspecting female. After all, she hadn't exactly welcomed him with open arms. The literature even indicated that most people who saw ghosts were "predisposed" to supernatural events.

She, on the other hand, was ready to "dispose" of supernatural events. Squaring her shoulders, she entered the house. As she reached for the door to close it, it brushed her fingertips and locked itself.

Every hair on Frankie's body went on alert. Goosebumps popped out over her body.

A soft breeze caressed her cheek. "Leave me alone!" she demanded.

She flicked the light switch. Nothing happened. The heavy, sweet scent of magnolias filled the air.

As she scanned the room searching for Ben, Frankie gnawed on her lower lip, then frowned. Damn, she hadn't chewed on her lips since adolescence. Then again, it wasn't like she didn't have a reason.

Inching her way slowly into the room, she froze at the sight of the freshly fed fire in the hearth. Her gaze continued to search the room. On the side table next to her chair and ottoman, one perfect magnolia blossom floated in a lead crystal Waterford bowl. Cautiously, she crossed over to the flower.

Even before she heard his voice, she sensed Ben's presence beside her.

"Frankie."

She flinched as gentle fingers brushed her cheek. Unlike the times before where his touch felt like air brushing her skin, Ben's body held more than a hint of solidity. "What do you want?"

"You."

"What-do-you-want?"

Ben dropped his hand to his side and walked to the fireplace. Turning, he faced her. "I mean you no harm, Frankie. We are soul mates. We are meant to be together, in life as well as death. You must trust in yourself and me. We will be joined, but not in your time. Not originally. I mean..."

If she'd blinked she would have missed the hardness that had crossed his face. But she hadn't blinked and now every atom in her screamed, Don't believe him. He has his own agenda and it doesn't include your happiness. "You've read too many romances."

"You read the romances, not I." Ben shrugged. "I am here, Frankie, because of you. Come back and save me. Only then can we be together."

Frankie's eyes widened. "Excuse me? You want me to come back in time and not only to save you, but live there? I don't think so. I'm a twenty-first century gal. Besides, I know enough about this stuff from science fiction that if I save you or stay back in your time I'll create a time paradox. And I refuse to hurt Uncle Max or Aunt Ginnie!"

"As I have said, I will return to this time with you. You must find the way back to me. I can help, but in the end, it's up to you. A leap of faith is all you need."

"Leap of faith?" She advanced on Ben's ghost. A leap of faith was the hardest step, one Frankie doubted she could take.

He moved toward her. When he stood in front of her, he tipped her chin up. The heat from his semi-solid forefinger penetrated her numbed senses. Damn him. Despite knowing he was nothing more than a hazy hallucination, he affected her like a dangerous and addictive drug. Worst of all, her body craved what it could not have.

Him.

"My soul has been languishing in hibernation these many years. Your arrival awakened it. Prepare for your journey, Frankie. Embrace the adventure as I long to embrace you."

Ben's hand rested on Frankie's shoulder, holding her in place. "We're meant to be together. Look. See what you're doing."

Unlike the fragile bloom he'd given her, he smelled raw and all male. Her hand tentatively touched Ben's solid chest. "How?"

"I do not know the answer. But it will not last long."

The moment his mouth slowly descended and covered her lips, Frankie was doomed. She'd never been the best judge of men, but now she'd gone over the top. Either Ben was for real or she was experiencing a psychotic episode. Given her instantaneous reaction to him, she opted for the psychotic incident.

Ben took the lead. His tongue slipped inside Frankie's mouth, its thrust sure and confident. He moaned as he tasted her hot, moist contours.

His mouth continued its hungry exploration. The fingers of his left hand threaded through her unbound hair, tilting her head back. His right hand stroked her waist, urging her closer.

No! his mind screamed at him. My mission!

She could ruin everything. Frankie was more dangerous than any female Union spy. Just her nearness threatened to upset his plan, leaving him to wander the corridors of nothingness.

That he wouldn't--couldn't--allow.

Ben dropped his hands.

As he pulled back, Frankie's eyes opened, then widened. "What was I doing?" Her hand covered her mouth.

A surge of confidence filled Ben. She'd felt what he had. "Looked to me like we were making love."

"With a ghost?" Frankie shook her head. "Not in this life or yours. I've fought off the best of them. Fraternity dates, bank presidents and even one computer tycoon. I'm not about to lose my virginity to a dead man."

"Technically, I am not dead."

"News flash, there's an old headstone out there," Frankie pointed toward the rear of the house, "with your name on it."

"Ghosts are in...limbo, so to speak. I will be very much alive when you come back for me," he said with a smile that had always weakened the knees of the women in his time.

"If you think I'm going back to the Civil War, you're crazier than I am. And I've already admitted I'm ready for the chuckle farm." She sidled to the far side of the room. "Haven't you seen Gone with the Wind? Tara wasn't exactly the Taj Majal after the Union soldiers got through with it."

Ben scratched his head. "What's Gone with the Wind?"

"Looks to me like a ghost just hanging around doing nothing since the 1860s could have caught a little tube action."

"Tube action?"

"Forget it." Frankie's gaze narrowed. "If you don't know about television, then how were you able to operate my computer?"

"Ah, now I understand. Tube action means watching television. As to your computer--" he shrugged, "--I just willed it, and the words appeared."

"I should be so lucky," Frankie muttered. With a shake of her head, she approached him.

Ben flashed her another of his "known" lady-killer smiles.

"Can the grin. It won't work." She glared up at him. "Get this through your vaporous head, I will never go back in time. So you'd better start looking for another sucker, because this one isn't buying."

* * *

After twisting off the shower, Frankie pushed open the glass door and stepped out onto the mat. She grabbed her oversized bath towel, briskly rubbed herself dry and wrapped it around her sarong-style. As she blow-dried her hair, she focused on the problem haunting her.

She knew if she looked hard enough she'd find a logical answer for what was happening to her. Yep, no doubt about it. She'd slipped on one too many bananas.

Of course, there was always another and more sinister explanation. Someone wanted to undermine Uncle Max and the foundation. Someone rich enough to hire a leading researcher in holographic imaging. What better way to drive the foundation's money manager around the bend?

Tossing the dryer back into the drawer, she headed for her bedroom. As she passed the locked armoire, she halted. It had been locked for as long as anyone could remember. According to Aunt Ginnie, the only reason the family had ever kept the plain oak wardrobe was because William Craig had ordered that it never be destroyed.

Frankie frowned as another memory came. William Craig had also instructed that the chest was to remain in the last room his son Ben had used.

Her gaze focused on the chest and swallowed hard. "Time to get the hell out of Dodge."

Frankie eased pass the armoire. Upon reaching her bed, she slipped into a pair of French- cut panties, her soft, well-worn jeans and her favorite sweatshirt--a size too large--then jammed her feet into her Nike high-tops. After grabbing her purse (actually a satchel for it contained everything she might need if stranded someplace overnight on a business trip), she saluted the chest and headed for the door.

As she got near the foot of the bed, the armoire doors swung open. A blast of cool fresh air hit her face. She quickly scanned the room. It took less than a nanosecond to spot Ben leaning against the fireplace mantel with a silly grin on his face.

"I take it this is the time portal."

Ben nodded.

"Forget it. I'm not going." She pressed herself flush against the bedroom wall. She wouldn't feel safe until she was out of the house, let alone the room. No way was she getting anywhere near the chest. As it was, she'd come within two feet of it during her escape.

Keep cool. I did it when the market crashed over five hundred points in a day, I can do it now. Yeah, right!

Frankie didn't trust Ben. Unfortunately, he was proving to be a most determined ghost. Nor did she believe his cock-and-bull story about their being soul mates. Nope, he had an agenda, and she strongly suspected it wasn't one she'd like.

As she inched her way toward the bedroom doorway and freedom, she never took her eyes off the ghost.

"Stay where you are," she said, thrusting out her hand as he approached her.

"Why do you fight your destiny?"

"Because my destiny is here. In the twenty-first century. I've pledged my loyalty to indoor plumbing, electricity and e-mail."

"A trip back to my time might cure you of your self-centered ways."

"Now you've done it, Mister." Frankie stepped away from the wall. Then she looked at his face. It held a mixture of fury, frustration and downright sneakiness. It was that last emotion, fleeting though it was, that sent her back against the wall.

She resumed sidling toward the door, never taking her gaze off the furious ghost in front of her. As she came level with the armoire, she flashed a grin and began singing, "I am a material girl. I live in a material world."

Ben surged forward.

An energy blast hit Frankie.

She flew into the chest.

She spiraled downward.

Nausea assaulted her.

Cold clammy air lashed her.

She clawed at the dark nothingness. "You'd better hope those damned Yankees've already killed you!"

CHAPTER FOUR

Goochland, Virginia, Late Spring, 1864

One second Frankie stared down at the churned brown earth three feet below her, the next she belly-flopped onto the musty surface. Wheezing, she pushed herself upright.

Perspiration ran down her back. She squinted against the fierce glare of the sun. Its heat burned through her jeans. Her gaze scanned the green countryside.

Wildflowers grew in profusion at the edge of a thick forest. Perfume filled the air. Magnolias. In the humid heat, their fragrance was heavy and pungent as it blended with the strong smell of freshly cut grass and newly turned sod.

Frankie swallowed hard. God help her, this was no hologram. Turning, she spotted the back of the mansion. It's Craig Knoll--but when?

She glanced to her left and saw a small barn filled with bales of hay. Where's the large barn? She bit her lower lip. When was it built? Why can't I remember? Then she exhaled. That's right, the large barn wasn't built in its current location until two years after the Civil War. "That means it's sometime before 1867. Now, how in the hell do I get home?"

Frankie stood. Frowning, she brushed the dark loamy dirt off of her. "My kingdom for a diet cola."

"'Bout time you came. We've been prayin' long and hard for the Lord to send us an angel. 'Cept where're your wings, and what's a diet cola?"

With a gasp, Frankie leapt backward a step, then turned her head to the right. A couple feet from her stood the tallest black man she'd seen this side of the NBA, gray hair not withstanding. In fact, with his solid, muscular build he could have passed for James Earl Jones' twin. Okay, uncle.

"I asked where're your angel wings and what's a diet cola?"

Frankie sighed. A slave. Someone without power or the ability to help her. Worse, if he told the overseer about her, Lord only knew what would happen. Yet, his deep baritone comforted her. Silly, but somehow she knew this man meant her no harm.

She bent and picked up her satchel. "A diet cola can't be found here, more's the pity."

"Angels sure do talk strange."

Frankie straightened, then turned and faced the man. "I don't have wings because I'm no angel. Not by a long shot."

She tried not to fidget as the man cocked his head to one side and inspected her, yet she felt transparent. This man could spot an untruth at a hundred paces. Luckily, she hadn't told any lies. Yet. She had a feeling they were just around the corner, but not with this man. He'd demand the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

God, when did I start thinking in clichés? Nothing like a little time travel to screw up original thought.

"I see that now."

"See what?"

"You're no angel. You're a goddess."

Frankie glanced down at her sweatshirt and smiled at the words emblazoned on her chest:

GODDESS FORMERLY KNOWN AS PRINCESS

"I'm special. I see and know things others don't," the man said.

"Right." Frankie pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. The only thing she was confident of was that her instincts--which were never wrong--told her she needed his help to return home.

"I'm from here. The good ole U.S. of A. You know, the United States of America. But I'm from the future." She scowled. "And want to go back home."

The furrows on the man's brow deepened into dark creases. "I haven't ever seen writin' like that." He pointed to the front of her sweatshirt. "But then, I ain't never heard about any gods livin' in the U.S. of A neither."

"Obviously, you haven't heard of Greenspan."

"Greenspan? He one of the big gods?"

"Yeah, one of the biggest." Frankie smiled as she remembered the Fed's last cut in their discount rate. "Enough of this chitchat. The only reason I'm here, in this time period, is because Benjamin Craig shoved me into the armoire."

"The only Benjamin Craig we have is Masta Ben. He ain't from the future, he's here."

"Right. But his ghost is in my time." Frankie stared at the man, then shrugged. "Don't let me tread on your century. Just lead me to the nearest armoire so I can be back to mine. Now, if you'll point me to the nearest chest and give me a small shove, I'll be on my way--back to the future." Oh, Lord, clichés had been bad enough, now she sounded like a trailer for the movies.

"You can't go anyhere, missy. If you are from the future or the gods have sent you, it makes no never mind. You've been sent to save Masta Ben. And so you shall."

Frankie's hand tightened on her satchel. "How do you know he needs to be saved?"

"Never's been a man more in need of savin'. From himself. And from that fire-breathin' woman who's wormed her way into this family."

"Don't you want me to save his life?"

"Course I do. If you don't, he'll be livin' with Satan's daughter, and that's one too many times Satan's hurt him. His horse Satan's already done enough." The man pulled a rag from his back pocket, then mopped his damp face. "Masta Ben deserves peace, and I knows you're gonna bring it to him. 'Cause my wife and me and all our youngins' prayed to our gods."

Frankie squirmed under his clear and watchful gaze. "But you don't understand."

"I understand all. And this I do know, it don't make no matter which gods you pray to, they're all part of the great beyond."

"The only prayers and wishes I'm good at granting are those that deal with the stock market."

"Stock market?" The man stuffed the rag into his pants back pocket. "Don't know 'bout any stock market, unless it's 'bout cows. I'm talkin' about you comin' to save Masta Ben's life, and so you shall."

Frankie wanted to grab the old man and shake him. "I don't belong here." She hooked her satchel over her shoulder. Then with a grin, she tossed her hair back. "It's for damn sure I'm not going to fit in wearing Levi's and a sweatshirt. So, about that armoire?"

The old man shook his head. "Imagine the gods sendin' someone who cusses. It's enough to make you stop prayin'." The man scratched his head.

Frankie wondered if the man's all-seeing scrutiny could see her one freckle, the one behind her knee.

"I'll see if the wife has somethin' small enough for you. Somethin' the youngins' have outgrown. Don't you mind your angel head none. You'll be dressed right."

She exhaled sharply. No doubt about it. She wouldn't be getting any help getting home. She was stuck here in the past until she figured a way back to the future.

"What's your given name, child?"

"Frances Matthews." She thrust out her hand. The man clasped her hand. She smiled at the reassuring squeeze. "Everyone calls me Frankie."

He nodded. "They calls me Uncle Henry."

* * *

With the man's shirt pulled high, Frankie eased the hemp rope through the loops of the patched and threadbare pants. She tied the cord in a tight knot. As she released the shirt, it drifted down almost to her knees. Then she glanced down at her feet. Damn, the last thing she needed were her sneakers sticking out. Bending, she quickly unrolled the self-made cuffs twice.

Grinning, she stood and met Uncle Henry's and his Ella's gazes. "So, how do I look? Authentic enough to pass Mrs. Craig's inspection?"

Uncle Henry nodded.

Ella grinned. "Sure enough do."

"Good. That means I can start my search for that blasted armoire and get on home."

"What's this here armoire you keep talkin' about?" Henry asked.

Frankie scowled. Drat, she hadn't thought they might not yet have the blasted thing. "It's a closet." Seeing their blank looks, she sighed. "A cupboard, you know, a cabinet for clothing? It's probably down in the milk rooms."

"You mean Masta Ben's chest?" Henry stepped forward. "What's an ole thing like that to a goddess? Can it save Masta Ben?"

Frankie tapped a finger against her lips. "It might. I'd have to take a good look at it first." Blast and double blast, she'd told her first lie. Judging from Uncle Henry's raised eyebrows and slight frown, he suspected as much.

"You best hurry on up to the house then."

"Right." Frankie grabbed her leather satchel and tossed it over her shoulder.

"Missy." Ella placed a restraining a hand on Frankie's shoulder. "If you're from another time, you shouldn't take that to the house." She took Frankie's satchel. "Not with the daughter of Satan there. Lord knows what she'll do if she finds out the truth."

"But..." Frankie frowned. What could she say, that she needed her bag when she went through the time portal because it held all her ID and credit cards? Yeah, right. Uh-oh! There was another problem.

Struggling to control her rising panic, Frankie grabbed Uncle Henry's hands. "What do I tell the family? I mean, why am I here? Who am I suppose to be?"

"You just do as I say, and you'll be fine." Henry squeezed her hands.

* * *

Hands jammed in her trousers, Frankie trudged up the private drive to Craig Knoll. She stopped at the foot of the front stairs and stared up at the front door.

"You'd think after a hike across the back forty I'd have some idea how to carry this whopper off. Oh, well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. Damn, I've got to stop with the slang and clichés."

With a sigh, she climbed the stairs to the veranda. As she raised her hand to knock, the front door swung open.

A stately woman dressed in black stepped out from the shadows. "Frances?"

Nonplussed at hearing her Christian name, Frankie initially said nothing. Finally, swallowing her fear, she answered, "Yes, it's me, Frank--" Suddenly Frankie found herself embraced against the other woman's full-bosomed chest.

"We didn't expect you for another two months, child."

Frankie stood suffocating in a sweet-perfumed, bosomy silence. She couldn't be sure, but she thought she heard the Twilight Zone's signature music. If they thought she was someone named Frances, then she'd be their Frances. After all, according to the woman clutching her, Frankie's namesake wasn't due for at least two months.

When the woman finally released her, Frankie drew a deep breath and pasted on a smile. "The family decided you could use me now," she murmured, stepping back out of the woman's clasp.

She stared at the woman who could only be Mildred Craig, Ben's mother, and tried to smile. The woman couldn't be more than forty-five, fifty at the outset. Yet she looked a good ten years older. Frankie sighed. Between her aloe vera face cream in her satchel and the short time she'd be here, she should get out unscathed. If she didn't, then a week at the Homestead Spa should take care of the problem. She hoped.

"Lord, child! Whatever happened to you?"

"My coach was attacked by highwaymen. Don't worry, I'm okay, but they took my valise and the horses. A group of us walked to a nearby farm. They only had boys." She held her arms wide. "That's why I'm wearing these things."

"Well, praise the Lord that you were left untouched. Between the Northern Aggression and the scourge of highwaymen, why I just don't know. They'll both be the death of the South." Mildred glanced around the front yard. "Where's your father, Frances? Certainly, he didn't allow you to travel alone."

"No, ma'am. I was traveling with neighbors. I asked them to let me off on Three Square Road by the front pillars." Frankie sighed. "I wanted to walk and take in all the beauty." She waved her hand at the countryside. "You all are so untouched here."

"Yes, we are. So far." Mildred's eyes misted, then she shook her head and placed her hands on Frankie's shoulders. "Now tell me, how are your mother and dear cousin Jacob? It seems a lifetime since I was free to visit them."

"They're just fine, and so are the boys, Mrs. Craig." Careful, girl. Don't dig a hole so deep you can't get out of it. Frankie met the other woman's eyes. Frankie swallowed hard. She wasn't known for her creativity.

Mildred frowned and pulled herself erect. "Explain yourself. Since when am I no longer called Aunt Mildred? Have I lost my status as a family member?"

Frankie briefly closed her eyes and prayed for strength. She'd just made the first mistake in what was sure to be a long line. When she opened her eyes, she tilted her head back and looked up into Mildred Craig's stern and foreboding expression. The woman's face was all angles. With her beaklike nose and glinting gray eyes, she reminded Frankie of an eagle ready to swoop down on its prey at the first sign of weakness.

"I'm sorry, Aunt Mildred. I'm tired and have been using formal address for too long." Relief washed over Frankie as Mildred's demeanor softened into a warm welcome.

"I can understand your fatigue, child. Let's go inside where it's a mite cooler. It's too hot to stay outside for long." Mildred slipped her arm around Frankie's shoulder and moved her forward. "I do apologize for my less than friendly tone. We've all been working so hard to keep the farm going, but it's difficult, especially now with William in Richmond. And then there's Noah."

"Noah? Have you any news, Aunt Mildred?"

Mildred exhaled. "No, child. There's nothing new to report. I confess, I live each day fearing receipt of a letter from Noah's colonel. Or never hearing," she murmured, then turned away and cleared her throat.

Clamping her teeth together, Frankie crossed the threshold and entered the foyer. She stopped before two women. Frankie recognized them, as she had Mildred Craig herself, from the antique sepia-colored portrait of Uncle Max's ancestors that sat on his piano.

"Frances, I'd like to introduce you to my daughters-in-law. This is Beatrice. She's my son Joseph's widow."

"Hello, Beatrice. We were all so sorry to hear about Joseph." Frankie thrust out her right hand. With her overture of friendship ignored, Frankie lowered her hand.

Hoping that the darkened foyer hid the heat flooding her face, Frankie studied the auburn-haired woman. So, this was Satan's daughter. She met Beatrice's pale blue gaze and a tremor shot through her. Beneath the surface gloss, the slender woman epitomized an ice queen--cold and beautiful. And, if she weren't mistaken, a sworn enemy.

"Please excuse Beatrice's reserve, Frances." Frankie glanced out of the corner of her eye to Mildred. Pursed lips telegraphed the older woman's displeasure.

Mildred turned her attention to the other woman. "And this is Noah's wife. Frances, meet Constance." Mildred gestured to the daughter-in-law with laughing green eyes.

I can't believe it. I'm meeting Uncle Max's great-grandmother.

A smile creased the tall willowy blonde's face as she advanced and bent to embrace Frankie. "Welcome to the family, Frances."

Frankie relaxed. The muscles in her neck loosened, retreating from hard swollen ridges back to normal.

Beatrice moved forward. "What brought about your early arrival?" She looked past Frankie and out onto the front porch. "Where are your trunks?"

"Stolen."

"Highwaymen?"

"Yes."

With a scowl, Beatrice studied Frankie. "Gracious sakes alive, what are you wearing? I do hope you aren't planning to wear any of our clothing. We have little enough as it is. And with you being so short and..." Beatrice paused, her gaze riveted on Frankie's chest. "And full, it would require major alterations."

"I--"

"Not another word," Mildred said, interrupting Frankie. She glared at her daughter-in- law. Her gray eyes flashed an unspoken rebuke. "Frances is family. Family shares. Is that understood, Beatrice?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Frankie bit back a smile. It was obvious who ruled the Craig roost. Equally apparent was Beatrice's hostility toward her.

But in case she'd misread her, Frankie decided to try once again. "We were very sorry to hear about Joseph, Beatrice. Please accept my family's heartfelt condolences on your loss. I can only imagine how you must feel, losing the man you love," she said with sincerity.

Beatrice stiffened as if slapped. Her eyes shot black daggers at Frankie. Suddenly, a single tear welled up in Beatrice's left eye and rolled down her porcelain cheek. "Thank you for your kind words," she whispered in a throaty voice. "I suppose it's time to put the past behind me and try to look toward the future. Joseph would have wanted that."

Like you would care what Joseph wanted? Not in this lifetime or any other.

Frankie smothered a snicker at the woman's perfect performance. Beatrice's attitude had done a one-eighty in the blink of an eye, but why?

At the deep rumble of a throat clearing behind her, Frankie finally understood. The women weren't alone. As Frankie turned toward the newcomer, her heart leapt. She recognized the man's silhouette framed by the open doorway.

Ben. Real--flesh and blood--was standing before her. She swallowed. He seemed stronger than his ghost. More powerful. She wanted to reach out and touch him--right after she cold-cocked him.

Suddenly unsure how she should proceed, Frankie remained silent, waiting to follow Ben's lead. He never looked at her. Instead, he glared down at Beatrice. Without saying a word, he turned and stormed out of the house.

Frankie wanted to run after him. To demand that he help her return to the twenty-first century. Unfortunately, it wouldn't do any good. This Ben knew nothing of time portals or her. Suddenly a horrible thought hit her. What if she couldn't go back until she'd saved his life, and now because of Uncle Henry and his family's prayers, she had to also keep him from marrying the woman from hell.

She took a step forward only to stop at Mildred's soft, worried voice.

"Oh, dear, I do believe Benjamin is distinctly out of sorts. Why, he left before I could even introduce you two, Frances." Mildred shook her head. "I taught the boy better manners than that."

Frankie touched Mildred's hand. "Don't worry about it, Aunt Mildred. I doubt cousin Benjamin even noticed me. He seemed preoccupied."

Constance grabbed Frankie's free hand and pulled her into the parlor. "Come, sit down, Frances. You must be exhausted after your long journey."

Every instinct Frankie had went on alert. As they approached the divan, Beatrice moved in front of them.

"We've been ever so worried about you, Francis. Tell us, have you fully recovered from your illness?"

"My illness?"

Beatrice raised an eyebrow. "Your brain fever, my dear."

Frankie ignored Constance and Mildred's gasps of outrage. "Well, Beatrice, it's like this. My brain's now operating at full capacity. It's good as it ever was and some might say better." She eased down onto the sofa. "You'd be amazed at the insight a little bout of brain fever can give you. I swear I had vision of the future. Would you like to know what yours holds?"

Refusing to break eye contact, she returned Beatrice's pinch-faced grimace with a smile. Frankie knew she could outlast anyone at the game of staring someone down. She'd won every contest as a child, and she still won in the boardroom.

With a snicker, Constance sat beside her, and after arranging her brown serge skirt, she touched Frankie's hand. "It's been a long time since Noah and I visited the mountains. In truth, it seems like another lifetime. What do they look like right now?"

"They're beautiful. Cooler than the central Virginia's rolling hills, but with all the gnats."

Frankie glanced at Beatrice still standing in the doorway, and frowned at the woman's raised eyebrow. Drat, and I was so sure Roanoke had gnats. Heck, all of central Virginia has gnats, doesn't it?

"The gnats I can handle, but Lordy, I do declare the heat down here is something awful. I always told Noah I wanted to move up there after the children came."

Constance tilted her head. Her gaze seemed fixed on a point just over Frankie's right shoulder. "We had just started our family when the war came. I had our little girl three months after Noah left. I named her Elizabeth, after Noah's sister. Like her namesake, my beautiful little Elizabeth died young. She'd just turned three months," Constance said, her voice barely above a whisper. "My baby died of cholera a month before Noah came home for Joseph's burial. He never saw her."

Frankie blinked rapidly against the gathering moisture. This wasn't a movie set populated with actors. These were real people struggling with the sorrow of loss. Frankie squeezed her new friend's hand in quiet support.

With a startled shake of her head, Constance focused on the women around her. "We will move to the mountains, right after we defeat the Northern Aggressors." Turning to Frankie, she smiled. "Maybe we can be neighbors."

Frankie knew Noah lived. She also knew they'd never leave Craig Knoll. Their destiny lay elsewhere--in taking over the farm and becoming Uncle Max's great-grandparents. Tilting her head to the side, Frankie studied Constance's features. She and Uncle Max shared the same forest green eyes and blonde hair. Smiling, Frankie wondered if Constance's hair would silver to the same platinum shade of Max's.

"What with the Yankee's penchant for burning our homes to the ground, how has Hunter's Lodge weathered the war, Frances?"

Beatrice's question snapped Frankie out of her reverie. Hunter's Lodge? Frankie stared at the woman seated across from her. Just my luck, the Wicked Witch of the East. Why couldn't you have been Glinda? Then I wouldn't feel trapped into staying and protecting Ben from you.

At Beatrice's small smile, Frankie frowned. The Blue Ridge was a big range. She searched her memory. In 1863 through 1864, most of the Civil War's fighting had occurred in central Virginia, not the mountainous region.

Frankie swallowed. There was nothing for it, she'd have to wing it.

Mildred patted Frankie's hand. "I can see by your expression you already miss home."

"Oh, Aunt Mildred, miss doesn't begin to describe how I feel."

"I felt the same way the first time I went away from home." Mildred nodded in understanding. "In his last letter, cousin Jacob said everything was growing back well in Roanoke. Though the Union troops continue in their attempts to capture Richmond, at the present they're leaving the southwest alone."

Frankie closed her eyes. Bless Aunt Mildred's soul. Once again, the woman had unwittingly stepped into the breech and supplied critical information.

"Yes, the land's coming back." Frankie paused and glanced down at her lap. Her thoughts turned inward as the history of southwest Virginia returned. "It's the damage to the people that will take the longest to heal. I find myself hoping we can forget the misery and privation and go forward as one nation when this war is over." Lifting her gaze, she found all three women shared an expression of shock.

Beatrice was the first to speak. "You sound as if you believe we will fail in our secession from the North."

Frankie ignored Beatrice's condemnatory tone and shrugged. Some Southerners, even in her time, couldn't talk rationally about that bloody period. How much greater the difficulty must be for these people living during the era. "You misunderstood me. I only meant--"

Mildred glanced at the parlor entrance and motioned for the man to enter. "Yes, Henry?"

"Miz Craig, Masta Ben said you need me."

"Ah, Henry," Mildred said, rising from an overstuffed chair. "My second cousin, Frances, will be visiting with us for a while." She turned toward Frankie. "Henry will take your belongings upstairs for you. Go along with him, child."

"Thank you, Aunt Mildred. I'll be down to help you as soon as I freshen up."

"No, dear. Don't be absurd. Rest before dinner." Mildred smiled. "We will cheerfully take you up on your offer tomorrow."

"Yes, ma'am." Frankie rose and obediently followed Henry.

"Uncle Henry! You know where to put her."

"Yes, Miz Beatrice."

As Frankie drew even with Henry, he pivoted toward the foyer, then winked at her. It was all she could do to keep her grin from turning into the giggles.

Then she heard Beatrice say, "Too bad more of the slaves weren't as loyal as Uncle Henry and his kin. If more had remained instead of deserting to the North, we'd still be living well."

"That will do, Beatrice!" Mildred snapped. "You would do well to remember we haven't had slaves for over a decade!"

Frankie followed noiselessly after Uncle Henry up the stairs. At the top of the staircase, Henry paused on the landing. "This is Masta William's and Miz Mildred's." He pointed to the large room on the left.

Frankie smiled as she recalled the finished product of her aunt's five-year renovation of Craig Knoll. She'd completed the project a year after Frankie's parents had died. In addition to modernizing the house, she'd almost doubled its size and turned a three-bedroom home into a five-bedroom one, yet the basic floor plan hadn't been appreciably altered.

The master bedroom was in the same location, occupying close to half of the second floor. Its door opened onto the hall. The windows looked out over the north and southern exposures of the house. Floor to ceiling bookcases flanked a massive stone fireplace that occupied the west wall. Because of this unusual feature, the current Craigs knew William Craig had valued learning and the written word.

In fact, Uncle Max still owned most of William Craig's collection of books. Frankie frowned at the sight of a bright red binding. From this distance, it looked the same as the one covering Letters on the Equality of the Sexes and the Condition of Women, by Sarah Moore Grimke. If it was, Mildred Craig could prove either an ally or a more formidable obstacle than Frankie had initially believed.

She took one last glance around the master bedroom. She could now see aside from the wiring and the addition of a luxurious bathroom to the back of the bedroom, Aunt Ginnie hadn't changed the room's character.

Turning toward the tall stately black man, Frankie shyly smiled. "Should I call you Henry or Uncle Henry?" She spotted the twinkle in his eyes and knew for some reason he'd found the question humorous.

"Uncle Henry is fine, Miz Frances." As Henry walked forward, he pointed to the room on the right. "This is Miz Beatrice's room."

Frankie peeked in and quickly examined what would one day be her bedroom. It looked like the same large, sun-filled room. That is, except for a few minor differences. In her time a queen would replace the double bed, and the highboy would hide her stereo and color television.

Henry stopped before the far bedroom. It was the one over the old kitchen. By building onto the back of the house, Aunt Ginnie had added two more bedrooms. These rooms each contained a large walk-in closet and spacious private bathroom.

"You'll share Miz Constance's room with her." Henry pointed to a smaller room to the right. "Don't figure you and Miz Beatrice will do all that well in close quarters."

Relieved yet amused, Frankie flashed Henry a grin. "I surely do thank you for your kindness and...perception, Uncle Henry."

Henry nodded. "This used to be Mastas Joseph and Noah's room. When Masta Noah's here, Miz Constance and Miz Beatrice change rooms."

"I see." Frankie walked into the far room and stopped, surprised, but relieved, to find twin beds instead of a double. On closer inspection, she realized the room mirrored the differences in the Craig daughters-in-law.

Where Beatrice's clothing and living quarters echoed the luxury of a lost era, Constance's austere, utilitarian clothing and furnishings reflected the reality of the day. The room's furniture consisted of two small and crudely made beds with a table between them. On the facing wall stood a wardrobe, beside it a small washstand with its bowl and pitcher.

Frankie peeked behind a screen and groaned at the sight of the dreaded chamber pot. "It just keeps getting better and better."

CHAPTER FIVE-

Frankie bolted upright from her bed. "What a dream!" Seconds later, she groaned. "It wasn't a dream." She took several deep breaths, then tried a couple of her favorite yoga relaxation exercises. The ones that always worked, even when facing an individual stock slide of more than fifty points in a day.

Five minutes later, she admitted they hadn't worked. Her nap had been just that, an interlude from her living nightmare. Teeth clenched, she eased to the side of her bed, reached under it, pulled out her high-tops. After putting them on, she stood.

She turned toward the basin, then stopped and grinned. "Of course." She squeezed her eyes closed and said three times, "I wish I were back home in Goochland," as she clicked the heels of her Nike-shod feet together.

She slowly opened her eyes. "Damn, it didn't work!" She smacked her forehead. "Naturally, I didn't say the year." She glanced down at her high-tops. "Then again, these ain't no ruby red shoes, and Goochland Court House 1864 ain't no Oz," she muttered, stalking over to the basin and pitcher of cold water.

She tucked some stray strands of hair into her single long braid, then splashed water on her face. "You've looked better...a lot better. My kingdom for a copy of the Wall Street Journal and a Starbucks Grande Café Latte. Yeah, right! My kingdom doesn't exist for another hundred and forty years."

With a sigh, Frankie straightened her shoulders and headed for the back stairs. Hearing voices, she paused. Information was power, and right now she needed as much info as she could get, because right now she had no power.

Frankie inched toward the thick wooden doorframe. Ben! As she listened to his deep, resonant voice, she frowned. Bet he's just as difficult alive as he was a ghost. The last thing she needed was more difficulty in her already complicated life.

Frankie started to enter the kitchen, then paused in the middle of the threshold to observe the Craig family's interactions and its power structure.

"If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times, you're too dirty to come in here after working outside. So outside with you." Mildred took a kitchen towel and shooed Ben onto the back porch.

Frankie smothered a chuckle at Ben's devilish grin.

"Consider this, mother. A little dirt beats the heck out of a chaw of tobacco."

Face reddened, Mildred marched over to her son. "I've outlawed that vile stuff," she shuddered, "from inside my house, Benjamin, and you know it. Not a flake of it crosses my threshold. Now you stop teasing me. You don't like that stuff any more than I do." She shook her head. "You were bad enough before joining the cavalry, but now...you're impossible."

"Aw, Mama--"

"Don't you be mama'ing me, Benjamin Craig." Mildred pointed to the well in the yard. "You just get on out there and wash those filthy hands and stained face. Leave those boots outside, too. Hear?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Heat filled Frankie's body as Ben's dark gaze focused on her. Her knees weakened. She grabbed the doorjamb for support. Lord, was she in bad shape when a simple look turned her into a puddle of melted wax.

Frankie spotted Mildred walking toward her and pulled herself together.

Smiling, Mildred grasped Frankie's hand and pulled her forward. "Son, this is your third cousin, Frances Payne. Frances, this is my son, Benjamin."

"I've gotten used to my nickname." She thrust out her right hand. "Please, call me Frankie."

Ben started. He'd expected her voice to match her diminutive size, high and young. Instead, it was low, mellow and curled around his nerves like a shot of good bourbon.

He took her hand and bent over it. As he raised his lips from her delicately tapered fingers, Ben's gaze paused for a second in quiet admiration at the sight of her full, firm breasts. His little cousin was all woman--petite and voluptuous.

Something about her struck a cord in him. Ignoring Frankie's gentle tug, Ben tightened his hold. He continued caressing the knuckles of her hand with his thumb as his gaze met hers. "Your eyes are the exact color of gray as the Confederate uniform."

"So I've been told," she whispered.

Instinct told him to pull her close and never let go. He wanted her. She wanted him. Awareness of his surroundings faded. Only this woman mattered.

His mother's cough shattered his reverie, and Ben released Frankie's hand. Years of war had taught him control. Without so much as a blink, his military training took over.

"Hello, Frankie. You've changed since I last saw you. Of course, you were only three at the time. Still--" He shook his head. "I feel as if--"

"Benjamin!" Beatrice grabbed his free arm. "Leave your little cousin alone. She has no idea how you love to flirt and tease." Facing Ben, she brushed the front of his shirt. "Now, you get outside and clean up like your mama said."

* * *

Frankie followed a snickering Beatrice outside, then collapsed against the back porch railing as the woman hurried after Ben.

It was all Ben's ghost's fault. She was here because of him. And if Uncle Henry was to be believed, she had two missions. Save the blasted man from the she-wolf and then keep the Union deserters from killing him. And she knew just how to accomplish both objectives. She'd kill him first, then return home. After that, his ghost would leave her alone.

"What's the matter, chile? You have a fright?"

Hearing Uncle Henry's deep voice, Frankie glanced up. Her gaze met his as he stared up at her from the bottom of the stairs. "I'm having warp-lag. It's like jetlag only it lasts for centuries."

Henry climbed a few steps and plopped down on the stair below her. "Yessum, a long journey does wear out a body. But Miz Frances, what's jetlag? Matter of fact, what's a warp?"

Frankie shook her head. "Never mind. You all don't have the problem here."

Henry laughed. "You goddesses sure are strange."

"You don't know the half of it."

"Yes, ma'am," Henry said with another chuckle. "Appears to me like you're missin' a part of yourself."

"You got that right. My common sense." Frankie sighed. "No offense meant, but the women of this century sure are a demure lot. Except for Beatrice, that is. Much as I hate to admit it, the woman could go head-to-head with Hilary Clinton."

"Who's Hilary Clinton, Miz Frankie? Is she queen of the gods?" Ben stood.

"No, just New York." Frankie rose and stepped down beside Henry. "Will you take me to Ben's room?" she asked, grabbing his hand. "I really need to see that armoire of his."

"No, the time isn't right. You might think you've come to the wrong place, but you're wrong, chile." He patted Frankie's hand. "The spirits, they tells me the other half of your soul, the one you seek is near. Don't fret. The time and place is decided by forces greater than us."

This was not what she wanted to hear. Damn it all, she wanted to jump into Ben's chest and go home.

Frankie studied Henry's earnest expression. It was obvious she wasn't going to get her way today, so she might as well get her bearings. "Uncle Henry? I lost track of the days during my journey."

"I'm sure you did, chile. Traveling like you do is mighty hard on a body."

Frankie moistened her parched lips. "Please, Uncle Henry, what's today's date?"

A slow smile creased his weathered face. "May ninth." He tipped his large straw hat, turned and began to descend the last few steps. At the bottom, he glanced back at her. "You have lots a time, chile."

Frankie's eyes followed the old man's progress across the yard. Once he'd disappeared in the small barn, she turned her attention to Ben and Beatrice standing by the well. She couldn't stand it.

Okay, his ghost was an insufferable bastard, but there was an innate honesty about the living Ben. Henry was right. The last thing this man needed was to be caught in the triton of the Devil's right-hand maiden.

Then again..."Ah, go ahead and get speared!" Pivoting, Frankie stalked back into the kitchen. "May I help?" she asked Connie.

Mildred glanced over her shoulder. "Constance can finish laying out the dishes, Frances. I need you to go out and fetch Ben and Beatrice."

Figured. Frankie clinched her fists. "Right." At Mildred's wide-eyed gaze, Frankie smothered a groan. "Yes, ma'am." She bit the inside of her lip to keep from saying anything.

As she marched out of the kitchen and down the stairs, she kept hearing her Aunt Ginnie's favorite saying, "Never forget, Frankie, you can always tell a lady by her manners." Frankie stepped down onto the ground and headed toward Ben and Beatrice. "Sorry, Aunt Ginnie. If I'm going to win this fight and get home to you and Uncle Max, manners be damned."

Ben's bronzed skin glistened as he dried his chest with his shirt. Frankie swallowed, hard. He was gorgeous.

Unfortunately, Beatrice ruined the picture when she removed her hankie from a pocket in her dress and used it to help dry Ben.

Frankie bit her lip to keep from screaming, "Get your hands off my man!" Where the hell did that come from? When had she ever thought of Ben as hers? She closed her eyes and shook her head. It was probably the result of Uncle Henry's talking about soul mates. Lordy, this trip back is making me crazier than that blasted ghost. And that's saying something!

As she marched toward the well, Beatrice slid her arms around Ben's neck. Frankie grinned at Ben's sudden rigid posture. "You think she's bad, you ought to visit a singles bar sometime."

What the heck, even an undeserving ghost needed at least one good turn. She'd be the living Ben's rescuer. But just this once. And only after she discovered what was so important that Beatrice couldn't discuss it in front of the family.

It was time for her to play. Using the blooming hydrangea bushes to shield herself from their view, Frankie moved silently forward until she stood directly behind them. Beatrice's whine carried. Frankie could only hope Ben's deep rumble did also.

She pressed her ear against the shrub, then scowled at the topic of their conversation. Seemed the old saw was right, don't eavesdrop because you might not like what you hear. Of course, if they weren't correct they wouldn't become clichés.

"I'm perfect for providing the Craig heir. I'm already a Craig, and Papa Craig wants us to marry. You know how he fears you and Noah falling to a Yankee sniper the way Joseph did. We must wed soon, Ben."

Frankie pushed aside a few branches. Her eyes narrowed as Beatrice slanted Ben a look from under half closed eyelids.

"I promise, you won't be sorry, Ben," Beatrice crooned.

"Stop this, now." He removed her hand from his chest and flicked it away from him.

"Papa Craig said you'd announce our engagement and we'd be married before you return to your troops. As soon as you publicly make a commitment, we won't need to wait until the wedding to, ah, enjoy ourselves." She trailed a finger down his chest. "After all, your papa wants me with child before you leave.

"I'm a passionate woman, Ben. I guarantee you won't need Miz Peaches's Bordello. If you like, we can take a walk and start right now." Beatrice's fingers skimmed the front placket of his trousers.

Ben set Beatrice away from him. "I said no. I have enough self-restraint not to bed my betrothed--especially if it's you-- until we're married."

Frankie tried to meld into the bushes. It would never do to be caught eavesdropping. Yet she couldn't leave. She had to learn as much as possible about the infighting before she developed a plan. As General Grant had said, "Critical to any strategy is knowing the strengths and weaknesses of your enemy."

"I've not falsely represented myself in this agreement, Bea. If I marry you, it will be because I have promised my father to wed. Remember this and remember it well, in order to gain my consent, father had guaranteed me until the end of June to find a suitable bride. One of my choosing. And the end of June it shall be."

Beatrice laughed. "Given I am the only suitable woman available, your less than gentlemanly behavior is unacceptable."

"Then given my boorish behavior, I suggest you stay out of my way."

Beatrice slapped Ben's face. "The war has turned your heart to stone."

Frankie's wrist gave out and she slipped forward against the bush. A twig snapped. She froze. She needed to escape. Crouching, she waddled along the hedge away from the well, then tripped and found herself face down in the dirt for the second time that day. As she righted herself, Frankie heard Beatrice's strangled response.

"Or is it that your little fair-haired cousin has caught your eye? Well, Ben, my dear, you can rid yourself of any such thoughts. She'll never pass Papa Craig's standards. And never forget, although you're a colonel, here Papa Craig is the general. Besides, what would you want with a child. Why she can't be over eighteen."

Eighteen! Boy, time travel worked wonders at reversing the clock, even better than the most expensive anti-aging creams. To think, by coming back to 1864, she'd lost eleven years.

"I have said all I intend to on the matter. Don't cross me, Bea or, I swear, you'll never hear my proposal."

"We will see," Beatrice said, her voice filled with anger before she turned and stormed back to the house.

Frankie rose, and skirting the hydrangea bushes headed back toward the kitchen. She lost her footing and fell, once again landing face down in the open yard. Way to go, Secret Agent 001!

She pushed herself up. At Ben's snicker, she faced him with a smile. "Have you seen Beatrice? Your mother needs her help."

He pointed to the back stairs. "I believe that's her," he said with a smirk.

"Right you are." Frankie stood, then froze at the sound of cloth ripping. Shoulders slumped, she stared down at her feet. Her right one had caught in the bottom of an oversized trouser leg and torn a hole in it.

Great! They'll probably expect me to repair it. Me, the girl who in eighth grade put the zipper in the bottom of her dress instead of the neck.

She hated the way Ben's gaze drifted down to the hole in her pants, then back to her face. She recognized that superior look of his. Nice to know a body can count on certain things. Ghost or alive, they're both arrogant males.

Frankie stiffened her spine and pasted a bright smile on her face. If she could handle CEOs of Fortune 500 companies then one Confederate colonel should be a snap. "Your mama sent me to tell you and Beatrice that dinner's on the table."

"You didn't fix it, did you?"

* * *

Ben studied Frankie. The grass stains on her pants explained the "umps" he'd heard behind the bushes. What kind of game was she playing? He'd better find out and fast, because he doubted his self-control around her would prove sufficient to protect him from her fresh, untouched aura.

Fresh and untouched, my ass.

Ben shook his head. He'd learned the hard way appearances were deceiving, especially the facade of innocence. What the war hadn't taught him, Beatrice had.

She presented the picture of the perfect lady, a grieving widow anguish-filled from the loss of her beloved husband. In reality, she was spiteful, manipulative and totally untrustworthy. His gut, which was seldom wrong, warned him Beatrice was not someone he'd want to protect his back in the heat of battle.

If it weren't for the war, and the fact he knew he'd never make it out alive, he'd never have considered, let alone accepted, his father's request he marry Beatrice, his brother's widow. Hell, the thought of a lifetime with the woman was enough to ensure he'd lead every life- threatening mission General Lee proposed.

Women...they were as unpredictable as May in Virginia, as dangerous as the wilderness and as determined as Stonewall Jackson.

Sighing, Ben's gaze drifted over Frankie, once again. Damnation! His little cousin had turned into a beauty. And he wanted her. Worse, the heat he'd felt in the kitchen had returned with a vengeance. If only his reaction to her were just lust. But he knew better.

Over the last three years he'd seen too much pain and death. He wanted--no, needed--that well of sweetness in her waiting to be tapped, brought to the surface, and prayed that this time appearances weren't deceiving.

Everyone thought he hadn't noticed Frankie in the foyer.

They were wrong.

His first instinct had been to gather her to him and absorb all the lightness emanating from her. Light emanating from her? Lord, when had he succumbed to melodrama? Ah, well, at least he'd recognized the situation for what it was prior to making a fool of himself.

Yes, sir. There was nothing like running from temptation to make a decorated colonel feel proud.

Ben lifted his hand and brushed a few stray hairs off her cheek, tucking them behind her ear. From the gleam in her eyes, the little minx wasn't unaware of her effect on him. "Tell mama I'll just be a few more minutes." He watched her start to leave, pause, and glance over her shoulder, her gray eyes turning the color of molten silver. "Tell mama I said y'all should start eating without me."

"You ought to know your mama better than that. She won't start until the entire family is seated."

Frankie drew him. But why? It wasn't her beauty. He'd seen gorgeous women most of his life. Truth be told, she was pretty, but nothing special. Even the seeming lightness of her soul which drew him couldn't explain his growing fascination.

Ben's finger lightly traced her jaw. "Why did you come here?"

"C-come here?"

As she licked her lips, he shifted his weight, easing the growing tightness of his pants. Hellfire and damnation, how could one small female make him react faster than the most polished whores of Miz Peaches's?

His only hope of salvation was to keep her off-balance. "Yes. The truth, Frankie."

As her teary gaze met his, it took all of Ben's strength to remain still.

"Why, I came to save you. Of course."

"Save me?" He stared at her, then began to laugh. "You came to save me? From what?"

Frankie bit her lip. Talk about digging yourself a hole. Her gaze narrowed at his mocking laughter. The blasted man thought it was a joke. She wondered just how humorous he'd find the situation once she'd explained everything to him. She bet he'd sober up real fast.

As she started to open her mouth, Frankie stopped. No, I can't tell him, not yet. Uncle Henry said I needed to win Ben's heart first. Yeah, right, like he's going to fall at my feet.

She knew she couldn't lie. She'd never been particularly good at it, and somehow this didn't seem like the time to start. Frankie took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. "Actually, I'm here because I was pushed."

"Pushed?"

She rubbed the area between her eyes. "Well, persuaded might be a better term." She looked up at him and forced a smile. "Yes, I was persuaded to come because the family needs my help."

* * *

Frankie stood next to her bed, her arms at her side. She glanced down at Constance kneeling on the floor in front of her, pinning the hem of a faded blue dress.

Frankie scowled. How could she have forgotten about the missing indoor plumbing? Lord have mercy. Between the humidity and the bugs, summer in Virginia could be a nightmare. Especially in an outhouse. It'd been bad enough when she could see those creepy-crawly things, but what about at night. She shuddered.

"Are you well, Frankie?"

"Oh, I'm just dandy." She tried to return Constance's smile, but couldn't quite manage it. "Umm, do you use the outside privy during the night?"

"You are so funny, Frankie." Constance giggled. "Of course not. What with all these Yankees around, it wouldn't be safe. We use the chamber pot behind the screen." She pointed to the corner.

Frankie swallowed hard. She sure hoped her bladder rivaled that of a camel's. Because there was no way in hell she'd use a small porcelain bowl without a seat and flusher.

Although, if her stomach were any indication, she'd be making frequent use of it tonight, just not for its intended purpose. The curdling mass that had been dinner sat with the same effect as seeing Beatrice caressing Ben's bare chest--a roiling, churning weight inside her waiting to escape.

Frankie prayed tonight's meal wasn't everyday fare. Because if it were, she'd lose weight her hundred pound frame could ill-afford. The hominy and greens she had handled. It was when the hog brains and cracklin' bread were placed on the table that she had bolted for the back door.

She'd made it as far as the corner of the house. Frankie cringed, remembering how upon turning to return to the house, she'd discovered the family had followed her. Humiliated, she'd lied and said her trip to Craig Knoll had been more arduous then she'd realized.

Worse than her embarrassment was the fact Frankie suspected she'd eaten a normal meal. She'd read about these foods in her studies. She'd heard about them from old-timers. She'd just never expected to eat them.

If she planned to fulfill the spirits' design in bringing her here, her culinary habits were in for a major overhaul.

Frankie's eyes widened. A bubble rose and hit her taste buds. She slapped a hand over her mouth, then frowned. Lordy, she hated re-eating dinner, especially when she hadn't liked it going down the first time.

She took a deep breath and slowly released it. Nothing like forgetting a critical item in her satchel. Antacids.

"Raise your arms," Constance ordered. "And stand still!"

"You've given me this dress. You've already given me two skirts and blouses, Constance."

"It's Connie to my friends. Only Mama and Papa Craig use Constance." She grimaced. "And Beatrice." Connie gave a delicate shrug and began pinning the waistline of the dress. "As for these," she pinched the loose fabric of the blouse's bodice, "they are old and too small for me."

"Well, I thank you kindly," Frankie said, fingering the homespun cloth. "Tell me about your family, Connie. What are they like?"

"I miss my three sisters. I'm the oldest. When I married four years ago, I left my home in Orange County. Mama's last letter said the Yankees passed close to our home. But they were lucky. The Yankees didn't loot or burn the homeplace. Yet."

Frankie momentarily closed her eyes. She'd no idea Connie's family lived near The Battle Through the Wilderness. At least Sherman's March to the Sea and the accompanying destruction wasn't directly north or east of Petersburg, so the families would be spared that suffering. "Since you're from Orange, how did you and Noah meet?"

Connie knelt beside Frankie. Her fingers dropped to her lap. A soft, dreamy look filled her eyes. "It was the year I turned eighteen and made my debut into society. All three Craig sons were in Richmond at the same time. Beatrice was there also." She giggled. "But for her sister's coming out. Oh, Frankie, you should have seen Beatrice. She flitted about Ben like a bee around a spring flower. Oh, it was so embarrassing. Especially since he paid her no mind."

Frankie bit her lower lip. Before the night was over, she'd be up on all the family gossip. "What happened? How did she end up married to Joseph?"

"Easily, and it's rather sad." Connie raised her head and looked up at Frankie. "Beatrice waited awhile, hoping Ben would succumb to her wiles. When he didn't, she looked to Joseph Craig. Never was there a man with as plain a face as he was good of heart. When Beatrice batted her dark lashes and said she loved him, Joseph proposed."

"Why Joseph? Why not someone else?"

"Money."

Why aren't I surprised?

"Beatrice has the breeding and family name, but not the money. Her daddy loves the horses."

"Naturally, he lost," Frankie said. "What about you and Noah?"

"I knew from the moment I stepped into his arms at my first ball, Noah was the only man for me." Connie's eyes misted.

Frankie caught herself just before she rolled her eyes. It wouldn't do to alienate one of her few allies. Unfortunately, Connie's voice held such a hopeless romantic quality, Frankie almost couldn't help herself.

She frowned and gave herself a mental shake. Lord help her, she'd once sounded just like Connie. Of course that was back when she read romances and believed in true love. Now on the back-end of her twenties, okay, make that almost thirty, she knew there was only one thing in life you could count on--taxes.

Frankie cleared her throat. "And Benja--"

"Really, Frankie. Everyone calls him Ben. And you are family after all!"

"Sorry." Frankie wanted the answer and wouldn't go to bed until she had it. "About Ben, hasn't he ever wanted to get married?"

"No. Although not for lack of opportunities." Connie paused. "I misspoke. For some unknown reason, he caved into Papa Craig's request that he marry Beatrice."

"I understood from the family it isn't a done deal. He said he'd announce his decision prior to returning to his unit."

"Pshaw." Connie waved her hand. "He's trapped, and Beatrice knows it. He never leaves the plantation nor meets with anyone other than family."

Connie leaned against the bed. The fingers of one hand slid beneath the dust ruffle. Frowning, she pulled out one of Frankie's black high-tops and examined it from all angles. Then she peeked under the bed and removed the other shoe. "My heavens, Frankie, but these are the strangest looking gaiters I've ever seen."

You don't know the half of it! "Umm, yes. These are special gaiters, invented by a neighbor of ours."

Frankie tried to recover her cross-trainers.

Connie relinquished one while continuing to study the other. "How unique!" She traced the shoe's name. "Why ever would it say Nicky when your name is Frances?"

There was no way Frankie could or would explain that modern society not only wore clothing with a manufacturer's name plastered all over it, but viewed it as a status symbol and paid top dollar for the privilege. "That's the maker's name, and it's pronounced nigh-key," Frankie said, praying her firm tone stopped further questions.

"They look very comfortable." Connie pressed on the toe section. "I hope the cobbler has patented this design? I believe people would like them."

"And one day, they'll make Michael Jordan a very rich man," Frankie muttered under her breath.

Connie handed Frankie the high-top. "Michael who?"

"Uh, it's not important." Frankie winced. It was past time she stopped talking as if she were still home. But it was damned hard to change a lifetime of speech overnight. Harder than she'd thought. She'd never realized how much slang and idiom comprised everyday speech. If she was any example, it was close to eighty percent.

She just prayed she didn't slip and say something that was so outlandish someone would think she'd escaped from the loony bin.

Connie stood, turned and walked to the trunk at the foot of her bed. Opening it, she removed a long-sleeved white nightgown. "Here." She handed the gown to Frankie. "You can't sleep in your underwear, cousin."

Frankie struggled not to laugh. It would probably shock Connie if she knew during the summertime, her "cousin" slept in her birthday suit. "Thank you, cousin," Frankie said, a chuckle escaping on the last word.

Feigning modesty, Frankie started to pull the homespun gown over her head only to have her actions met with laughter.

"How do you expect to remove your corset like that. Come, do not be a ninny. I will help you." Connie took the nightgown from Frankie and tossed it onto the bed.

"I don't need help."

"Of course you do. We all do. You helped me, now I'll help you."

Frankie's fingers trembled as she undid the small, pearl buttons down the front of the dress. She was about to be exposed as the fraud she was and felt like a careless fool.

Not only wasn't this not in the game plan, it wasn't something she'd planned. Worse, until this moment she hadn't considered the problem of washing out her things. And given how nosey everyone was, that presented a problem of major proportions.

Frankie stepped out of her gown. "There's something I need to tell you," Frankie said as she slipped the chemise from her shoulders.

"I was right!"

"Right?" Frankie asked in a squeak.

"That you are not wearing a corset." Connie reached out and touched the edges of the demi-cupped bra's scalloped lace cup. "What's this called and where's your corset?"

Connie's remark sent Frankie scrambling for an answer. "This is called a brassiere. It's French."

"Your mother allows you to wear such a thing?"

"Yep. A friend who's in Paris raising money for the cause told Mama about them. Seems Mama thinks ahead. Believing I'd take after her," Frankie lifted her bosom up and shook her head, "she ordered some before the blockade."

"Don't worry, Frankie. Your brassiere holds you firm, so no one will ever guess you're a loose woman."

Frankie giggled. Soon she sat on the floor laughing, her body shaking. Lord what a mess. Loose woman indeed!

"Your mama did that?"

"Yep. She said as tiny as I am I don't need a corset." Frankie wiped the moisture from her face and grinned. "Mama always said a woman should put comfort ahead of fashion. Besides, this brassiere accomplishes both while giving the appearance of propriety."

She sincerely hoped Connie wasn't an aficionado of Parisian fashion. Because she couldn't honestly remember when the French invented the bra.

Connie slanted Frankie a quick glance, then peeked into her leather satchel. "Oh, my. You have another one."

"Yes. Mamma said I'd need more than one. After all, they must be washed just as drawers are."

"Speaking of drawers." Connie stared as Frankie removed her panties.

"They're from France, too. But as with the bra, I only have one spare." Sliding into bed, Frankie skewered Connie with a hard gaze. "I'd rather keep my French unmentionables between the two of us. Aunt Mildred won't understand and Beatrice will..."

"I understand, Frankie. You can wash them here and hang them to dry. Neither Mama Craig nor Beatrice come in after we've retired. This is my refuge." Connie smiled at Frankie. "And now it's your refuge too."

Relief coursed through Frankie. "Thank you." She bit her lip at Connie's perplexed look. The woman's interest had been piqued, but good manners kept her from prying.

Connie crawled into bed. "I'll douse the light in a minute, after I read a passage in the Bible." A few moments, later she closed her Bible and glanced over at Frankie. "Noah and I always read it together before retiring."

"Do you feel closer to Noah when you read it?"

"Yes." Connie's head bopped up and down. "It will sound strange, but I know that at these moments he feels my love. When two people love deeply, they experience one another's joy and sorrow. That is why I know Noah's safe. His spirit is alive and well. He is still with me."

"I envy you that love." How Frankie wished she had someone to hold onto. Instead, she felt adrift, lost on the sea of time.

CHAPTER SIX

"Frankie, wake up!"

She rolled from her back onto her side, curled into a fetal position and prayed this was a nightmare. As the narrow, rope-supported mattress continued to shake, Frankie's right eye opened to a slit.

"Go away. Leave me alone, Connie," Frankie moaned. "It's dark outside."

The second Connie jerked the covers from her head, Frankie tried to wrench the sheet from her grasp. She failed.

"Why the way you act, one would think you are a city girl, not a dairy farmer's daughter."

Eyes wide, Frankie bolted upright. "I'm what?"

"Stop funnin' me."

Frankie squirmed under Connie's penetrating gaze. "Are you still having problems with the effects of that brain fever that felled you a last summer?"

Brain fever? Well, at least I have a ready-made excuse whenever I need it. Nothing like people thinking I'm touched. That is, "tetched." Frankie massaged her temples. But if everyone thinks I'm tetched, how can I get Ben to fall in love with me? Given the circumstances, I'm willing to take the pity vote.

Frankie raised her gaze to Connie's. "I'm fine. Mornings aren't my best time."

At least it wasn't a major whopper. She just wasn't a morning person. Never have been and never would be. Knowing this about herself, she'd judiciously scheduled her earliest college courses for late morning. Of course she'd learned this during her freshman year, much to her chagrin. She'd never made class that started earlier than eleven.

Connie studied her for a moment, then smiled. "Tonight you must go to bed earlier. For now, get up, cousin. You can't lay abed and watch the sun rise. Best hurry. Mama Craig is already preparing breakfast. See you downstairs." She turned and rushed from the room.

Frankie's shoulders dropped in defeat as she dragged herself out of bed. Staggering over to the washbasin, she splashed cold water on her face, then glanced at the screen in the corner. "No way. I'll use the outhouse."

Withdrawing her leather satchel from under the bed, she removed a clean pair of panties, then donned the altered blue dress.

Maybe after a couple of cups of strong, black coffee, she'd be functional.

Coffee! Frankie bit back a groan. Most of the South had long since run out of that early morning elixir. Burnt rye and cornmeal substituted instead.

She flopped on the end of her bed and buried her face in her hands. She didn't even have a package of instant in her satchel!

She straightened slowly. "But I do have the other necessity of life. Her hand slipped back into her satchel. She withdrew a gold-wrapped Lindt truffle. With a smile, she removed the foil and popped the chocolate into her mouth. Smooth, thick, creamy sweetness coated her throat. A moan of ecstasy escaped.

"Frankie, are you all right?"

At Ben's question, she groaned. Damn, can't I indulge in one moment of sinful pleasure without being caught? "Um-une," she mumbled with bulging cheeks and a closed mouth.

His gaze lingered on her, then he shrugged and continued on toward his parents' room.

As soon as he was out of sight, Frankie mashed the truffle against the roof of her mouth, then swallowed.

"Next time I'll find a hidey-hole and have my fix unseen. But first, I'd better find a better place to keep them than here." She pawed through her bag looking for more gold-foil wrapped treats.

Not seeing any, she dumped the contents on her bed. "I only had one!" Frankie didn't know whether to cry or laugh. "No coffee. No chocolate. No diet cola. No caffeine. I'm in hell." She jammed her things back in the bag, then shoved it under the bed. "I've got to get home."

Time for a little R&D. Research Ben's commitment to Beatrice. Then develop a plan to turn a financial whiz gal into a femme fatale.

Head up, shoulders back, she headed downstairs. Moments later, she entered the kitchen.

Mildred hovered over the cast-iron stove, testing the griddle's heat. Beside her, the hoecakes stood ready, awaiting frying. Five place settings sat ready for the house's occupants. From the marks on the wooden table, Frankie surmised the long platform also functioned as a workstation. She knew from her years of watching Cook that it was perfect for rolling out pastry.

"Ah, Frances, did you sleep well, child?"

"Very well, Aunt Mildred. Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Why, yes. Please put this apple butter on the table, then milk Bessie."

Frankie clutched the mason jar to her chest. "Milk Bessie?" They expected her to milk a cow? Milking hadn't been part of her MBA program. Hell, the nearest she'd ever been to a cow was a "Got Milk" commercial and her Gateway computer boxes.

"I know Bessie's old and may not give you much, but do your best," Mildred said in a soft voice, then sighed. "Beatrice wants to slaughter Bessie for meat. Of course, we'll never do that. Not only is she almost all bones, the old girl has been with the family so long she is like a member. And one does not eat family."

"Unless you're a member of the Donner Party," Frankie mumbled.

"What was that, dear?"

"Nothing, Aunt Mildred."

Mildred resumed dropping hoecakes onto the griddle. "Run along, dear. Bessie's bucket is just outside the door."

Frankie plodded toward the door, then paused at the threshold. Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply. "Is that coffee I smell?" she asked, unable to hide the naked longing in her voice.

"Yes, dear, it is. Unfortunately, we have very little left so in order to make it last, it is weak."

"Coffee's coffee." Frankie glanced upward and mouthed thank you. "Could I have a cup before going out?"

"After you have finished your chores. So, the sooner you milk Bessie, the sooner you can have a cup." She glanced at Frankie. "Bessie's offering makes it go down easier."

"Of course." I can't believe it. Work before coffee, and weak coffee at that. Turning, Frankie stepped outside, picked up the bucket and descended the stairs. Once on terra firma, she took in the lay of the land.

Mist swirled on the grass below her, seeming to rise from the earth itself. Dew drops glistened on the blooming wisteria leaves refracting a rainbow of colors that reminded her of the lead-crystal teardrops hanging from Aunt Ginnie's prized chandelier in the mansion's main entry.

She lifted her gaze. A slow smile curved her lips. Aunt Ginnie was right, early morning was beautiful. The warm crisp air smelled fresh, clean. Without the filter of smog, the blue of the sky was vibrant and seemed touchable, if she just had a ladder tall enough.

This time period held a special wonder for her and all Southerners. All her life, she'd secretly wanted to travel back in time and visit this era. Discover if it was truly as romantic as in her books and fantasies.

Yet for all its peaceful beauty, she'd never felt more alone or isolated. She didn't belong here. Give her a computer, a prospectus, a decision whether to buy or sell a stock and she was in her element. But milk a cow? Not in her lifetime, wherever that may be.

"I want to go home." She faced the dawn sky and closed her eyes. "Please. I don't belong here."

She knew she hadn't moved one scintilla in space or time. With a hard swallow, Frankie opened her eyes. She needed to find the portal. God forbid Henry was correct that it'd only work if Ben, her so-called soul mate, was with her. She frowned. If that proved accurate, then by George she'd have him at her side, even if it meant winging the pompous colonel and dragging his unconscious body with her.

"Damn, nothing's easy." Sighing, she trudged to the large barn less than a thousand feet away. Five minutes later, she entered the building.

Bessie stood in the nearest right stall.

Bucket in hand, Frankie kept her back to the wall and advanced. She stopped beside a three-legged stool and set the pail on the stool. With great deliberation, she began to roll up the long sleeves of her newly altered blue dress.

Retrieving her container, Frankie gnawed on her lower lip as she studied Bessie. Horses were mounted from the left. How about cows, did they have a preference when being milked, she wondered.

Frankie placed the stool on the cow's left side, then inched the bucket beneath the udder.

"I need some milk, old girl. Cooperate and I'll give you whatever you want. How about tickets to a Durham Bulls game? Or is a moo-vie more to you liking?" Frankie shook her head. I'm talking to a cow. Lord have mercy, maybe I am tetched.

"Look, I'll scratch you behind the ears, under your chin, wherever."

The cow looked back at her. Their gazes met. Frankie glared. Bessie mooed and returned to chewing her cud.

"Don't give, and I'll see Beatrice gets her way with you! The words filet mignon mean anything to you?"

Bessie mooed again, then faced front and nuzzled some hay.

Slowly exhaling, Frankie grasped a teat in each hand and yanked. Nothing. Nada. Zip. "Damn it, Bessie. Do your thing!"

"Bessie doesn't take well to intimidation."

Frankie winced at the laughter in the deep bass voice behind her. Stiffening her shoulders, she bent forward. Her fingers tightened around Bessie's teats, then she gave a couple of forceful tugs. One drop dripped into the bucket.

Ben moved forward.

She tightened her grip on Bessie's teats.

The cow moved sideways, then kicked.

Frankie fell backward on the straw-covered dirt floor.

Bessie kicked once again and the pail tipped over.

A roar of laughter erupted, echoing in the still barn.

She pushed herself into a sitting position and flashed Ben one of her patented looks. The one she gave a junior account executive who didn't do his research.

Instead of quieting, Ben pointed at her, then howled.

Amazing how lighthearted laughter transformed the man. Yesterday, she'd thought him handsome. Now she knew better. He was gorgeous. A regular Greek God, one with laugh lines framing his dark blue eyes. No wonder Beatrice, the fiancée from hell, wanted him.

"Let me take care of the milking." Still chuckling, Ben walked over to Frankie and thrust out his hand. She grasped it, and he jerked her to her feet. "Bessie's touchy about giving up her load but plays right into my hands."

And I'll bet every other female on the planet does, too.

He took Frankie's place beside Bessie. He leaned forward and carefully placed his hand on the cow's udder.

"Thank you, Ben," she stuttered. "I'm not used to milking."

"I'm not surprised. With three young sons still at home to help, I doubt there'd be much need for you to do this kind of work. I wish times were easier, and we had enough help so you, mama and the sisters could stay inside." He shrugged. "Maybe we will, soon. From the reports, it appears General Lee has everything under control in The Wilderness."

Frankie averted her face. She didn't want Ben to see the sorrow in her eyes. The South and its way of life were doomed. They just didn't know it yet. As for The Wilderness campaigns, they would be one of the last times Lee had control of the war.

When Ben's hand touched hers, she jumped and a sheepish look crossed her face. "Sorry. I was lost in a dream world."

"A sad one from your expression." He settled himself back on the stool. "Now, pay attention, and next time you can handle the chore by yourself."

She moved over to his side.

"As with most things in life, the key is gentle but steady pressure." He glanced at her and winked.

Frankie's gaze widened as he massaged the udder, moving his fingers slowly down to the teat.

"Don't pull, squeeze."

She watched him tighten his thumb and forefinger, then steadily roll each finger in succession around Bessie.

"The squeeze forces the milk out."

A spiral of heat ran from her nipples downward. Bessie's milk spurted into the pail, and warmth pooled between Frankie's thighs.

Grinning, he stood. "We have milk, and Bessie's satisfied."

But what about me? "You're very good with Bessie, Ben."

She stared at her feet. God, she couldn't meet his gaze. He'd know exactly what she was thinking. Take me. Here. This very instant.

He lifted her chin. "I like the way you say my name." His head dipped close to hers, then suddenly he straightened and stepped back. "The color of your eyes is an unusual bluish-gray. Confederate gray."

"And yours are Union blue. The same color as Yankee coats." A smile curved Frankie's lips. She unsuccessfully attempted to stifle a chuckle at his look of horror.

Then he laughed. "Their color may betray me, but I'm very much a Gray Coat who appreciates a beautiful woman." With his fingertips, Ben caressed her cheek. "You, little Frankie, have come at the best, or the worst, time in my life. If only..."

"Ben, I--"

He placed a finger on her lips. "I will make certain you find what you deserve."

His forefinger quivered against her. Frankie's eyes met his. For a moment, she felt a special connection with him. Could Henry be right?

The cow backed into him, shattering the moment and leaving Frankie to watch in amused silence as he shoved the bucket of milk into her hands and stalked out of the barn.

* * *

As he eased through the thick woods, Ben glanced over his shoulder. "How many squirrels did you shoot?"

Uncle Henry peeked in his burlap sack.

"You sly old dog. Stop acting as if you don't know the exact number."

"Eleven." Henry winked. "But one of em's small."

"Damned if you haven't bested me again. I do believe I'll never be the hunter you are." He chuckled as he looked down at the man who'd been more of a guiding influence in his life than his father. While his father's business interests had occupied him, the man now at his side had taught him how to hunt, fish, grow crops and read nature and in turn, he'd taught Uncle Henry how to read.

Unfortunately, they both understood that for all his learning, Uncle Henry would never be considered a man by many of their neighbors. Ben remembered his fat, balding neighbor, John Broady. An ox had more brainpower than the illiterate Broady. Worse, Broady was nothing but poor white trash. But that didn't change a thing. Because he was a white, Broady thought himself better than Uncle Henry.

"I see you're runnin' from Miz Frankie." Henry clapped a hand on Ben's shoulder.

"I'm not running. Don't have to. She is my cousin, nothing more." He struggled not to flinch under the old man's assessing gaze. Henry saw too much. He also knew from Ben's tone and expression when he'd spoken less than the truth. Yet the old man was giving him the long twice-over. Let him. He had spoken the truth. Frankie was his cousin. They would never be anything more. He wouldn't allow it.

"If you think so." Henry shrugged. "I see somethin' else, though."

Ben straightened until he was a head taller than Henry. "Don't try your mystic ways on me, old man. I know them all and they do not work." He forced himself to meet his mentor's steady gaze. "Frankie has no effect on me."

"If you say so. Guess I was wrong 'bout you watching her all the time. Except when you disappear because she's always around. Whatcha doin', boy? Hiding from the girl?"

"No," Ben answered in a low growl that would have sent his troops running from his vicinity, yet Henry laughed.

"I bet your innards get scrambled and knotted up just thinkin' about that girl."

Ben stopped in his tracks and faced his old mentor. "Listen, old man, I'm tired of you telling me what I want."

"Now, don't you go rile yourself all up. I know how you think, Masta Ben. I've raised you since you were no bigger than a chigger. Besides, the signs are all there if a body wants that see 'em. You want Frankie, even if you think you don't. She's the woman you've been waitin' for. So what you are gonna do about it?"

"Nothing. Not a damned thing. My bride and future have been chosen for me." He frowned. Yet was that the truth? He hung onto the agreement between his father and himself that no decision would be made until just prior to his returning to his unit. But he knew the family considered them betrothed. How could he have let this happen when the thought of touching more than her hand chilled his marrow?

The opposite happened whenever Frankie came to mind. The image of their kissing, touching and making love filled him with longing. Frankie's presence lit a bonfire within him. It kept him hot day and night. How he longed to fulfill his dreams.

But that would never happen. He was trapped as neatly and securely as a squirrel caught in his gun sight. "As I said, Papa's decreed I marry Beatrice."

"Nothin' except your headstone's carved in granite, Masta Ben. You kissed Miz Frankie yet?"

Ben took a deep breath and exhaled slowly through his teeth. He'd never talked to anyone, not even Noah, about his innermost feelings and longings. Unfortunately, avoidance of a subject didn't work with Uncle Henry. The man was as tenacious as his hunting dog, Rufus. Ben glared down at Uncle Henry and acknowledged his defeat with a growl. "No. And I never will."

"Why not? You've had lots opportunity. What's the matter? You scared?"

"No. Realistic. It's a weak man who cannot control his urges and desires."

He glanced from the trees' canopy to Henry's face. "I've seen and done too much. She's a young girl. Fresh and unspoiled." He shook his head. "It would be dishonorable to--"

"Dishonorable? More'n likely fear's keepin' you away."

"Not at all. Neither she nor I want the other."

Henry snorted. "You're afraid she's the one for you. The one you've been dreamin' about?"

Ben swung around and glared down at the grinning old man. "I dream of no woman. Never have and never will."

"If you say so. But you best kiss the gal. Kiss her like you'll die if you don't. After that, you'll know what you've gotta do."

CHAPTER SEVEN

Using the sleeve of her blouse, Frankie mopped her dripping forehead and grimaced. Lordy was she spoiled. Air conditioning won hands down over this open-air steam bath called late May in Virginia.

She readjusted her floppy-brimmed straw hat and scowled. The Craigs' answer to staying cool didn't help. Nothing short of being indoors with her feet resting on a block of ice would ameliorate the situation.

And I thought milking was difficult. Huh, I hadn't known the meaning of the word. South Carolina chain gangs have it better than I do.

Frankie gazed at the acres of newly transplanted seedlings as she rolled her neck and shoulders. After two weeks of transplanting young tobacco plants from the hotbed into open fields, her respect for stoop laborers stood at an all-time high.

A fuzzy tobacco stem brushed against her exposed forearm. She gasped. "Not again." She glanced down at the new chafed area. Another red welt rose to join an army of red blotches that marched four, and in some places five, abreast up her arm.

Frankie jerked a damp cloth from her pocket and rubbed the new sore. The moment sap touched her exposed skin hives appeared. Three days ago, she didn't think she'd survive. The welts had become infected festering sores, the size of a half dollar. When she'd shown Uncle Henry the beginning tracks of thin red lines, he'd lectured her about waiting to come to him.

She hated to admit it, but when he'd mentioned blood poisoning and gangrene, she'd collapsed in a deep faint.

That brought the entire family to her side, and all hell broke loose. Nothing like three people haranguing you at the same time. Thank the Lord Beatrice had kept her peace. Frankie didn't think she could have handled that serpent's sharp tongue. Her smug expression had been bad enough.

Thankfully, Uncle Henry produced his magic salve which shrank the lesions to the size of a small pinhead. She gave them another twenty-four hours and they'd be gone. That is if the blasted plants would stop reaching out and grabbing her.

Too bad he refused to return to her time with her. He'd make them both a fortune in the pharmaceutical market. Hell, why aim low? Make that the biotech market.

Frankie glanced at the next row of plants and returned Uncle Henry's smile.

Henry stepped between the plants and joined Frankie. "You're doin' a real good job, Miz Frankie, real good job." He scanned the sky. "We're in luck this year."

"Oh, why's that?"

"'Cause it's the rainy season, chile. And this year we be getting lots, too."

"Yeah, right. If I didn't know better I'd swear this was the Dust Bowl of the thirties," she muttered.

"What's that?"

"Nothing important." She quirked an eyebrow. "You know how to do a rain dance?"

He shook his head.

"Pity." In fourteen days, she hadn't seen it rain once. And she had the calluses to prove it. Aside from transplanting the eighteen-inch, sticky plants, she'd hauled water from the well and pond to irrigate the neatly plowed rows.

Frankie raised her head and, with a hand shielding her eyes, she studied the sky. "Uncle Henry, there isn't a cloud up there." Her thumb rubbed the growing calluses on her palm. "It looks clear, just like yesterday. And the day before. And the day be--"

"Patience, chile. Patience."

"Yeah, right," Frankie muttered once again. It was all her fault. She just knew it. Her time travel had disrupted the natural order of the universe.

She'd probably created a time paradox. No doubt by working in the fields, she'd caused a resurgence of smoking in the twenty-first century, and the Craig Foundation was now known as "Craig Smokes." With her luck, she'd probably become one of the industry leaders who defended tobacco and lied before the Senate subcommittee.

Sighing, she glanced at the Craig family. Uncle Henry said she needed patience. No kidding. Patience was nice, but what she really required was a lucky break. She wanted to go home. It was essential she leave here before she did something that really did cause a major time paradox.

But how?

Ben avoided her with the skill of a Reb trapped behind Yankee lines with a search party hot on his heels. Heck, he didn't even get close enough for her to knock him unconscious and haul his sorry ass into the armoire. Not that she'd found the chest yet. But then, she hadn't gotten an opportunity to go down into his rooms in the basement either.

"Frances?"

Frankie jerked back to the present.

"No time for woolgathering when there's work to be done." Mildred held out the bucket. "Please take over hauling water for a while."

Frankie examined Mildred's flushed face. The woman didn't look well. At forty-eight, the daily toil in the fields sapped Mildred's strength. "Gladly." Frankie spotted Mildred's wince as she removed the bucket from the woman's swollen hands.

"Here, take my arm," Frankie offered. "Why don't you sit awhile under a shade tree? It'll do you no good if you end up in bed for a week or more." Frankie helped her over to the nearest oak. "Mr....er, Uncle William will be furious if you become ill from overwork."

"You're right, of course." Mildred struggled to catch her breath as she eased down next to the tree. Forcing a smile, she looked up at Frankie. "I'll take kitchen duty for a few days."

"Only if you don't work outside." Frankie picked up the bucket and headed toward the pond. She and everyone else knew Mildred's offer wasn't altruistic. Much to the family's sorrow, they'd discovered just how inept Frankie was around a wood burning stove. Even Beatrice offered to take Frankie's place when it came to preparing the family's meals.

"What did they expect? It isn't like I can cook in my own time. And I have electricity," Frankie muttered, kneeling down beside the pond. Cupping her hands, she rinsed her tobacco- stained arms, then splashed her face. She grabbed the bucket, dipped it into the water, and filled it.

With a grimace, she pushed herself upright. The fingers of her right hand tightened around the pail handle, while her other hand massaged the small of her back.

As she started to turn, someone shoved her from behind. She belly-flopped into the shallow end of the pond and sank into its oozy depths.

Gasping and with abdomen burning, Frankie lifted her head from the water. Mud caked her body and clothing. The tight chignon came apart. Hair hung in matted strings across her face and down her back.

She rolled over onto her back, after dousing her head to remove as much of the filth as possible before slicking back her mass of long, stringy hair. As Frankie pushed herself upright, she heard the snicker. She lifted her gaze, then raised an eyebrow.

Beatrice glared down at her from the pond's muddy edge.

Frankie ground her teeth. She wanted vengeance, right now. The desire for instant gratification filled her. Why, with her years of tae kwon do training, Beatrice would be flat on her back before she knew what hit her.

Frankie started to push up, then settled back on the muddy bottom. She inhaled deeply. She refused to give into her knee-jerk. That would be playing into Beatrice's hand. Nope, she'd follow Aunt Ginnie's maxim: kill them with kindness.

A slow smile spread over Frankie's face. "Thanks for the cooling off Bea, I needed it. Thought I was going to die of heat prostration. I've also heard that a mudpack does wonders for a person's complexion. You want to try it?"

"You act the sweet innocent," Beatrice hissed. "But I know you for what you are. A bitch in heat! You--" she pointed at Frankie, "--stay away from what's mine. Otherwise, you'll be sorry you stepped a foot on Craig soil!"

Frankie spotted Ben standing three feet behind Beatrice, and with a smile, shrugged.

"That's enough, Beatrice," Ben said, his voice low and filled with warning.

Beatrice gasped, tossed her hair back, and with one last glare at Frankie, flounced off toward the house.

Frankie watched the woman storm across the field. Low chuckles quickly became sidesplitting laughter. As she gasped for air, she heard Ben's deep bass voice join hers.

"Let's get you out of this." He waded into the pond and thrust out his hand.

She grasped his hand and he jerked her to her feet. Water sluiced off her, leaving trails of mud on her clothing. Frankie looked up at Ben's grin, then down at the condition of her clothing and winced. Well, damn! So much for my becoming a femme fatale. She raised her drenched skirt and petticoats off the ground, gathered her tattered dignity around her like a heavy winter cloak and plowed toward shore.

Ben trudged after her. "Looks like Beatrice met her match," he said on another guffaw.

Frankie lifted her head. Oh well, if she couldn't win in the sexual attraction arena, she could take the title in hand-to-hand combat. "Next time, I won't be a lady. I'll 'float like a butterfly and sting like a bee'."

"I've never heard the expression before." Ben's brow furrowed.

She'd done it again. "I heard a fighter say it once." She raised her fists, took a traditional boxing stance, and danced about on the grass. "A boxer."

Ben mimicked her in shadowboxing. "I like that. 'Float like a butterfly and sting like a bee'."

"I know it isn't a common expression, but feel free to use it."

"I shall." With the back of his fingers, a suddenly grim-faced Ben brushed a wet strand of hair from her cheek. "It's what my regiment does best." He shook his head then smiled. "You're glorious in your temper. And you judge Beatrice correctly. She loathes kindness, particularly when it's dripping with honey."

For a minute, just as she had in the barn, Frankie thought Ben might kiss her. Instead, he reached in his back pocket, withdrew his bandanna and handed it to her.

Ben picked up the bucket of water. "I'll take care of this for you. Best get cleaned up before Mama sees you."

Frankie stared at Ben's disappearing back. The man kept her constantly off balance. In her time, his ghost had tormented her with sarcasm and demands. Then again, being a ghost and alone for so many years would take its toll on anyone. Especially someone like Ben, who in his time of 1864 displayed a gentleness despite the horrors and devastation of this war.

In truth, she wasn't just drawn by him, but overwhelmed by his presence. Given his reaction to her, she was hard-pressed to say which of them was more unnerved by their mutual attraction. She plopped down on grass, gritting her teeth at the sodden material. Damn Beatrice. A shudder rippled through her. Now she had to wash the dress. By hand. Where was a Maytag when a gal needed one?

* * *

Frankie leaned against the rear porch railing and looked out over acres of newly planted fields. Whether by luck or design, Frankie hadn't seen Beatrice since the pond incident five hours earlier.

She glanced down at her palms, trying to gauge the permanence of the coffee-colored tobacco stains. To be denied the pleasure of a warm Krispy Kreme doughnut or the joy of a hot paraffin hand treatment was cruel and inhuman punishment.

But what really ticked her off was Ben. Not that he didn't remember her. She'd expected that. It was that he'd sent her back into a time where she had no survival skills, and then his flesh-and-blood self thwarted her every attempt at fulfilling her mission.

Hell, she barely had survival skills for her time. Sure she was great at business. Put a money sign--any currency sign--in front of her, it didn't matter, and she was in her element. Put her in the kitchen or garden or the barn or fields and she was not only helpless but hopeless.

If all that weren't bad enough, she fallen for the pompous, arrogant colonel in her time and again now. Worse, she couldn't blame it on the uniform, since he wasn't wearing one. No, it was Ben and only Ben, no matter what his persona, that drew her.

She required some time alone to sort out her priorities. Uncle Max claimed every mistake she'd made in her personal life was because she'd rushed headlong into adventures. Frankie snorted. "This debacle isn't my fault." She sure as hell hadn't jumped into the armoire.

As for rushing headlong into an adventure, well, she planned to do just that. As soon as she snuck into Ben's room, bashed him over the head and dragged him with her into the time portal. "Let's see how good his coping skills are in my century," she murmured, thinking of his reactions to cars, planes, microwaves, take-out meals, indoor plumbing and electricity.

"Frances!"

Grimacing, she turned toward the kitchen. Damn. Beatrice could no longer be avoided. It was time for her to help with the evening meal and the one chore they allowed her--setting the table.

Squaring her shoulders, Frankie opened the back door. As she crossed the threshold and entered the kitchen, she grabbed the doorframe for support. The combined effect of the humidity, cooking odors and heat from the stove hit her with the force of a blast furnace.

She returned Mildred's forced smile. Try though she might to fit in, Frankie always managed to make a fool out of herself.

She released her hold on the doorjamb and moved over to the table. Within minutes, she'd finished setting the cutlery and plates at the appointed places. "The table's ready, Aunt Mildred. Is there anything else I can do?"

"No! I mean, thank you for the offer. But it won't be necessary."

Beatrice looked up from scrubbing carrots. "She could check the hoecakes. They should be about ready to come out of the skillet. I'm busy here, and you said you needed to use the privy."

Mildred gasped.

Frankie shrugged, then moved forward. "I've heard that deep fat frying isn't healthy. It clogs your arteries with plaque and cholesterol. It may be better to bake these things."

At the deafening silence, Frankie paused and glanced back in time to see Aunt Mildred tap her temple and mouth, "tetched."

Tetched?...Damn it. I've done it again. Why am I having such a difficult time? This never happens in the time travel books I've read. The women and men have no trouble. Yet here I am, a supposedly smart woman, unable to...Wait a doggone minute. I'm suffering from culture shock! Who knows when I'll fit in...With any luck, it'll never be necessary.

For the first time since arriving, she felt like she had a handle on the situation. Now that she had a frame of reference, she prayed her slip-ups would lessen, or better yet, cease.

Turning, Frankie resumed walking toward the cast-iron stove. In the last two weeks, she'd dropped five pounds she could ill afford to lose. Her blue dress now dragged on the floor. Ever conscious of the danger the long gown presented, she lifted the front of the skirt. Its hem brushed the top of her sneakers' toes.

The back of her dress snagged. Frankie came to an abrupt halt and pitched forward. She threw her hands out in front of her.

A sharp, searing pain shot through her. Her mouth dropped open in a silent scream of agony. The smell of her burning skin as it sizzled filled her senses. Once free, she collapsed to the floor, palms up in her lap and tears streaming down her cheeks.

The three Craig women surrounded her full of sympathy and worry. The flash of glee in Beatrice's eyes told Frankie Beatrice's foot had caught her hem.

"Get the butter, Constance," Mildred ordered.

"No!" Frankie screamed. She pulled free of the women. To hell with being branded "tetched." This was self-preservation. "Cool water. I'll soak my hands."

"Frances Payne, you stop that unseemly behavior at once. You know perfectly well butter is the best remedy for burns."

Frankie staggered to her feet. "Nooo," she whimpered. "Water. Water cools the fire." She pushed her way out of the kitchen. Knowing she couldn't manage the well and the rain barrel's water would be warm, she ran toward the pond with all three Craig women chasing after her.

Ben and Henry joined in the pursuit. The two men reached Frankie as she plunged both hands into the soothing water. "Frankie, what do you think you're doing?"

"What the doctors say to do," she sobbed. "Cool a burn with cold water."

Butter dish in her hands, Mildred glanced up at her son and shook her head. "Never, in all my days, have I heard such nonsense. Everyone knows butter or salted lard is best for burns."

Ben crouched down beside Frankie. "Frankie, let me see your hands." She didn't fight him when he withdrew them from the pond. He examined carefully her injuries. His brow furrowed as he continued to study her palms. "Frankie may be right, Mama. These burns look better than most. They aren't blistering much at all."

Ben lifted his gaze to Henry. "She's going to need some more of your special medicine, Uncle Henry. And get some ice from the cold cellar."

"Yes sir. Don't you move, chile," Henry said. "Like Masta Ben says, I have somethin' that will fix you right up." He hurried toward his small cabin a hundred feet beyond the back barn.

"How did the accident happen, Frankie?" Ben wrapped one arm around Frankie's waist, then using his free one plunged her hands back into the water.

Frankie hissed. "S-sorry to be s-such a baby. I-I don't have a high pain threshold."

"You are doing fine. Burns seem to give the worst pain of all injuries. Including shattered limbs and bullet wounds."

"S-sorry. S-s-so s-sorry." Fighting tremors, Frankie focused all her energy on self- control. She prayed her years of martial arts training proved up to the challenge. She wondered if Mr. Spock's Vulcan mind control techniques were similar to a yogi's ability to control his body. She sure hoped they were, because she needed all the help she could get.

Beatrice moved up beside them. "The poor thing tripped over her own dress."

Frankie stiffened at the woman's oozing solicitude.

"Quiet, Beatrice. Is that what happened, Frankie?" Ben asked on a gentle whisper next to her ear.

Damn, him. Why'd he have to be so tender, almost loving? Frankie blinked several times. She couldn't afford to cry. Not here, not now. She opened her eyes and met Ben's gaze. Another shiver ripped through her.

If she leaned forward, less than an inch, their lips would touch. But as with the tears, now was neither the time nor place. Exhaling harshly, Frankie shook her head then dropped her gaze back to the water.

"It felt like someone stepped on the back of my dress." From under lowered eyelids, she slanted Beatrice a glance. "I'm sure it was an accident."

Connie gasped.

Mildred's eyes widened. "Surely you don't think..."

Frankie swallowed hard at the grim expression Ben directed to Beatrice. Much as she was sure Beatrice had caused her accident, Frankie felt a twinge of sympathy for the woman. To be on the receiving end of such a black look was not something she would wish on anyone, not even the Devil's spawn.

Heck, even at her worst, she'd never managed that look of arrogance mixed with a promise of retribution. Of course, her assistants had never tried to kill her, either. Thought it maybe, but acted on it never.

Seconds later, Uncle Henry appeared at Ben's elbow. "I'll take care of the chile. Ain't no call for y'all staying."

"I'll carry Frankie up to the porch. It'll be more comfortable."

"No need in that, Masta Ben. Y'all leave Miz Frankie now. I'll take care of her. She best keep her hands in the water for while." He set a bucket filled with water and ice on the grass beside the pond.

Frankie plunged her hands into the pail of icy water and sighed. "How do you spell relief? I-C-E-W-A-T-E-R."

"That isn't how you spell relief, Frankie."

She glanced up at Ben. "It is today."

Mildred ushered her two daughters-in-law toward the house, then paused and shot Ben a hard look. "Uncle Henry means everyone, Benjamin!" she said, refusing to budge until Ben took her arm.

Once they'd disappeared from view, Frankie focused on Uncle Henry's feather-light touch. As he spread a soothing, clear gel over her injuries, he chanted in a low, reverent voice.

The words were foreign. The tune ritualistic. His phrases sounded like incantations. "What're you singing?" she whispered, afraid she'd break the calming spell he was weaving.

"They're healin' words, little one. My daddy taught 'em to me. He learned 'em from his daddy. My people have lots of cures and spells." Uncle Henry tilted his head to the side. "And my daddy taught 'em to me." His dark brown eyes met Frankie's. "Do you have anything better in your goddess world?"

"Burns are burns, the world over." She pulled her hands from the water and studied her palms. "These are relatively shallow. I should be okay without antibiotics."

"Auntie? Who's she kin to?"

Frankie shook her head. "No one from this time period." She stuck her hands back into the cooling water. "Umm, do you have any aloe plants?"

"What's that?"

"A special plant with succulent narrow green leaves. If there're any around here, we could split open a number of the leaves, lay them flat, gooey-side down, and wrap cloths around them to keep them in place."

Uncle Henry frowned. "I don't know that plant."

"It's from Africa. Aside from having a different name, I doubt it's here yet."

"I was born here in Virginia, but don't you fret none." He flashed her a grin. "I have my own special burn potion. Love potions, too."

"Love potions? Whatever would I need with one of those?"

Uncle Henry laughed. "You need them especially when you're seekin' the other part of you soul. Course, if you've already found your missing part, then there's no need."

Frankie averted her gaze and stared down at her blistered hands. "Anything's possible Uncle Henry. But what if...what if the missing half doesn't realize he's the one?"

"Ain't any need to worry about that. Women always know before the men. Y'all understand the spirit world better than the men." Smiling, Henry rose and helped Frankie to her feet. "Masta Ben, he has lots on his mind--the war and Miz Beatrice and his promise to his daddy. Give him time, little one. He'll be yours."

"That's nice, Uncle Henry. But I don't want him for longer than it takes to go home."

"Young'uns. Y'all are beyond stubborn and blind. But it don't make no never mind. You'll see I'm right." He lifted the ice water filled bucket. "Keep your hands in this here water."

She and Uncle Henry started slowly toward the house. Water sloshed over the sides of the pail. Not that Frankie cared. The cold icy water froze the continued burning.

Upon reaching the back stairs, Uncle Henry pushed Frankie down and set the bucket on the ground between her legs. "I need some clean cloths. Stay here." Turning, he marched up into the house.

Frankie frowned. Give Ben time. How much would he need? She knew with bone-deep sureness, time was in short supply.

Her eyes widened as the horror of her situation hit full force. If she didn't devise a plan to save Colonel Benjamin Craig by June twenty-first--thirty days from now--from marriage to Bea and death by the deserters, she'd be stuck back here.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Frankie glanced at her hands. Uncle Henry's potion had worked a miracle. In the week since her accident, her palms showed only minor scars, and those would fade with time. Time. Everything centered on time. And there wasn't enough of it.

She traced the faint spider web of scars and sighed. God, she felt isolated and alone. It wasn't as if the Craig family hadn't welcomed her. They had. Well, with the exception of Beatrice.

No, what haunted her was that for the first time in her life, Frankie was an outsider, hovering around the edges but not belonging. Her knowledge of the future, her lifestyle and her lack of ability to function in this world conspired to sabotage her every move. And it broke her heart that she couldn't shield them from what was to come.

Worse, during the week while she'd been laid-up, she'd examined her chances of saving Ben. They didn't look good. History, Frankie worried, wasn't amenable to alteration, thus not easily changed. Nor did Ben seem to want to be in her presence. Regardless of what the spirits deemed.

"Come along, Frankie. Hurry!"

Frankie jerked upright. "Right." Frankie trailed behind Connie toward the kitchen. "Papa Craig's home! I saw him and Uncle Henry's boys as his wagon crested the hill."

Mildred dropped her spoon. Brushing past Frankie, she charged through the house and out the front door.

Frankie shook her head. "Ah, it just keeps getting better and better. I'm now in the Civil War version of Pleasantville," Frankie muttered as she followed the two laughing and weeping women.

As Frankie stepped onto the front veranda, she saw Mildred fly off the last two stairs and fling herself at Mr. Craig, and leaning against the wagon's side, he returned his wife's exuberant embrace.

"Such passion. Such love." Her cynicism fading, Frankie smiled. For the first time she felt almost at home. They reminded her of Aunt Ginnie and Uncle Max. Slowly reality once again replaced the warm fuzzy feelings the scene engendered. Nostalgia, while well and good, wouldn't help her. If she didn't figure out how to ensnare Ben, she'd be stuck here but good. And that was unacceptable.

With grim determination she focused on the scene before her. For any plan to work, intelligence was critical. Especially knowledge of the key players, and with Mr. Craig's arrival home the major actor in this farce had just entered stage center.

"I've missed you so, darling," Mildred whispered.

Mr. Craig smiled. "And I you, my dear." Lifting his head, he winked at Frankie and Connie and resumed caressing his wife's back. "Stop your crying. I am home."

When Mildred's sobs subsided, Mr. Craig turned to the two women on the porch. "Ah, Constance, I see you are as beautiful as ever. When Noah returns, he will be pleased to see the color in your cheeks." He inclined his head toward Frankie. "We have a visitor, I see."

Frankie smiled and moved forward. Time to act the dutiful cousin. The only question plaguing her was her ability to carry off the deception under this man's eagle eyes.

Mildred spun to Mr. Craig's side. "Why, William?" she said with a chuckle. "Don't you recognize her? I admit it's been years since we last saw her, but still..."

William's silence and raised eyebrow gave his answer. At Mildred's answering grin, Frankie knew she wasn't put off by his autocratic manner. At the sight of an amused twinkle in his eye, Frankie surmised he'd guessed her identity.

"Darling, this is Frances Payne. Cousin Jacob's daughter."

Mr. Craig examined Frankie. "It is good to see you again, child. I pray your journey was uneventful."

Frankie came toward him, her right arm outstretched. "For the most part, yes. Give or take a few thieves and a sneaky, underhanded gho--" She flashed him a weak smile. "Thank you for asking, Mr...er...Uncle William."

Frowning, Mr. Craig glanced down at his wife. "For the most part?"

"It seems the poor dear was set upon by freemen on the road to Charlottesville. They left her with little else but what she wore. We've done our best to assist Frances, providing her with the necessities and the like."

"Good." Mr. Craig beamed down at Mildred. Lifting his head, his gaze met Frankie's. "There are many stories going around about these men attacking and killing women. You are indeed a lucky young lady, Frances Payne."

"Lucky doesn't begin to cover how I feel." Frankie stared at Mr. Craig and swallowed hard. He didn't look like someone who'd forgive a lie, no matter how well intentioned. "Thank you, Uncle William. I'm pleased to see you're safely home."

At his welcoming smile, the knots in her shoulder muscles that almost touched her chin loosened. "Aunt Mildred's missed you terribly while you've been gone."

"Not half as much as I have missed her." Mr. Craig drew his wife closer and looked down at Mildred. "We have been lucky, my dearest. I was right. With the governor's decree this past winter, tobacco has become a much prized commodity. Remember when I told you not to worry, all would be well?"

Frankie's brow creased as she sorted through her history. Ah, yes. During the winter of 1864, Virginia's governor requested a reduction in the planting of tobacco and an increase in the production of edible goods.

Mr. Craig's barrel chest thrust out and Frankie bit back a smile. He looked like a strutting peacock. "We have been chosen as one of the farms solely dedicated to harvesting tobacco for our soldiers." His voice dropped. "I have a precious negotiating item."

Releasing his wife, Mr. Craig returned to his buckboard and threw back the canvas cover. "Coffee. Flour. Sugar." He waved his hand at the large sacks. "Cinnamon for your baking, my love. We also have a hindquarter of beef and...oysters."

Oysters? Frankie couldn't believe Mr. Craig would haul something that could spoil so easily. Then she spotted a moist-looking barrel. Of course! For shipping, oysters were packed in mud just as they were in her time.

Grinning, Mr. Craig reached between sacks of flour and sugar and removed a wrapped parcel. "And this is for you, my dear."

Frankie marveled at Mr. Craig's transformation from proud businessman to smitten lover as he handed Mildred the package. The women standing on the porch watched Mildred slowly untie the string.

As Mildred folded back the nondescript brown paper and withdrew a burgundy crepe cloth, she gasped, "It's the finest material I've seen since my wedding dress." Raising a tear-filled gaze to her husband, she mouthed, "Thank you."

Mr. Craig whispered, "Anything for you, my dear." Suddenly, remembering they weren't alone, both straightened.

"Several neighbors' sons returned home while I was in Richmond." Mr. Craig gave his wife a hug and kissed her cheek. "They were wounded but are still alive. John Broady also told me that he is giving a party in celebration of their homecoming. It is to take place the next full moon."

Frankie started. "Broady?"

"Yes, they are neighbors of ours. All of the family is invited," he said, his gaze taking in the three women on the veranda.

Frankie shuddered. How could she have forgotten about the Broadys? They'd lived on the homestead next to Craig Knoll since before the Craig family had arrived from England.

She hoped this Broady was an improvement over her Broady, but doubted it. Through the long years she'd known them, she'd come to believe their family tree held very few branches.

From the corner of her eye, she spotted Ben limping in from the fields. When rested or not in a hurry, his odd gait was barely noticeable. Neither applied in this instance. Long, hard weeks of laboring in the fields had taken their toll.

Frankie's chest tightened as the two men gave one another an emotional hug without hesitation or embarrassment. The Craig family had an abundance of love that touched all those privileged to be near them. With one exception, Frankie thought, as Beatrice descended the steps playing her Lady of the Manor to the hilt.

* * *

Frankie placed the last dinner plate in the cupboard, then mopped her forehead with the back of her arm. Mildred had said they'd dined like kings and so they had, on oysters, roasted beef, mashed potatoes and greens. From their newly restocked supply of flour, they'd indulged in hot buttered biscuits and apple spice cake.

Sighing, Frankie glanced around the kitchen one last time. "It looks like we've finally cleaned everything," Frankie said as Connie reentered the kitchen.

"Thankfully." Connie set the emptied wash pan upside down in the sink and placed her folded towel beside it. She took in Frankie's flushed face and chuckled. "One would think you'd never seen this many dishes before."

"I haven't. At least," she quickly corrected, "not in a long time."

"True." Connie nodded in understanding. "What with the rations and shortages, it has been a long time since we've enjoyed such good fortune." She walked toward the hall, paused at the threshold and looked back at Frankie. "Come along, cousin, the family awaits us in the front parlor."

Frankie felt a strange hesitancy, almost a fear, to join the Craigs in their family reunion. She sensed irrevocable change lay close at hand. The moment she entered the room she relaxed. Uncle Henry and his family were seated on chairs and the floor, eating cinnamon-sugar cookies and drinking weak milky coffee with the family.

Ignoring the empty spot next to Beatrice, Frankie went to sit beside Mildred, who sat in her rocking chair with an unfinished blue and white quilt draped over her lap. As Frankie drew closer, she recognized it as the same Rails and Checkers quilt she'd found a few years earlier in the attic. Make that, she silently corrected, almost a hundred and forty years in the future.

"You do beautiful work, Aunt Mildred. Who's it for?"

"Benjamin and his bride." Mildred cast a smile in Beatrice's direction. "It's my gift to them."

Frankie gnawed on her lower lip. Damn! She'd forgotten all about the upcoming nuptials. Her timeline was shorter than she'd thought. "When will the wedding take place?"

"Before the end of June and his return to his regiment. Papa and Ben agreed it's for the best."

Frankie started. She felt as if Mildred had slapped her. The words weren't a surprise, but the cool warning in Mildred's voice had been. "Right. And they're so much in love, too."

Mildred's nimble fingers never missed a stitch as she continued to quilt. "Love, Frances?" Her tone was one of quiet and gentle sympathy. "Love's a choice you make when you're very young and not going off to war. Ben's waited too long to assure his free choice." Once again, she glanced at Frankie.

She thinks I'm after her precious boy. Okay, I am. But not that way. Love, blah. I need Ben's help, not his love. That'll happen the day he sprouts wings and whisks me back to my time.

Connie laid a reassuring hand on Frankie's shoulder as she said, "Perhaps not, Mama Craig. Ben could yet surprise us all." Connie ignored Mildred's gasp as she smiled at a glowering Beatrice and said softly, "I don't think my brother-in-law will ever marry for duty alone. He's waiting for a love like Noah's and mine or yours and Papa Craig's before he commits himself."

"He's waited too long, Constance. The war's taken his choices away and the family's name must be secure before Benjamin returns to his men."

* * *

Standing just outside the room, Ben grimaced. Everyone had heard his mother's declaration. Worse, the family, with the exception of Connie, had accepted it as fact. Squaring his shoulders, he marched, stiff-legged into the parlor.

Frankie drew his gaze. The stark pain reflected in her eyes surprised him. He swallowed. Did she feel the same stirrings he did?

Ben snubbed Beatrice as she patted the sofa beside her and strode across the room. His parents be damned. He and he alone would decide his future. And they'd soon learn that fact, Ben vowed to himself as he pulled a straight-back chair from the corner and plopped down beside his mother. He slanted his father a glance. He prayed he had the courage of his convictions. If he did, it would be the first time he'd defied his father's stated desires.

"Coffee, Ben?" Connie asked.

"Yes, please." Ben inclined his head to Frankie, hoping she'd meet his gaze. Instead her eyes remained focused on his chair. "Is something wrong with my seat?"

"What?" Frankie asked, raising her eyes from the gold gilt chair.

"The chair. You're looking at it as if you've never seen one before. It's nothing special, Frankie. One of our workers made it when the family first built the house."

"I-I haven't seen this style in a long time. It's a Hitchcock."

Ben leaned over to her. "Why the look of melancholy?"

"I doubt the chair will survive the war. I suspect harder times will come, especially during the winters. And with its reed seat and painted surface, it will make perfect kindling." She shook her head. "So much loss. So much destruction. And for nothing," she murmured under her breath.

Ben's fingers captured Frankie's as they traced the chair's gilt stenciled back. "No sad faces, Frankie. This is a happy time. With the exception of Noah, the family is together. We have plenty to eat, and good and loyal friends."

His gaze drifted over Uncle Henry and his family. To hell with them. He was a man. A man who might not live out the year. He refused to marry Beatrice because his father deemed her worthy of producing the Craig heir. With a smile, Ben lifted Frankie's fingers to his lips.

"I hear congratulations are in order. Soon a Craig widow will once again be a Craig bride." She tugged to free her hand.

Ben tightened his grip, refusing to release her fingers. Then she lifted her gaze to his. At the sight of her glistening gray eyes, Ben's heart slammed against his chest. "So everybody says. Everyone that is, except the groom," he said, fixing his mother with a hard glare. "So far, he's remained silent."

"There's plenty of time, Ben," Connie put in. "After all, you don't have to decide before the end of June. Papa Craig promised you that time."

"Time. It always comes back to time."

Ben cocked his head and studied Frankie. He knew only he had heard her quietly whispered words. Everyone else was focused on Beatrice's rising anger.

"Excuse me."

Ben watched in silence as Frankie stood and left the room.

She made her way out the back door. Earlier today, Frankie would have sworn she only wanted his help in returning home. Now, after having experienced the sour taste of jealousy at the thought of Ben making love to Beatrice, she was unsure of what her true motives were.

She moved slowly, with reverence through the family graveyard..

A hand softly touched her shoulder.

Elation filled her. He'd defied his family and followed her.

"Why did you run off?" Ben's breath caressed her ear.

What would it be like to be kissed by Ben? She wanted to know. In fact, the fantasy had occupied more of her time than she wanted to admit. Ready or not, Frankie hoped and prayed she had the necessary courage and boldness to carry off her role, whatever it was or about to become.

Taking a deep breath, she turned and faced him. "I left because I couldn't stand the thought of Beatrice having the right to touch you, and kiss you."

Ben's fingers continued to caress her. He knew he should step away. Honor demanded it. Yet, he couldn't. Uncle Henry had spoken the truth. Ben needed to learn the truth. Was Frankie the elusive woman he'd dreamed of through the years or was she nothing more than a refreshing break from Beatrice's coarseness?

Lifting his hand to her chin, Ben ran his fingers along her jaw.

She flinched.

"Do you so dislike me? Or is it my boldness that frightens you?"

"It's your age."

"My age? You believe that at twenty-nine I'm too old for you?"

"It isn't the twenty-nine that's bothering me. It's--"

Ben's lips covered hers, cutting her words off. His tongue traced her lips. When her mouth opened, he took advantage of the opportunity to taste her as he'd longed to. She was more intoxicating than he'd imagined. He'd expected to taste cinnamon and apple pie. Instead, her mouth tasted clean with a hint of fresh mint, its texture smooth and inviting.

His fingers speared through her hair, holding her head still for his continued conquest.

His body burned at her touch.

With a sudden jolt, he admitted he wanted to make love to Frankie. Here. Now. Damnation, but the surge of desire almost overwhelmed his common sense. It took all his willpower not to lay her on the moist ground and take her this very moment.

He breathed in her soft, clean scent, and it clouded his senses.

The sound of a door slamming carried like the sharp crack of a rifle. They weren't alone. Shock rippled through him as Ben acknowledged how close to taking her he'd come.

Loosening his grip, he stepped several paces from her. He stared down into Frankie's glazed, passion-filled eyes. She was the portrait of a woman unaware of her potent affect on men, him in particular.

"Ben?"

Frankie's voice was as smooth and sweet as warm honey. Ben moved forward. He raised an unsteady hand. His gaze strayed toward the mansion. "Damnation and hell fire!"

His mother stood on the back porch. With a sinking heart, he realized she'd witnessed the passionate interlude. "We'll talk later." Turning, he headed toward the mansion.

* * *

"Before you milk Bessie, Frances, we must talk. Sit!"

Frankie started at Mildred's clipped tone. "Of course, Aunt Mildred," she said. Frankie eased down onto one of the kitchen chairs, her gaze never leaving the older woman's grim face.

"I was outside last night."

Frankie bit her lower lip. "You were?"

"Don't sass. It doesn't become you."

Whoa boy. Here comes the lecture. You'd think at twenty-nine I'd gotten past the age where an adult chastised me for making out. Guess not. Then again, they think I'm only eighteen. Frankie frowned. That being the case, then Ben should be on the receiving end of this diatribe, not me.

Frankie knew that the precious Craig heir would be deemed innocent of everything. For her, the only safe action was non-action. "I see."

"I wonder, do you really?" Mildred glared at Frankie, disgust written on her face. "I was shocked and scandalized by your behavior both in the parlor and outside." When Frankie opened her mouth to speak, Mildred raised her hand, silencing her.

"Like the gentleman he is, Ben assumed all blame. No doubt he is partly responsible. After all, it is difficult for men to control their baser urges. That is why it is up to us, the women, to control their animalistic behavior."

Animalistic behavior? Heavens to Betsy, Ben's baser urges were very enjoyable. "Aunt Mil--"

"I am not blind, Frances. Neither are William and Beatrice. We have all observed the moonpie looks you've been giving Ben. This flirtation must cease! Stop trying to snare my son. If you don't, you'll be shipped home in disgrace."

Shipped home? Was that a promise? Somehow I doubt Mildred and I are talking about the same location. Frankie stared at Mildred. Her red face and thinned lips left no doubt she meant every word. Yet, the irony and absurdity of her predicament angered Frankie more.

"Fine. I'll save you the trouble and take the trap from the edge of the woods. And for propriety's sake, I'll make sure to keep my ankles covered at all times."

"Frances Elizabeth Payne! I will not tolerate your disrespect. You were raised better than this and I expect an immediate apology."

Damn it. Once again my mouth's run away with me. And worse, in a time when your elders are always honored and treated with respect. She was here to save Ben, but they didn't know that, and that was the rub. Their lack of knowledge was part of time's trap.

She would save Ben. That was her mission. Then, after she'd saved his worthless butt, she'd make sure he returned the favor by getting her home.

One look at Mildred's belligerent expression and all of Frankie's training in conflict management was forgotten. "I mean no disrespect, Aunt Mildred. But I didn't invite Ben to follow me. He did so of his own free will. He doesn't love Beatrice. If he did, last night wouldn't have happened. And no amount of flirtation on my part could snare him."

At Mildred's open-mouthed stare, a perverse satisfaction filled Frankie. She pushed back from the table and stood. "Ben isn't chattel. He's a grown man who will do whatever he wants."

"How dare you speak to me, your elder, your aunt, in such a manner!" Mildred bolted out of her chair. "You understand nothing. Beatrice and Ben will marry. William has spoken. His word is law."

Tell it to the jury. Frankie tilted her head to see Mildred's face. One look told her the thin ice she'd been skating on had fractured and she'd fallen into the frigid water beneath. She'd be lucky if she weren't on the way "back home" before nightfall.

"I'm sorry, Aunt Mildred. I was out of line. I apologize." She licked her lips. "I don't know what happened to me." Try chemistry, dummy. Not to mention a healthy case of lust in the old town last night.

Mildred lifted Frankie's chin. "I know you think you love him. I've seen it in your eyes. So has William. But sometimes love isn't enough." She paused and used her hankie to wipe away Frankie's silent tears. "Sometimes it doesn't make any difference."

As Frankie opened her mouth to speak, Mildred shook her head. "This door was closed long before you came, Frances. There will be no more discussion. Out of respect for your father, you may stay. But only if you promise to cease this open infatuation."

Infatuation? Mildred would expire, but not before she'd put Frankie on the next wagon to Roanoke if Frankie confessed what she really wanted to do, and that was throw Ben on the ground and have her wicked way with him.

There was only one thing to do. Frankie nodded. "Of course."

Silence filled the kitchen. Frankie knew from Mildred's grim expression she hadn't believed a word Frankie had uttered.

Mildred turned and strode from the kitchen. At the threshold she paused and snapped, "Don't forget your morning chore."

CHAPTER NINE

Ben rested his hands on Frankie's shoulders.

Startled, she slipped off the milking stool. "Ben--"

He lifted her up from the ground.

All pretense fled the moment his lips covered hers. Frankie wrapped her arms around his neck. Ben shoved her skirt up, allowing her legs to encircle his narrow waist. She returned his hungry kisses, stroke for stroke, demand for demand.

He lifted his mouth from hers. "You're mine, Frankie."

"Always."

Ben set her down. As he moved away, Frankie reached out for him. "Don't leave."

He crushed her to him. "I have to. It seems I have little self-control when alone with you. If I stay, I'll dishonor us both," he said, his breath feather-brushing her lips with each word.

Gasping for breath, Frankie grabbed the stall's post for support. "Talk about a fantasy seeming real. Jeez Louise, who'd've thought milking a cow could be so exciting." Once her breathing had calmed and hands had steadied, she focused on completing her chore.

Ten minutes later as the last squirt of Bessie's milk streamed into the bucket, Frankie groaned. Cramps! Rising, she rubbed her lower back. Thankfully she always carried some tampons with her.

Her eyes widened then closed as she groaned. She had all of two. That was it. Lord help her. Horror filled her. After seeing what Connie had endured last week, washing and boiling her homemade cotton pads, Frankie knew that within the next twelve hours she would experience the true meaning behind "being on the rag."

She had to get to her room and satchel ASAP. Otherwise, she'd be wearing a bull's- eye.

She stiffened at the movement behind her.

Please, Lord, let it be anyone but Beatrice.

Frankie turned slowly toward the door, then sagged in relief. "Uncle Henry!"

"How you doin'?"

Frankie ignored his gentle tone and shook her head.

"I've caused a bigger flap than Prince Charles's affair with Camilla."

Uncle Henry's brow furrowed. "Who are they?"

She waved him off. "Don't worry about them. They aren't important in this time zone. Just know that I've caused a major upset within the Craig family."

"What'd you do?"

"Nothing that I can correct. I need your help. Only going home will fix the problem."

"Time's not right."

"Easy for you to say. You aren't the one stuck back here without a box of Playtex Super Gentle Glides."

"What're you talking 'bout?"

Frankie scowled, then clutched her abdomen. "Blasted cramps." She glanced at Uncle Henry. "I've got to get inside and take care of something."

"I'll fix a potion for you, chile. One that takes away the pain of a woman's time. You come right back, ya' hear?"

Frankie nodded. "Ten minutes." Turning, she raced from the barn, leaving the milk behind.

In less than half the time promised, Frankie had returned. Wheezing, she bent over and retrieved the pail of milk. "I've only got a few minutes. Aunt Mildred is angry enough at me."

"Here's the potion. Drink it all."

Frankie grabbed the flask and downed the liquid. After Uncle Henry's miraculous burn cure she was willing to try anything. Especially since she had only a few aspirin in her bag, and given how things had been going it looked like she'd need every one of them.

"You've said you're from the future. What's it like, chile?"

Frankie shrugged.

He reached out and patted her hand. "You can trust me. I won't change nothin'."

Maybe she could and maybe she couldn't. In the end, it didn't matter. Henry didn't look like he was going to leave until she told him what he wanted to know. The key would be to hit only the high points.

A short time later, Frankie said, "So you see, Uncle Henry, I'm from over a hundred and forty years in the future." Straightening, she grinned. "Hey, your potion works. It's even better than Percoset, and it doesn't seem to have any side effects either."

"That's good?"

"That's great!"

Uncle Henry leaned back against some hay bales and stroked his chin. After a few minutes he said, "You said you came here to save Masta Ben and he's gonna die in three weeks?"

"Yeah, that's the gist of it. And given I can't leave without him, I'll do my best to keep him alive. At least until we're back in my time."

Henry nodded. "He's your soul's missing half."

Frankie's head sagged. "Give it a rest, Uncle Henry. The spirits may think returning to my time requires my soul mate, but I think it's just a...a 'wrinkle in time.'"

"You're talking claptrap. You kiss the boy yet?"

"Oh yeah."

"Good!"

"Good?" Her head shot up. "No, trust me on this, it wasn't good. Aunt Mildred saw us together last night. I'll be surprised if she doesn't ship me back to Hunter's Lodge today. Lord, what a mess. Can't you just see it? I arrive at Frances's home only to have the family stare at me wondering who in the hell I am."

"You're a goddess and shouldn't be cursing. Now, tell the truth. You said something you shouldn't oughta to Miz Mildred, right?"

"Unfortunately, yes. And I knew better, too. I'm twenty-nine years old." Frankie chuckled at the old man's look of surprise. "Yes, I know, it's hard to believe, but it's true. I'm very well educated. I have a masters in history from UVA and an MBA from Duke."

Henry chortled. "You're fierce like a lion and smart, too. I've taken care of Masta Ben since he was a babe. You're just what he needs. He just doesn't know it yet." Henry placed his hand on her shoulder. "See, I know whenever somethin' or someone's botherin' the boy. You cause the poor boy to fret something awful. He can't admit it yet, but only you fill that empty place in his heart."

Frankie didn't believe a word he said. But on the off chance it was the truth, it was critical she know how to use the information. Otherwise, she'd be stuck here. "There's so little time left! What do I have to do to succeed?"

He patted her hand. "Let nature follow her own path. She does anyway."

"And will you help me save Ben?"

"Of course." Henry flashed a grin. "You best hurry back to the main house. Otherwise, they'll come lookin' for you."

"I know it, but we have a problem, Uncle Henry. We can't do squat without a plan. I've tried to think of something. So far no luck." She grabbed Henry's hands. "If I can't get Ben to enter the portal before the deserters arrive and we don't stop them, they'll kill him. Please help me think of something."

"I will, chile, I will. But you best remember that the Fates know what's gonna happen. We have to wait 'til the signs are clearer."

"But--"

"Trust the spirits. They brought you here for a purpose."

* * *

There were three things in life Frankie didn't handle well: inactivity, waiting for a problem to unfold and standing aside and allowing the crisis to resolve itself. She was proactive, especially in a high stakes situation--returning home certainly qualified.

It was past time she developed a plan. She'd treat this as if it were a hostile takeover. That meant gathering all available information on everyone who could potentially impact the outcome of whatever operation she mounted. After all, information was power.

Not that she'd had a day off. It seemed nineteenth-century women shared much with their sisters of the late twentieth century--never-ending work. And Mildred had assigned her the task of doing the wash.

Frankie now understood why people aired out their clothing rather than washing it.

She glanced at her work-chapped hands and short nails. At least they were clipped and filed, Frankie thought, grateful her manicure kit was always in her satchel.

No one meeting her today would ever mistake her for the young, cosseted debutante she'd once been at the Belle Du Bois, the Country Club of Virginia's elite coming-out party. She looked tired, overworked and tanned--despite using sunblock, number thirty.

A distant rumble snapped her from her musings. More rain. They'd gone from drought conditions to where she wondered if they should start building an ark.

She scowled at the soapy bubbles on her just-washed and three times hand-rinsed clothing. One good thing about all the rain, her wash had gone through a rinse without her labor and was about to go through another one. Ah, well, at least no one would discover she couldn't wash clothes any better then she could cook.

"Frances. Constance and Beatrice are busy helping prepare the evening meal."

Frankie winced at the sharpness in Mildred's voice. No matter what she did, nothing seemed to undo the damage Frankie had caused yesterday, the morning after "the kiss."

"Since you're without work at the moment, please take the men this cooled mint tea." Mildred handed her a wooden tray with a pitcher and four glasses.

"Yes, ma'am." Frankie took the proffered tray and left the kitchen. Mildred's coolness hurt more than Frankie wanted to admit. She missed the easy bantering that had existed between them and wondered if they'd ever recapture the early camaraderie they'd shared.

She approached the men with hesitation. For the last twenty-four hours, she'd understood what it felt like to be shunned. Not that she'd ever let the family know of her loneliness and fear. Frankie straightened her back. "Aunt Mildred sent me out here with some refreshment." She set the tray on a small wooden table beside the well. "The pitcher's full."

William and his son smiled.

Ben reached for his tea and downed it in one swallow. "Thanks," he said before pouring himself some more tea.

Their gazes met, and for a brief moment, he dropped his mask. Longing and desire shone in his eyes.

Without thought, Frankie leaned forward.

Ben lifted his hand to touch her hair, only to drop it to his side in a balled fist.

Frankie inhaled sharply. Her gaze narrowed on William's silent glare of derision, and she stiffened her back. "Supper's almost ready. I'll leave you the tea."

She walked back toward the house, rubbing her arms. "Who'd have thought you could get frostbite in the middle of a Virginia June."

As she neared the mansion, Frankie heard the sound of an approaching wagon. "Someone's coming up the drive," she called out over her shoulder.

For a moment, fear immobilized her. Over the past couple of weeks, she'd heard horror stories about attacks on innocent women and children by deserters and freedmen.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid. Someone bent on rape and pillage wouldn't drive a buckboard to the front door."

Frankie rounded the corner of the house as the wagon came to a stop beside the front steps. Two men sat on the bench seat. A quick inspection proved reassuring. The older man, holding the team's reins, wore work clothes.

The younger man wore a cinnamon-brown colored uniform. She recognized it as homemade and dyed in all probability from butternut extract. A crude bandage covered most of his forehead and left eye. This injured warrior must be one of the men Mr. Craig had told them about.

Frankie rushed forward to help the man. She grasped his elbow, supporting him until he'd regained his balance. Looking up, she spotted all three Craig women in a huddle on the porch. Mildred and Connie's expressions were mirror images. Fear mixed with ever-present hope. In contrast, Beatrice's held only disgust and revulsion as the three women descended the stairs.

"I thank you kindly, Miss," the young soldier said, moving a step away from Frankie.

"James! James Cardwell." Mr. Craig gripped the young man's shoulders and hugged him. "How are you, son?"

"As well as can be expected, Mr. Craig."

At the tired, defeated tone, Frankie rapidly blinked back tears. Her gut told her the young man had suffered enough. He didn't need the embarrassment her emotion would cause him.

"I have something for you and Connie." James reached inside his coat and withdrew two envelopes. He handed one to Mr. Craig and the other to Connie.

"Are they from Noah, William?" Mildred asked, her voice breaking on her son's name.

"Yes, my dear, they are." Mr. Craig turned back to the young man. "What news of Noah do you have, James? The truth, please."

"I was in Noah's regiment at the Battle of the Wilderness. After losing my eye," James touched the bandage, "I was shipped home."

"And Noah," Connie whispered. "Is he--"

"He was fine when I last saw him, ma'am. I think they're headin' south, toward Richmond."

"Thank you, James." Connie grasped his hand. "We truly appreciate your coming out here and giving us these letters. Especially when you're still recovering."

James dipped his head. "Noah told me he was counting on me to deliver them safely to you. It was the least I could do. He saved my life more than once during these last three years." He glanced at William Craig. "You have a brave son, sir. Major Craig's done you and the South proud." James turned toward the wagon on his left and, misjudging the distance, bumped into one of the horses.

Frankie felt Ben move up beside her and James. One look at the young man's flushed face and she knew what Ben meant to do. She couldn't bare the thought of James's humiliation at seeing pity in their eyes as his weakness was displayed.

Frankie faked tripping, then caught her balance by slipping an arm around James's waist. "Oh, I'm sorry. I'm always standing in the wrong place, I'm so accident-prone." As she unobtrusively helped the young man regain his equilibrium, she leaned into him and whispered, "Don't worry. You'll be fine as soon as you adjust to the change in your depth perception."

"Thank you, sweet lady."

She returned his weak smile with a grin. "That's what friends are for." Frankie turned to leave and ran smack into Ben's hard, immovable chest.

His arm shot around her, supporting her. "Bless you for understanding," he murmured.

With trepidation, she raised her gaze to his face. One look at his hot yet pleased expression and she thought she'd puddle into a pool of melted ice cream. His fingers lingered on her back. Then after a parting caress, he moved away.

Mildred moved closer to the wagon. "William just got back from Richmond. We would appreciate your company over supper."

"Another time," Mr. Cardwell said in a gruff voice. "His mother near had a fit when James demanded I bring him here." The man grinned. "I best get him back now, or I'll be sleeping in the barn. See y'all at the Broady dance."

Frankie watched the Cardwells head back toward Three Square Road. When she turned back to the house, she saw the family seated on the porch. Mr. Craig sat in the large oak rocker, flanked by the family as he read Noah's letter aloud.

Frankie lagged behind, observing the Craig family. She knew their joy and laughter came as much from relief as the words Noah had written.

"Frankie, come. Join us," Connie called out.

She'd felt like a fraud before but never more so than now. She longed to confide in the family, not just Uncle Henry, about her origins. Instead, she was caught in a web of lies, forced to play the hand the spirits had dealt.

That included saving Ben's life. The more she thought about it and its potential impact on the future, the more worried she became.

Approaching the family, she sat on the suspended love seat next to Connie. "How's Noah, Connie?"

Connie lifted her tear-streaked face. "He's fine, Frankie. Just like I told you he'd be." She flashed Frankie a quicksilver smile and dried her wet face. After clearing her throat, Connie held the letter up in front of her and began reading:

My Darling Connie,

I am sitting outside my tent, writing to you by the fire's dimming light. The battle through the wilderness has been dismal and depressing.

The only encouraging word has come from our scouts, who assure us the Yankees have been hit far harder than we. I am sure that comes from their lack of direction as well as generalship. After all, it takes three Billy Yanks to find their way to the privy.

"It's good to see my brother hasn't lost his sense of humor," Ben said.

Frankie smiled, but it was bittersweet. Ben's gruff voice and weak chuckle hinted at strong emotions tightly leashed. Frankie sighed. More heartache would soon follow. Aunt Ginnie hadn't told her much, only that one of the sons had survived and returned home minus an arm.

Struggling to keep from weeping, she glanced at Ben from under lowered eyelids. Her gaze met his, then quickly looked down at her lap. She couldn't handle being in the same vicinity as him. Make that the same century.

Her laced fingers tightened until her knuckles turned white. The man rang her chimes in the worst way. It was all she could do to keep from jumping him, smothering him in kisses while running her hands all over his gorgeous body, and finally begging him to make love to her.

God help, she hadn't been able to get either his kisses or her X-rated daydream out of her mind for longer than ten minutes at a shot. Not even when she'd been doing the wash.

Frankie shook her head. I'm sick. That's all there is to it. Otherwise, rubbing Ben's shirt up and down on a washboard wouldn't have turned me inside out. Cripes--hot, bothered and aching doesn't begin to cover how I felt.

She glanced at Connie, then Ben. She couldn't prevent Noah's injury, but she could thwart Ben's death. She wouldn't fail in her mission to save his life. She knew the when, where and how. Now all she needed was plan of action.

"What else does the scamp say, Constance?" William Craig asked.

Smiling, Connie continued:

The colonel in charge of our regiment has told us harder times are ahead. As their commanding officer, it is my duty to rally the troops and make sure morale does not suffer more than necessary. I find it is an easy job. The men under my command willingly give of themselves. Sometimes, too much.

I cannot divulge our plans in this letter. It could possibly be intercepted and used to thwart our advance. I can only say that Grandma Winston would not be pleased with our intentions.

Her cheeks flushed with excitement, Connie paused. "Don't you see? He's given us a clue." Her gaze darted from one member of the family to the next. "Grandma Winston's homestead was in Hanover Court House. My Noah will be just outside Richmond."

Frankie chewed on the inside of her lip. Noah's letter had been written weeks earlier. By now, the Confederacy had met the Union troops at Cold Harbor, and the deserters were already making their way toward Craig Knoll. She'd lost the luxury of time.

Noah would return home and Ben would die. She had to save him, but how? If she succeeded, then what? Did Ben stay at Craig Knoll and change history or leave, disappear with the same finality of death?

Frankie closed her eyes. Her hands balled into fists. She had to regain control. If any of them asked her this moment what was the problem, she probably blurt out the truth. And something told her that it wouldn't be accepted in a calm and rational manner.

Breathing slowly, deeply, she focused on Connie's voice, gradually recovering her self- control.

...Life is a series of converse experiences. In the quiet of the night, my day comes back to me, haunting me. I wish I could lock those memories away. So many good and young men--on both sides--have died. Pain and tragedy are all around me. Yet, as I sit here tonight writing you this letter, my beloved, I see the stars playing in the night's sky. The crescent moon smiles, reminding me of the time--

Blushing, Connie stopped. "The rest is...too private," Connie murmured. Mr. Craig coughed, Ben chuckled, Beatrice grimaced and Mildred and Frankie smiled at Connie's softly spoken words.

"While Noah's letter to us was not as poetic," Mr. Craig winked at Connie, "it shared the same sentiment. Damn! I hate this whole sordid war. It has already taken one son."

Frankie's gaze was drawn to Mr. Craig. She'd never heard him speak with such pain in his voice. She watched him swallow convulsively while looking blankly up at the porch's lattice ceiling.

If only she could reach out and reassure him. But she couldn't. The family already believed her tetched. If she said anything, they'd be convinced she was ready for the funny farm.

"With God's speed, an end to this misery will come soon." Mr. Craig grasped Mildred's hand and brought it to his lips. "Have faith, my dear, our son will return unharmed."

Ben leaned his head back against his chair. He couldn't stop watching Frankie. Since she'd learned the trick to milking Bessie, he'd been forced to wait and see her at breakfast.

Frankie's presence made his day brighter. He tried to work beside her in the fields, touching her hand, giving her praise.

However, he didn't understand her.

She was such a strange little thing. He knew Frankie loved the family. He'd seen it in her eyes and actions. Still, for all her affection, she held herself apart. He wished he understood women, especially one as confusing as Frankie.

His father's worry of Noah had distressed her. Why? Now that he thought about it, she'd also displayed the same response when Connie had read Noah's letter.

If he hadn't been intently watching her, he'd have missed the fleeting look of sadness. The sorrow momentarily etched in her face had been as deep as that in his parents' faces when they'd received the news of Joseph's death. He wondered if, as Uncle Henry did, his unusual tiny cousin knew what the future held.

If only he could talk with her, discover her fears. He could assuage her anxiety. And his own, Ben silently added. Since Frankie's appearance, he'd felt a disquiet, a sense of impending doom, as if he had lost control over his own fate.

* * *

Ben hunched over the small table in his bedroom, writing in his journal.

I felt joy today with the receipt of Noah's letter. I also felt a deep bitterness. I, not Noah, should be fighting the Yankee invaders. Noah is everything Father has always wanted in a son. He's dutiful, has a beautiful wife and loves the challenge of running the family's businesses.

I, in contrast, am a twenty-nine-year-old failure. In my father's eyes my worst failing is my loathing of business and love of writing, a longing to write books one day, books that will be remembered through time.

My sole redeeming accomplishment has been my military success.

Injury or no, shame fills me for leaving my troops, and now due to Frankie, there is a longing not to return to them. This woman has breathed the desire to live back into me when I had believed it lost for all time.

Do family and duty trap me? Or might I find an escape that carries me into her arms for eternity?

Such romantic thoughts. Sadly, they will remain unborn. My fate is sealed.

For though I disapprove of this war, I will return to my men and fight with my last breath. Yet, I wish I had the wherewithal to speak out about the true cost of this useless endeavor we embarked on. That is my true failure as a man. Fearing the repercussions on my family, I have kept silent about the cost of this war.

I see nothing but suffering for generations ahead. We will lose this fight. We never stood a chance. We have neither the industry nor the allies to help us in our struggle for independence. It is only a matter of time.

Regrettably, the longer this war continues, the greater the cost to my homeland. The North will not forget nor forgive the lost lives of their sons and fathers nor the slight to the "nation's" honor we have inflected with our desertion.

They will make us pay, and we will pay dearly.

* * *

Frankie watched Connie place her pen in her oak lap writing table, seal her letter and lean back against her bed's two feather pillows.

"I've written Noah all about you, Frankie. How well you, my new sister, fit into the family and...that you're in love with Ben." Connie smiled at Frankie's expression. "Before you denounce me or call what I've just said twaddle, in the past week I've seen how your expression changes when you watch Ben. The two of you have the look of lovers."

Frankie tightened her lips. "I'm not Ben's lover!"

"Of course not! You'd never disgrace yourself in that manner nor would Ben take advantage of your affection in that manner."

Frankie wanted to weep. She tried to be so careful. Especially after she and Mildred had had words. Obviously, everyone knew how she felt. Uncle Max had always said her face mirrored her every emotion, except during business deals. Whenever she dealt with money she was a sphinx.

Jerking the covers back on her bed, Frankie slid under them and lay on her side, her back to Connie. "You don't know what you're talking about. You see love because you're an incurable romantic and want to see love."

After setting her writing table on the floor between the wall and the bed, Connie rolled onto her side and faced her friend. "Ah, Frankie, you're so funny."

Frankie cringed at Connie's giggle. But at her friend's continued dissection of Frankie's transparent love, she wanted to weep. Unable to stop herself, Frankie turned and faced Connie. "What do you mean?" She knew before she heard it she wouldn't like the answer.

She didn't.

"Your eyes follow his every move. When he's near, your color heightens. You're also unusually quiet when he's close, almost as if you're afraid of saying something wrong." Connie flashed Frankie an understanding smile. "You act just like I did in Noah's and my early days."

"Maybe in the beginning, but not now. Aunt Mildred's stated quite firmly that Beatrice and Ben are to marry."

"Oh, posh. Really, Frankie, you can be so silly. Papa Craig ordered Ben to marry before he returned to his troops. And Ben agreed to his dictate. But that doesn't mean Beatrice will be the one he marries."

Connie grinned when her new sister sat bolt upright. "Ben's a grown man, not a boy to be ordered about. His character's strong." She paused, her mouth tightened. "There's something you should know, Frankie." She hesitated, her fingers fiddling with the bed linens. "I-I heard Mama and Papa Craig talking. Mama Craig's writing a letter to cousin Jacob. She's worried about you and thinks it might be best if you returned home."

"Oh, my God, no!" Frankie could hardly breath. A cold clammy sweat covered her body. "No, no, no," she moaned.

Connie jumped out of bed and rushed to Frankie's side. Gathering Frankie's hands in hers, she rubbed them between her own. "Oh, my dear, I didn't mean to upset you."

Frankie struggled out of Connie's grasp. "Upset doesn't begin to touch how I feel."

If Mildred had already sent her letter, God help them all. Calm. She needed to remain calm and rational and get some answers. Once she knew the score, she could develop a plan of action. "W-why would Aunt Mildred write Papa?" Frankie saw the blush of embarrassment creep up Connie's face.

"She wonders if your health is good. She..."

"She what?" Frankie asked, her low tone soft yet firm.

"She wants to know if you've recovered from your bout of brain fever."

"Brain fever?"

"It has been known to leave people a bit tetched." Connie tapped her head. "And to Mama Craig you don't always make sense, Frankie. Like today when she overheard you tell me that Beatrice suffers from a case of terminal PMS. Even I, a friend and ally, must admit your explanation was strange."

Damn, and she'd thought she'd been doing so well. Nothing like slang, idioms and acronyms to trip her up. It was a miracle they even understood each other. Just went to prove Oscar Wilde was correct. "The Americans will be the death of the English language and the British will be in on the kill." She couldn't comment on the Brits, but if she was any indication, the Americans were doing a bang up job.

Frankie forced a weak smile. "Do you think I'm crazy, too?"

"No, of course not." Connie patted her hand. "I find you delightfully eccentric."

Frankie sighed. Eccentric was just a kind way of saying crazy. Unfortunately, she had no one to blame but herself. "When did she write the letter?"

"Tonight. Papa Craig's taking it when he goes to Goochland Court House tomorrow."

"If my Papa gets a letter like that, I'll be out of here faster than a speeding train. I have to get that letter." Frankie squeezed Connie's hand. "Do you think Uncle William will take me with him?"

"Of course. Especially if we tell him I've asked you to pick up a few women's things for me."

"Right, women's things," Frankie muttered, staring at the drying cotton pads draped over a rack.

Connie returned to her writing table. After scribbling a short list, she plucked up her letter and handed the two items to Frankie. "You can also mail my letter to Noah."

At Connie's knowing wink, Frankie released a rush of pent-up air. Good ole Connie. She was a true friend. Willing to help without asking a lot of questions Frankie couldn't answer.

"You might put your time with Papa Craig to good use. He didn't know you when he chose Beatrice for Ben." Connie snuffed out the candle, plunging the room into darkness.

CHAPTER TEN

Frankie's solace proved to be Mark Twain's A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court. Much as she hated to admit it, she was Twain's bumbling klutz. Although, if his yahoo could survive, she, a Southern futurist stuck in General Lee's War, could and would overcome the temporary obstacle of Mildred's letter.

Her shoulders sagged. She didn't stand a chance unless she conquered the fear gnawing at her insides.

As she entered the kitchen, she straightened her shoulders and advanced into the battle zone. She refused to allow a warm room and the scent of food to weaken her resolve. Slipping her hand into her the pocket of her skirt, she fingered Connie's letter to Noah and her list of purchases.

Frankie spotted Mr. Craig seated before a bowl of corn mush and a plate of pork. For a second, her step faltered. Get a grip!

She glanced at Mildred cooking breakfast for the rest of the family, then continued her unhurried progress toward the stove. "Good morning." She paused to inhale the scent of freshly made coffee. "May I have a cup coffee before milking Bessie, Aunt Mildred?"

"Yes," Mildred said as she flipped the hoecakes.

Frankie helped herself to some of the watered-down brew. Turning, she ambled over to the table and eased into the seat next to Mr. Craig. She watched him over the rim of her mug. "Connie said you were going to Goochland this morning, Uncle William." She set her coffee on the table. "May I come along?"

Frankie forced herself to stay still during his inspection of her. She felt like a specimen under a high-powered electron microscope. From the look on his face, he wasn't pleased with what he'd found. It figures. Chauvinist and Civil War start with the same letter.

"Why would you want to go to Goochland Court House, Frances? There is nothing to see or do."

Frankie met and held his penetrating gaze. "Connie's asked me to mail her letter to Noah and pick up a few things."

"I can pick them up for her. No need for you to come along."

Frankie exhaled. Why had she ever thought this would be easy? She gnawed on her lower lip. What excuse could she give?

Then she remembered Connie's list. Among the items were things that most men wouldn't want to buy, such as women's undergarments. "As you wish, Uncle William." She reached into her pocket, withdrew the list and Connie's letter, and slid them over to him.

Mr. Craig gave the list a quick once over, cleared his throat and handed it back to Frankie. "You can come. It will give us time to talk."

Frankie leaned toward Mr. Craig and smiled. "I'd also like to see your bateaux. If it's not too late when we return home, could we stop and see your boats? I hear tell they're the source of your success."

"Of course. Although that will mean we will arrive home quite late. Well after dark." At her shiver, William asked, "Is something the matter?"

Frankie answered honestly. "I'm worried about soldiers and deserters from both sides. They're everywhere. They wait just off the major roads for unsuspecting passersby. And driving in an open carriage after dark makes us an easy target."

"I know you experienced a difficult trip here, Frances, but you needn't worry. There are no soldiers in the immediate area. Nor deserters. They prefer to prey on travelers along the more wealthy routes. Those surrounding Richmond and Charlottesville, as you learned on your trip here. You are quite safe...here."

"No one's safe. As long as the war goes on, we all remain in jeopardy," Frankie said in a soft undertone. "The War of Aggression has pitted brother against brother. It's embittered the old as well as the young. An entire generation of young men has been lost. And more's to come." Frankie raised her gaze from her cup of coffee to Mr. Craig's.

She appreciated the look of respect he shot her. But it was too little too late. She'd seen his initial reaction to her words. Shock and disbelief. She didn't know why, but it hurt to have him or anyone in the family think she was stupid or tetched.

* * *

Frankie settled back against the buggy seat. Judging from Mr. Craig's demeanor, it promised to be a long day. He didn't trust her motives in wanting to go with him. Smart man.

She scanned the area, checking and rechecking for movement or a flash of blue or gray among the green foliage.

"Frances, settle down. There is nothing to be worried about. It is safe, I tell you."

Wincing at Mr. Craig's exasperated tone, Frankie forced her attention to the road and the similarities to its modern-day counterpart. Except for asphalt and some smoothing of the curves, little had changed in over a hundred and forty years. Proof Virginia's Department of Transportation used a two-hundred-year-plan when making road improvements.

Turning, Frankie faced Mr. Craig. "I'm glad we have this time together, Uncle William. I'm hoping--"

"If you have come on this trip to try to change my mind about Beatrice's suitability as a wife for Ben, you have wasted your time. My son will marry her come the end of the month."

She felt his gaze on her and swallowed.

"You talk boldly, yet amazingly give the appearance of innocence."

Frankie felt the color drain from her face. The man didn't like her. "I've done nothing to shame myself or my family."

"I have seen how you look at my son. I have watched you corrupt Constance, and now you have her assistance. I will not have it. I am head of the Craig household and my orders will be followed."

Frankie stared at Mr. Craig in disbelief. So much for having a reasonable conversation. "So Aunt Mildred informed me. Out of curiosity, why is Beatrice the perfect mate for Ben?" She knew she had gone too far when Mr. Craig snorted, then smirked. The man's ego wouldn't allow him to miss an opportunity to put her firmly in her place.

"I mean no offense, but you are neither strong nor bright enough to make a good wife for Ben. He needs a woman with a head for business."

"And who's to say I'm lacking in that area?"

"I am!"

"But--"

William held his hand up. "You asked for my reason. You will do me the courtesy of remaining silent until I am finished." At Frankie's nod, he continued. "It pains me to admit it but Ben is hopeless at finance. Even the farm barely holds his interest. The boy's a dreamer. All he's ever wanted was to write. Given half a chance, he would be with Henry, talking about African mysticism and spiritualism and writing all the old man's tales down in a diary."

"Given the right entrée into the publication world, he could probably gather a following. Just look at Mark Twain."

Disgust curled his lips. "Write! The man's no Homer." He shook his head. "We have no time for such nonsense. Aside from the hardship inflicted by the war, there are the Craig business holdings to expand."

"I see." And Frankie did. The only things that mattered to William Craig were his fortune, his family and having his orders followed. Well, she wasn't family, at least not in the accepted sense. Mr. Craig had his agenda and she had hers. May the best person win.

"I can see by your face you're disappointed. Remember this well, Frances, when I give an order I mean it to be carried out. In time you will see I'm right. Ben needs a strong woman like Beatrice, not a young and helpless little thing like you."

Helpless my ass. Gathering her wits about her, Frankie clothed herself in Craig and Matthews pride. This Neanderthal knew nothing of her nor did he see beneath Beatrice's facade.

"How dare you call me useless! I ha...could make a fortune on the exchange in one day."

"Since when has a woman been allowed to trade securities? Not to mention we can no longer trade in New York." He shot her a mocking look. "This from a young lady who just learned to milk a cow."

Now what do I say? Nothing. I'm trying to act the part. How did the women stand it? Frankie glanced up at him. His eyebrow cocked as he smiled over at her. He was playing with her. She wanted to scream, yell, howl at the moon. She also wanted to give the pompous ass a right hook to the jaw.

"And for the sake of accuracy, I did not say you were useless. Just helpless."

Same thing. The gleam in his eyes told her he'd heard and understood her silent retort. Yet, against her will, she admitted that his actions were those of a loving and worried parent. His desires centered around what he deemed best for the long-term family interests. Even if they belonged in the dark ages.

She hated his smug look. And as much as she wanted to knock some sense into him, tell him the truth, she knew she couldn't. No, this round went to Mr. William Craig, loving father and husband, farmer, businessman and despot.

"I know how relieved everyone was to hear from Noah. Aunt Mildred's worried herself sick over his safety."

William Craig looked down at the reins in his hands. "I do not think Mildred will ever get over Joseph's death. She was so certain God would protect all her sons from harm. For a while there--"

He stopped mid-sentence. Frankie saw him give himself a small shake and knew that this man had mourned his son's death just as deeply as his wife. As she reached out to touch Mr. Craig's hand, Frankie spotted a packet of letters in his jacket's side pocket.

She had to recover and destroy that letter to Jacob Payne. Self-preservation and saving Ben's life demanded it. Otherwise, the Craigs would be grieving over another son's meaningless passing. She'd do anything to prevent that from happening.

Which meant it was critical she allay his suspicions. "Joseph's been dead almost fifteen months, correct?"

"Yes. It will be fifteen months at the end of June, which ends the mourning period. It will be pleasing to see Mildred and Beatrice dressed in color again." He flicked the reins and glanced at Frankie.

"That's the reason I bought Mildred the material. I'd hoped with the Broady party in the offing she'd make herself a new dress. A colorful dress. One that took away some of the sadness."

"And instead, she gave the material to Connie," Frankie said. Seeing furrows develop once again between Mr. Craig's eyes, she changed the subject. "How soon do you think it'll be before Noah gets another furlough? I'd so like to see him during my visit."

"With the war's escalation, it is unlikely to be any time soon." Mr. Craig flicked the whip over the horses' heads. "The reports I heard in Richmond point to heavy battles between the capital and Culpepper. It is believed once they reach Richmond the Yankees will surrender. They will never be able to penetrate the Confederacy's headquarters."

Frankie sighed. Not only would they penetrate it, they'd damn near burn it to the ground. Seeing Mr. Craig's lips thin to a fine line, she returned to watching the passing scenery in silence.

Two hours later they entered Goochland Court House. In her time it was a small, lazy Virginia town, whereas in the 1860s it teamed with activity. Horses, carriages and people filled the streets and walkways.

Mr. Craig stopped by the blacksmith's and climbed down before reaching up to help Frankie from the carriage.

"Mr. Craig, nice to see you. Whatcha you hear from your boy?"

William smiled and shook the proffered hand. "He is doing well and sends his regards to all the folks around here, Bobby Joe. Now," he walked over to the right lead horse, "I believe this gray needs a new shoe."

"I'll take care of it right away."

"Much obliged." William turned back to Frankie. "After I mail these," he pulled four envelopes and a folded sheet of paper from his pocket, "and place my order at the general store, I will spend the rest of the morning in the courthouse catching up on the latest reports from the war."

"There's no need for you to go out of your way, Uncle William. The store and courthouse are at opposite ends of town. I'll be happy to place your order and post those for you. After all, Connie asked me to mail this to Noah." She removed Connie's list and letter. "And I have to go to the store anyway."

Frankie ignored Mr. Craig's scrutiny. Only one thing mattered, interception of Mildred's letter.

"Thank you, Frances. It will save me a trip to the other side of town. I will meet you here at noon. We can eat our picnic lunch by the river." Pulling a second list from the inside pocket of his coat, he scanned it. "You would do me a great favor if you would also buy the things on Mildred's list."

"Of course, Uncle William. I'm happy to help in any way I can." Frankie took the paper from him. She waited until Mr. Craig turned into the courthouse before separating out Mildred's letter to Jacob Payne. She longed to read the letter, but didn't dare. The chance of discovery was too great.

Her gaze never leaving Mr. Craig's departing back, Frankie strolled past the livery. With a flick of her wrist, she tossed the dangerous document in the blacksmith's glowing fire. In less than a second the paper blackened, then crumbled into gray ashes.

A shiver of relief rippled through her. She'd succeeded. She was safe. At least for the present. Afraid to linger and draw attention to herself, she hurried toward the first store on Mildred's list.

Gradually, Frankie's pace slowed. "My God," she murmured. Her knowledge of history, seeing the damage Joseph's death and Ben's wounds had caused, hadn't prepared her for the realities of war. What had seemed prosperous upon entry to the town didn't survive scrutiny. The stench of hopelessness surrounded her, permeating her senses. Somber people dressed in threadbare clothing made their way along the thoroughfare.

A young girl calling out, "Flowers for sale," caught and held Frankie's attention. She guessed the girl to be ten, certainly no more than eleven years old. Bundles of wildflowers secured with sprigs of straw formed the child's bouquet of blooms.

Frankie blinked back tears of sorrow and rage. In her tattered dress, the child gave eloquent testimony to the politicians' lies of a quick victory and symbolized the South's condition. No one, especially its children, was immune to the effects of this war. The entire Southern society fell victim to its savagery. For many, food, shelter, even family no longer existed.

History. So much history. When writing her Masters's thesis she'd disappointed Uncle Max with her support of the Union's position.

Frankie shook her head. No matter her personal beliefs that the future and the nation were better served as a united country, here, now, in this place, she understood why the war's wounds wouldn't heal easily or without leaving behind deep and ugly scars. Scars that could still be seen in her time.

* * *

As the wagon slowed, Frankie jolted back to reality. The past hour had passed quietly, allowing her to lose herself in Virginia's countryside, absorbing its beauty. She loved the late spring months. Even more so during this time period without overhead telephone and high- tension wires or asphalt highways with their attendant noise and pollution.

"Thank you for the picnic, Uncle William. It was lovely."

"My pleasure, Frances."

Frankie detested Mr. Craig's formal tone. Not once during the drive to town nor at lunch did he relax and laugh with her.

A little over a mile from town, Mr. Craig turned the carriage team toward the south and a large wooden bridge crossing the James River. Frankie recognized it immediately and smiled. Some things never changed. Only the vehicles were different. "Nothing like a good case of gridlock."

"Gridlock?"

Grinning, Frankie nodded. "Too much traffic for an area. Especially one that's engineered to handle half the load demand placed on it."

"Frances?"

At his questioning tone, she stiffened. Damn, she'd done it again. If he hadn't thought her nuts before, he sure did now. "Sorry, Uncle William." She forced a laugh.

A few minutes later, they were allowed to cross the bridge. Along the river's northern bank stood a small building. Next to it floated a large dock, every inch of its space taken by anchored boats.

Mr. Craig pointed to the four largest boats. "I have the best bateaux on the James. Unlike some of my competitors', they are sturdy and I have never had a wreck or sunken vessel."

"Your competitors will soon be the railroad. What'll you do then?"

He cocked his head and studied her, as if seeing her for the first time. "The railroad? What makes you--"

"You said you've never lost a vessel. Why is that?"

"I am a good judge of character. I hire only the best. No shilly-shallying around with thieves, slackers or traitors."

The hair on Frankie's neck stood at attention. There was no misunderstanding Mr. Craig's comments. He'd consider any moves made by her on Ben as the actions of a traitor.

"Come along, girl. The day is passing." Mr. Craig raised his arms raised to help Frankie down from the buggy. "On every trip to town I stop and examine my boats. See that high sheen?" He guided her onto the dock. "It comes from shellacking. I will go without food before I neglect my bateaux. Without them, I'm out of business."

Frankie withstood his navy blue gaze drilling her. "My word is my bond. As is my reputation. It is important I maintain them. In these hard times they are all a man has he can call his own."

"My family feels the same." Frankie looked at the flowing James River. "Do people pay you with crops or money?" She slanted Mr. Craig a glance from under lowered eyelids.

"Both. Why?"

Frankie shrugged. "Curious. As you said, times are hard. When they pay, is it in gold or Confederate dollars?"

"Confederate money, of course! I am a loyal Virginian. And in a couple of months, when the war ends, those dollars will be worth double their current value."

Frankie faced Mr. Craig, her gaze steady. Time to tackle the stalwart gentleman. "Gold stands the test of time. In times of trouble and inflation, currency can become worthless while gold gains in value." She shrugged. "Do what you will. But if I were you, I'd convert my Confederate dollars into gold and hide it. Bury it. You'll need it after the war to pay the taxes."

Turning from an openmouthed Mr. Craig, she started for the carriage.

His hand lashed out and grasped Frankie's upper arm, halting her. "Are you implying, young lady, that the South will lose this war? Is Beatrice correct? Do your sympathies lie with the North?"

Frankie turned slowly, silently. Only after he released her did she speak. "My sympathies lie with the innocent civilians." She raised her head and stared at Mr. Craig. "Mark my words, Uncle William, there will be no winners in this war. The fighting has torn apart families and ruptured society as we know it. Out of its aftermath, the flames of deep hatreds will be born."

"And the gold, Frances. Why the mention of gold?"

"Because of the Golden Rule. He who has the gold rules. While the outcome of the war will in the end benefit the South, gold is always the currency of choice during times of upheaval. Its value will only increase. But hide it. Hide it well, Uncle William."

Spinning away from Mr. Craig, Frankie rushed back to the carriage. In her desperation to show Mr. Craig she understood business, she'd gone against her better judgment and given him more advice. Advice that, should he follow it, would alter the Craig family's future. She could only pray her interference didn't negatively impact her era.

She glanced over her shoulder in time to spot the quickly hidden relief she knew Mr. Craig felt over Mildred having written Jacob Payne. Frankie watched him give a small shake of his head and mutter, "She is tetched. That is all, tetched," as he walked toward the carriage.

After thirty minutes of silence, Frankie decided to throw caution to the wind again. "Uncle William, may I ask a personal question?"

"Of course, Frances."

He sighed, and she knew the last thing he wanted was to talk to her--the crazy woman.

"You may ask anything you wish." He raised an eyebrow. "Though, I may choose not to answer."

"Why hasn't Ben married yet?" Before Mr. Craig could answer, Frankie continued in a musing tone. "I can't help wondering if he's been waiting for the right woman. The one woman who will give him what you and Aunt Mildred have--a marriage of love, not business."

Two deep creases formed between Mr. Craig's eyes. Facing front, he flicked his whip out over the team. "Has Ben said anything to you, Frances? Has he approached you with a proposal?"

"No. Of course not."

Mr. Craig's exhalation reminded her of an old-fashioned locomotive building up a head of steam. Tired and unwilling to deal with more of his blind, insensitive stupidity where she and Beatrice were concerned, Frankie jumped in. "Ben's incapable of doing anything that would dishonor himself or the Craig name."

Mr. Craig's curt nod told her Mildred hadn't informed him about Ben's and her kiss. Frankie still couldn't believe the passion that had exploded between the two of them. Truth was, Ben made her so hot she'd turn a cold shower to vapor.

Not that changed anything. She still wanted to go home to indoor plumbing, electricity and the Wall Street Journal.

"Frances, if he has approached you, I will see that he realizes his misguided actions-- "

"No, don't," Frankie said, cutting in. "This talk has been between the two of us. And I'd like it to remain that way." She watched Mr. Craig's eyes study her. For a second, she thought she saw a gleam of respect.

"As you wish. But understand this, Ben has agreed to marry before returning to his troops. And it is to be Beatrice." Mr. Craig glared over at Frankie. "Beatrice will make Ben a fine wife. She will give him what he needs."

"What's that?" Frankie winced. She'd stepped out of line. But she also didn't have a clue what the woman could give anyone other than heartburn, regret and desire to stand in front of a firing squad--minus the blindfold.

Mr. Craig snorted. "You have no reason, Frances, to question Beatrice's heart. She proved herself a dutiful wife to Joseph, and will likewise be one to Ben."

Yeah, right, and I'm sitting at home in front of my computer.

Beatrice wanted only one thing--power. Frankie had seen too many takeovers not to recognize a shark when she saw one. And Beatrice was a great white. Even Ben saw through her. Well, maybe not. He was a male, after all. And they tended to be blind where women were concerned.

Oh, well, at least he'd shown the good taste not to be turned on by her. That had to say something for his character, didn't it?

Oh, who was she kidding? In the game of love, especially physical love, she was a minnow.

Still, she knew enough to understand that while passion wasn't everything, it was the glue that created lasting relationships. The mortar that held two people together when life was hard. Even when just an ember, passion could prove uncontrollable.

And with Ben, Frankie felt like Mount St. Helens just before eruption.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Massaging her temple, Frankie slipped past Connie's bed, down the stairs and out of the house. She hated it when a migraine hit, and this one would be a doozy. She needed fresh air and time alone. Nine at night, with everyone asleep, seemed a safe bet. At least she hoped so.

Since their return from Goochland Court House this afternoon, Mr. Craig hadn't spoken more than two words to her. Then in a show of solidarity, Mildred and Beatrice joined in on the silent treatment. During most of her waking hours, she felt like a soldier on the eve before a battle--exhausted, frightened and numb.

Not good signs. She needed all her wits about her if she expected to save Ben and herself.

As much as she hated making mistakes, every time she opened her mouth she blew it. It was darned hard to fit in when her English was fluid, filled with slang, and worse, it seemed she was the queen of the contractions during a formal speech era.

Frankie could no longer deny it, she'd screwed up everything. And in record time, even for her. The way she was going, she'd alter history to the point where when she returned the twenty-first century would look like Planet of the Apes--devastated, unrecognizable-- and she'd fit right in.

"Well, at least there's one cheerful thought. I can't muck up my era worse than I am this one."

She forced herself to face the facts. It wasn't just communication that was her problem. Her difficulties also included the fact that she disliked being relegated to a subservient role, unable to freely voice her opinion, and she wanted to go home, back to her time, to where everything was familiar and she understood all the social and cultural rules and more importantly where she controlled over a hundred million dollars in investments and more than two hundred male subordinates.

Unfortunately, it didn't look like she would be going anywhere anytime soon. Despondent, Frankie kicked a rock as she passed the large barn. Moments later, she heard the lilting notes of a harmonica and people singing. Curious, she followed the music. Nearing a cluster of cabins, she spotted Uncle Henry seated in a rocker before a small fire in the clearing.

Afraid of intruding, she lingered just outside the fire's inviting circle of light and warmth, watching and listening:

C'on pone for breakfast
C'on pone for supper
Gather the 'bacca
In a big ole bunch.

"Wow. Rap that someone can actually sing along with. This man would make a fortune and be the hit of MTV." Unable to stop herself, she joined them in clapping to a fast-paced melody. Within seconds, silence reigned and Frankie found herself the center of attention. The dark faces staring at her said she didn't belong here. Turning, she began to walk away.

"Chile, you get on back here." Henry motioned for her to sit next to him. "We call this Juba. We're celebratin'."

"What?" Frankie whispered.

"Life." Henry laughed. "Life and the full moon." The laughter left Henry's face. "The full moon, she's bringing the spirit world alive, Miz Frances. It's during this time the strange things happen. Adventure. Love."

"Naturally." Frankie knew better than to believe in romance. Adventure, yes. Love? No way.

"Come closer, chile. Join us," Henry said with a chuckle.

She suspected Uncle Henry's invitation was nothing more than politeness, but she didn't care. She was so tired of feeling alone, on the outside looking in. She wanted to belong, if only for a few minutes. "Thank you, Uncle Henry. I'd love to hear your music."

Joining them, she glanced at the assembled group. She smiled at Henry's family and his sons' wives. Although she'd worked beside them in the fields, they'd never actually talked.

Henry's sons and grandsons jumped up. They slapped one another's legs, knees, backs and hands to an intricate rhythm as they sang:

Do Juba by moon
When the sun goes down
Drink corn juice
'til I thinks I drown.

The young men's chant became so fast the words blurred together until unrecognizable.

Suddenly, they stood before Frankie, grabbed her arms and pulled her. Laughter filled her as she attempted to copy their movements. Initially, her quick reflexes allowed her to follow their lead. As the chant once again increased, Frankie found herself left behind in the lightning- quick moves of the four young men.

Finally giving up, she staggered from the circle and collapsed beside Uncle Henry. "Your sons would have made it bigger than the Jackson Five," she said between gasps.

"Who're the Jackson Five? Goddesses, too?"

Frankie laughed. "No, although one of them seems to think...Never mind." She waved off Uncle Henry's questioning gaze. "What's corn juice, Uncle Henry?"

Isaiah, Uncle Henry's eldest son, stopped and stared at her in disbelief. "Don't you know what corn juice is? Lord, Missy, where've you been livin'?"

Frankie winked at Uncle Henry. "A long way from here, Isaiah."

"Ain't that the truth," Henry mumbled.

"Here." Isaiah passed Frankie a tin cup. "This here's corn juice. It makes your dreams come true."

"Not likely," she muttered as she brought the cup to her lips.

Henry laid a hand on Frankie's arm. "You sip it, Miz Frankie. You sip it real slow."

She studied the clear liquid in the fire's dim light. "It isn't poisonous, is it?" she asked as she tentatively poked her fingers in the thick, viscous fluid. At the chorus of no's followed by laughter, Frankie tentatively brought the container up to her lips.

In the face of Isaiah's smirk, her sip turned into a gulp. Coughs turned to gasps as the juice hit her empty stomach. Its heat spread through her, setting her blood on fire. "This stuff's white lightning!" she squeaked amid hoots from the gallery.

Henry smacked Frankie's back. "Lord, chile, I told you to sip it, not swallow it."

Warnings of blindness caused by wood alcohol assailed her. "How's it made?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Please, not in a lead still.

"The usual way. Fermented corn squeezings." Henry grinned. "It's aged for one moon cycle in an oak barrel, then the corn juice is ready. Others call it corn liquor."

"And where I come from, it's called moonshine. Don't you have the Revenuers around here?" Noticing a suddenly subdued atmosphere, Frankie realized Uncle Henry and his family took her words as condemnation. Fearing she'd offended them, Frankie extended her hand and said, "I'd like some more please."

As a rule, Frankie hated anything that stripped her of control. But not tonight. Tonight, she'd throw caution to the winds and cut loose. Her day with Mr. Craig rated a definite three- martini experience. On second thought, make it four.

The corn juice's effect was immediate. The men's singing seemed distant. She felt alone and at peace with the world.

"From your face I see that your time with Masta William wasn't helpful," Henry said softly.

"Got that right," Frankie said through numbing lips. She grabbed the jug, refilled her cup and took another swig. "It was an unmitigated disaster. The man refused to talk business."

After yet another refill, she glanced up at Uncle Henry. "Mr. Craig thinks I'm an airhead. You know, all the candles are lit but no one's home," she said, tapping her finger to her head. "I asked him about Ben. Boy, was that a mistake." Her hand flew to her mouth in time to stifle the hiccup.

"What did Masta William say?"

Suddenly, Frankie didn't like the effects of the corn juice. Helpless to stop them, tears flowed down her cheeks. "H-he's a good judge of character." She rubbed her cheeks. "And Beatrice is what Ben needs. Why can't he see that she's a cold-hearted, calculating witch?"

"He's blind." Henry's head dropped backward as a laughter rumbled from deep in his belly. "Sometimes it's hard for Masta William to see his family as they are, not as they pretend to be. Don't worry your little head, Miz Frankie. Like I told you, the future's already planned. Fighting it ain't no use. You can't control it none, neither. And that's where you're makin' your mistakes. You spending too much time trying to force fate to go the way you want it, not the way it's gonna go."

After removing the cup from Frankie's hand, Henry patted her cheek. "With this full moon, the night's like day, and no one's gonna be at the pond. It'll be peaceful. Take what the night offers, chile. In the morning things will be different."

"I'll be home, in my own bed?"

"No, chile. But you'll be closer to your goal."

Frankie struggled to her feet. "Right." She gave him a sloppy salute and headed off.

After ten minutes of stumbling and tripping over the hem of her skirt, she stood in front of the pond. She grinned as the moon's reflection danced across the water's glassy surface. Tilting her head back, Frankie stared at the sky. The filtered light looked like creamy fog. A fog of magic, she decided.

She lifted her hands toward the heavens and sang out loudly, "Wish I may, wish I might, first star I see tonight. I wish...I wish Ben loved me. The real me."

She closed her eyes and almost lost her balance. "Boy, corn juice sure makes you say the silliest things." Yet in truth, the thought of Ben loving her warmed her more than the moonshine.

She'd never been a Don Quixote before, so why had she wished for the impossible now? Sighing, she dropped her arms and glanced about her, then smiled.

* * *

Ben stood transfixed. He'd never seen anyone as beautiful as Frankie. He knew he should leave or, at the very least, let her know he was here. But he couldn't. Instead, he crouched lower and moved closer. Once hidden safely behind a clump of forsythia, he watched as she removed her clothing. Slowly. One button at a time.

He'd never experienced such exquisite torture as seeing Frankie bare her body to the night. Then she released her hair, and a waterfall of moonbeams cascaded about her bare shoulders and down to her waist.

He sucked in a lungful of air. God, what would it be like to have her undress for him? Seeing her this way, wanting her as he did, made the hard, throbbing ache between his legs so painful he doubted he could stand.

Then she turned toward him. Sure he'd been discovered, Ben tried to think of excuses for his behavior. Only the truth sprang to mind. He wanted her. Body and soul.

As she turned away and entered the water, he exhaled. The good Lord had given him a second chance, his honor intact. Ben rose, then paused for one last glance back at the pond.

Frankie stood chest deep in the water, her magnificent bosom glistening against the water's dark surface. Enticing him, daring him to come to her.

Honor lost the battle to lust and longing.

Ben removed his boots. He shed his clothing as he advanced to the pond's edge. Soon he'd know what it felt like to hold her. She'd be small, easy to mold to his flesh.

"Ben? Is that really you?"

"It's me."

Frankie stretched out her arms in welcome. "Come, my brave, elusive Ben. Come to me, now." Within seconds, he stood beside her. Frankie reached out and brushed a lock of light brown hair off his forehead. Her fingers threaded through the coarse, thick mat of hair on his chest. A fingernail grazed over one of his nipples on its journey southward.

Ben grabbed her wandering hand in his. "Frankie," he whispered hoarsely, bringing her palm to his lips.

"I can't believe it. You're really here." She clung to his shoulder and wrapped her legs tightly around his waist and then leaned back in the water. "No, you aren't. You're just a dream, just another fantasy like the other morning."

Her uninhibited actions distracted him. She proved more potent than the most lethal poison, alcohol. He was powerless to resist. She turned his blood to liquid fire.

He bent forward. His lips closed around one taut, beaded nipple. She tasted sweeter than he'd imagined.

Releasing her breast, Ben raised his eyes and swallowed at the sight of her hair spread out on the water. He drew her body to his. His tongue traced her full lips. When they parted, he took possession of her mouth with the same force and confidence Lee had shown capturing the Orange Plank Road.

"Frankie," Ben moaned against her mouth, refusing to break contact with her. "I can't stand it another moment. My body burns from wanting you."

"I'm yours, Ben. I've always been yours."

Her words pierced Ben's desperation. Alcohol was on her lips. He knew she wasn't responsible. Then her tongue nudged his mouth and what was left of his integrity fled.

Seconds later he gentled his penetration of her mouth. Frankie was eighteen and a virgin. Yet he was showing her no tenderness, only lust-driven passion. She deserved better than this. He'd give it to her. He'd wait until they married. And married they'd be!

Frankie's fingers drifted lower. At his manhood, she hesitantly touched him, then encircled his erection. "You're circumcised. Thank goodness. I mean most men from home are, but I didn't think...they were here, too."

Ben's hands froze mid-caress. She knows I'm what? Most of the men from home?

He pulled free of Frankie and backed away. Her power over him had almost been complete. Just seconds before, he'd wanted to hold, protect and cherish her all the days of his life. He'd been ready to defy his father--his entire family--to have this woman.

Thank the Lord he'd discovered the truth first. While she looked pure and innocent, he knew better. She'd tried to play him for a fool. But the joke was about to be on her. She'd failed.

Ben pressed Frankie's face to his chest. Closing his eyes, he inhaled her scent one last time and set her from him. "I want you more than I've ever wanted anyone. But not this way. The time isn't right."

"Time?" Frankie pulled free and laughed. "It's never been more right." Once again, she wrapped her legs around his waist. "Ben," she murmured, her lips brushing his. "Tomorrow might never come. If you love me, make me yours. Please."

Ben inhaled sharply. She must be with child. He'd like to believe she'd been raped during the robbery and shame had kept her from saying anything. But he knew better. She was too familiar with a man's organ.

She must have watched him as he watched her, thus discovered he came here late every night for a swim. It made him ill to realize what a fool he'd been to open his heart. She'd come here to entice him, trap him before his betrothal to Beatrice was announced.

"Are you sure? If not, say so now while I can still stop," he said through clenched teeth, furious his erection still stood at attention.

"I'm sure. I swear it, Ben." Frankie ran her hands down the sides of his ribs. "You're beautiful. So beautiful. Not even the moonlight can hide it." Frankie inhaled sharply when he stroked her bare thigh.

She wasn't an innocent, but a whore. He could have her and not lose his honor. With grim certainty Ben carried her from the water and onto the grass. He laid her on his discarded clothing, then settled beside her. He lowered his head and kissed her navel as his fingers delved into the moist blonde nest. Fingertips probed apart the heated lips.

Her eyes widened at the feel of him touching her. "Ben," she gasped. "Oh, God, Ben."

As her body arched, Ben slid up and over her. His taut body covered hers. His mouth smothered her scream of release.

Tremors still shook her slender frame. Kneeling between her spread legs, Ben's hands tightened around her buttocks, raising her off the ground.

At her woman's entrance, he stopped and lowered her onto the earth. Lust would not control his actions. He would not fall for her trap. Too late. His desire was too strong, and he was too weak. With a grimace, he had his release upon her stomach.

Ben stood. He glared down at her. "From your words, it's obvious I am not the first man to know you." He laughed, and even to his ears it sounded hollow.

"What did you say?"

"I said that it's apparent you have much knowledge of the male body. And it wasn't learned from me."

He hadn't been her first. Hell, he probably hadn't been her fourth or fifth either. Pain and shame lashed him. How could he still want her, even knowing the truth?

Frankie pushed herself upright. "W-what are you talking about?" she whispered.

"You heard me."

"Let me see if I've got this straight. You can visit Miz Peaches's in Richmond and that's just fine and dandy. But because I know about a male's body, I'm a slut?"

"A man likes to know the woman he loves and marries is his and his alone. That the children they have are his. He likes to know he has taught the woman in his life about love and the marriage bed."

Frankie stood and jabbed his chest with a finger. "I'll say this only once, you're the only man who's ever touched me. As for understanding anatomy, you betcha I do. Ever heard of the book called the Kama Sutra?"

"No."

"What a shame. It could only improve your technique."

"And you claim innocence." He glowered at her. Damn her to hell. The only Christian men like himself who'd had the procedure were those whose member had grown faster than their foreskin. "If you're an innocent, how did you gain knowledge of circumcision and the other things that happen between a man and woman?"

"Books and other women. We talk to one another, educate one another. Heavens, some women even compare men's penises to the size of cucumbers."

Frankie pulled back and stared down at his pelvis.

To his humiliation, his member sprang to bold, beautiful life. "Does what you see please you?"

"No."

Ben almost looked away from her sad gaze and gray glistening eyes.

"I thought I was making love to the man of my dreams. Luckily, I discovered the truth before it was too late."

He glanced at his seed flowing down her stomach and onto her legs, then watched her gaze followed his, then she grimaced.

"If you'll excuse me, I suddenly feel very dirty."

"You realize, of course, that you can't wash away disgrace."

"You should know."

Her flat, emotionless voice hit him in the stomach, her words between his eyes. Tightening his fingers into a fist, he silently watched her walk into the cool water without a backward look, then glide out into the pond, her strokes smooth and controlled.

His response to her shocked, then angry reaction shook him. He wanted to reach out and comfort her. He'd never seen her like this. It seemed as if all her vibrancy had died. She was a shell of the Frankie he knew.

She'd been with other men before him. Surely she knew he couldn't ignore it and pretend it didn't exist. Yet she still pretended to be an innocent.

With sudden shattering clarity, Ben knew it didn't matter. She obsessed him. He'd never let her go. He also knew he'd never fully trust her.

After dressing, he watched Frankie scrub her body, then suddenly straightened as the shadow of a memory flashed through his mind. There'd been a second when he was stroking her core that he'd thought his finger had touched a barrier. If true, he'd maligned and insulted her beyond forgiveness.

Good going, Colonel. Another battle lost.

Ben's gaze narrowed. She might think she'd never let him near her again, but she was about to learn he wouldn't, couldn't allow her fury to stop him. She was his now. And before too many days passed, he'd make sure her she knew and admitted the truth of that fact.

* * *

Frankie watched Ben head toward the house. "I wish you'd never touched me. At least then I wouldn't know what it felt like to be in your arms," she whispered.

Frankie waded ashore. Blinking rapidly, she pulled on her clothing. Once dressed she collapsed onto the ground and allowed the tears to come. It wasn't fair. The most wondrous experience of her life was now tainted, forever marred.

She wanted to go home, get into bed, pull the covers over her head and stay there until the memory of Ben's body covering hers no longer existed. If she went home now, she wouldn't have changed history. Maybe she could pretend this had all been a bad dream. A nightmare.

Unfortunately, Uncle Henry insisted Ben was her ticket home, thus making the trip more problematic than ever.

She'd save his life. She had to. As for having him return with her, not a chance in hell. "Damn!" Uncle Henry said he had to go into the armoire with her. Maybe if she shoved him out as the portal opened she could go home without him.

Yeah, and pigs fly. The moment she'd entered that blasted chest she'd hurtled through time and space.

One thing was for sure, after leaving here she never wanted to see the jerk again.

* * *

Entering the kitchen, Frankie stared at the two grim-faced people seated at the wooden table and wondered just how bad one nightmare could get.

"Worried about your disappearance, Constance asked us if we knew where you'd gone off to." Mr. Craig glanced at his pocket watch. "It is now eleven o'clock. Where have you been and what have you been up to, Frances?" he barked before she'd shut the back door.

Unable to meet their gazes, she stared at the floor. She wondered if they knew she and Ben had been together. She prayed they didn't. "I-I visited Uncle Henry and his family. They taught me to dance the Juba and...," she raised her glazed eyes to Mr. Craig's, "...and I drank some corn juice. At first I didn't know what it was. I didn't like it."

Frankie stiffened her spine. She looked at the table, her gaze darting between Mildred and Mr. Craig. "But since I didn't want to hurt their feelings, I drank--" She shrugged. "A little bit?"

"You went to Henry's quarters and drank with them from the same cup? Don't you have better sense?"

She knew silence was the best policy. Their censure heaped on top of Ben's rejection was too much. Something snapped inside her. All social lessons and conventions were forgotten. "Apparently not."

Mr. Craig pushed back from the table. "Impertinence. I will not have it in my house." He eyed her up and down. "Why are you all wet? What have you been up to, girl?" When she didn't immediately answer, Mr. Craig's low tone hardened. "As your uncle and guardian it is my duty to know what you have been doing tonight, besides consorting with servants, that is."

Yeah, well screw you and the horse you road in on. I'm over twenty-one, have the vote, and more money than you. Nah, she'd better not say that, or anything for that matter, not if she wanted to stay and save Ben's worthless hide.

Clenching her jaw, Frankie braced herself for the upcoming interrogation. There was nothing subtle about Mr. Craig's technique. Straight and to the point.

Pulling her gaze from Mr. Craig, she glanced at Mildred's face. Frankie's shoulders slumped at the woman's expression of dismay and disappointment. "I went for a walk to clear my head." She shrugged. In for a penny..."I fell in the pond."

Mr. Craig reached out and pinched her blouse between his fingers and rubbed. "Be grateful they are damp. I would hate to add lying to your growing list of sins."

Mr. Craig didn't believe her. Why should he? She was a liar. Almost every word out of her mouth since her arrival had been an untruth. Since she'd used her blouse to dry herself, with luck, Mr. Craig couldn't be positive what had happened at the pond.

Throwing caution to wind, Frankie returned Mr. Craig's hostile glare.

Turning to his wife, he said, "You take care of her, Mildred. She's your cousin." Pivoting, he stalked out of the room.

Shame coursed through Frankie's veins.

Mildred rose slowly from her chair. "You surprise me, Frances. Such boldness." She chuckled. She tipped Frankie's chin up and gazed at the tear-streaked face. Pulling a kitchen towel from her skirt's waistband, Mildred gently dried the wet cheeks. "Men can be abominable creatures when their wishes are ignored. But still, it isn't like William to be rude."

Frankie met Mildred's knowing eyes. The woman didn't miss a thing. No doubt she'd spotted the tension between Mr. Craig and Frankie upon their return earlier this evening.

The situation had made her so uncomfortable that after dinner, she'd fled to her bedroom rather than suffer Mr. Craig's continued silent treatment. Of course, if she hadn't left the house, she wouldn't have gotten soused and made love to Ben.

"William is a kind man," Mildred said, intruding on Frankie's thoughts. "He told me of your talk this afternoon."

Frankie watched Mildred cautiously, waiting.

"Women who believe themselves in love can do the strangest things." Mildred moved away. "I don't want to see my family torn apart, Frances. In the heat of anger, threats and counter-threats are made." She gripped the edge of the sink, her back to Frankie. "Sometimes, the damage inflicted can never be undone. I know my son doesn't want..."

"Doesn't want what, Aunt Mildred?"

Mildred faced Frankie. "To marry Beatrice," she whispered.

"I wouldn't worry about that. Trust me when I say I'm no threat to their marriage." Swallowing her pride, Frankie said, "Uncle William wants this match. Ben puts family, honor, and duty ahead of personal desires."

"The war has changed Ben. Although old habits are hard to break--God first, then family, then Virginia--he no longer willingly or blindly follows his father's dictates. He has become too used to giving orders himself." Mildred moved to Frankie's side. "I've observed Benjamin with you and given much thought about what you've said. He not only looks at you, but follows your every move and worries when you aren't happy. This is new for him. No other woman has touched him in this way. Thus, he will do as he wishes."

Not anymore.

"Ben agreed to marry Beatrice because William believed it necessary. He fears neither of his sons will return from the war and wants a Craig heir." Mildred laid a hand on Frankie's shoulder, stilling her motion to leave. "Because of you, Ben will refuse to marry out of duty. To live with a woman he doesn't love will kill him as surely as a bullet to his head."

"As I said, I'm not a threat. Unless I decide to inflict the fatal wound myself, first." Frankie sighed. "Unfortunately, I can't do that either. I'd never get home."

Mildred's brows furrowed, then she shrugged. "I'll handle William, but I need your help, Frances. William's fury won't die easily."

Frankie stood, unable to speak from the shock of Mildred's words. She couldn't fathom the woman changing her position at this late date. Just the other day she'd been firm in her resolution to send Frankie back to Hunter's Lodge if she so much as spoke to Ben.

Mildred patted Frankie's cheek. "Drinking alcohol on an empty stomach isn't a good idea. Especially when it's Henry's corn juice."

"Good advice," Frankie mumbled, holding her now throbbing head. "Wish I'd thought of it before the first sip."

Mildred tilted Frankie's face up toward hers. "Tomorrow you'll understand why we avoid Henry's special juice."

"Yes, ma'am. If this headache is the early stage of repentance, I'm sure I will." She'd suffered one hangover in her life. She'd been at UVA and gotten loaded on purple passion. Obviously, she hadn't learned her lesson, because she was about to repeat it.

Reaching out, Mildred grasped the loose waist of Frankie's recently altered brown skirt. "You've lost weight, child. This is hanging on you. We can't have that. Cousin Jacob will think we've starved and worked you to death."

"Yes, ma'am," Frankie said, unprepared for Mildred's seemingly genuine worry. The woman was sneakier than her husband. Frankie didn't trust her. The woman was probably setting her up. Then, Frankie could be shipped from Craig Knoll in disgrace. Well, Frankie was wise to Mildred. She wouldn't win.

Frankie would and with her pride intact. Once the family met the real Frances Payne, a legend would be born. Two women, one name, both addled. She sure hoped history would be kind, to both of them.

Frankie pointed to the completed quilt hanging over the back of one of the kitchen's ladder-back chairs. "I see you've completed it," she said, changing the subject.

"Yes, I have. I do believe it's one of my best." Mildred lifted the covering off one of the chairs.

"It's magnificent." Frankie met Mildred's gaze. "I'm tired. If you'll excuse me, Aunt Mildred."

"Of course, child." Mildred reached out and touched Frankie's arm. "Think on what I've said."

"I will. I promise." Frankie turned and hurried from the kitchen. Moments later, she stood on the second floor landing, rubbing her throbbing temples. The entire day had been a disaster from beginning to end. She hoped Connie wasn't in a cheerful mood.

Right. I'd have better luck hoping the moon was made of green cheese.

Upon entering the bedroom, Frankie saw Connie seated in a chair by the small table and frowned. "What are you doing up? You were asleep when I stepped out."

"Yes, and I woke, discovered you were missing and when I couldn't find you, I woke Mama and Papa Craig."

"I see." And she did. Frankie moved closer. "The gown's beautiful, Connie." She watched her friend finish off the dress's hem. "Will you wear the dress to the Broadys' Saturday or save it for Noah's return?"

"The dance, definitely. Now that I've received Noah's letter and know he's well, I feel like celebrating." Connie lifted her head. "He'd want me to. I do so love to waltz. Don't you?"

"I used to. But I haven't danced the waltz since I was in cotillion."

Connie smiled. "Well, you shall at the Broadys'. You'll also go in fashion."

Frankie glanced down at her soiled skirt and blouse. "I don't think so." She started to laugh, then groaned. "I doubt I'll turn any heads with my haute couture."

"You're so funny, Frankie."

"Aren't I though."

Connie jumped from her chair, laid the finished gown on her bed, and hurried toward her chest. "Oh, but you'll be the belle of the dance." She dug deep into the steamer and pulled a garment from its recesses. A grin split her face. "This is what you'll wear."

Frankie's mouth gaped open. She'd thought Connie's burgundy dress magnificent. Now, next to the stunning emerald green velvet Connie held up, it was unexceptional. The gown gleamed in the dim light of the bedroom. "It's incredible. I've never seen anything like it!"

"I knew you'd like it," Connie said with a look of smug satisfaction. "It was part of my trousseau. I wore it once when Noah and I attended a ball in Charleston. I could never wear it again without him by my side. But you can."

"Oh, no, Connie! I can't allow you to destroy such a beautiful gown. Once you alter it, you'll never be able to wear it again. And we both know Noah will be at your side soon."

"Shush. I haven't fit in it since I had Elizabeth. I will never wear it again. So I don't want to hear another word."

"But--"

"I said not another word. You'll be Cinderella going to the ball with her Prince Charming."

Eyeing the gown, Frankie decided she might never have Ben, but she'd make sure he and his family knew what he'd lost. Her. "I'll never be able to thank you, Connie."

CHAPTER TWELVE

Frankie brushed stray strands of hair off her dripping forehead. This was hell. First you live in it, then you die. At the moment, death looked darned attractive. A voodoo dance convention had taken up residence inside her head and showed no signs of leaving.

Upon waking, she'd decided to use three of her precious aspirin in a preemptive strike against hangover agony. She might as well have saved them. Moonshine and the blistering sun were immune to the analgesic.

Her body was in rebellion. Her stomach refused to settle. She'd tossed up her socks more times than she'd thought possible and still live. No matter how many times she'd brushed her teeth, within seconds a new coating of fur appeared.

To hell with saving Benjamin Craig, this disgusting field, the heat and 1864. Frances Matthews was a high-powered financial whiz who worked in an air-conditioned office, lived on the internet and gloried in doubling her investments. She didn't work at pinching leaves to force the plants to grow out, not up. No leaves. No pinching. No coaxing or wishing. If she were going to do this stuff, she was going to be the best damned tobacco sucker that circa 1864 Virginia had ever seen.

She glanced over at Mr. Craig. If she'd doubted it before, she no longer did--he hated her. He was determined to prove her not only ill-suited to be Ben's wife, but also a member of the Craig family. His method: kill her via a slow sun-scorched death. He had to know the agony she was in. Not that he cared. The tobacco plants were all that was important.

Okay, the crop was all-important. The family's ability to survive depended upon it. Unfortunately, that didn't change her predicament--she was a physically and emotionally exhausted time traveler who didn't belong here.

Frankie glanced down at the loathsome tobacco plant, then around her. The Craigs, along with all of Uncle Henry's family, surrounded her, working in tandem like well-oiled cogs in the same wheel. From the look of things, Mr. Craig had succeeded. She was the spanner thrown in to gum up the works. It wasn't just her slowness but her constant nausea that hampered progress down her assigned row.

She took another deep breath. Ah, the wonder of aspirin. It was finally kicking in.

Now she'd show them her true metal. She wasn't called the Mr. Spock of the investment world for no reason. Focus without emotion was what she needed to become the best tobacco sucker of them all.

Frankie reached out to snap off the thin top growth. As she touched the plant, a green worm--the size of her forefinger and just as round--wriggled unimpeded across the sticky leaf and brushed against her. Screaming, she jerked her hand back and wiped it on her skirt.

Silence descended on the field. A split second later, everyone was at Frankie's side.

Ben grasped her shoulders. At his touch, Frankie quieted and tried to pull away. He squeezed her, then took one step back. "What's wrong?"

"Th-that's what's wrong." She pointed an unsteady finger at the pulsating worm.

As one, the gathered crowd turned and looked at the offending creature.

"It's nothing but a little hornworm," Beatrice scoffed. Reaching out, she plucked it off the leaf, looked at it for a split second, brought it to her mouth, and bit off its head. After spitting it out and tossing the decapitated grub to the ground, Beatrice stared at Frankie and grinned.

"That's how you take care of hornworms. It's the only way to make sure they won't come back and eat the leaf."

Frankie's right hand flew to her mouth. Her left clutched her stomach. Pivoting, she plowed past Mildred and Connie and rushed for the edge of the field. She'd gone three steps when her humiliation started. Clasping her abdomen, she bent over and vomited.

As the spasms died down to dry heaves, Frankie felt Mildred slip an arm around her and lead her from the field.

"It's okay, child. Growing up on a dairy farm as you have gives you no experience with hornworms. I remember the first time I dealt with one. It was four years after we'd arrived from England. According to William, I turned the same shade of green as the worm before retching." Mildred shook her head. "They're such disgusting creatures. Even after all these years, I still shudder when I see my first one of the season."

Where's a pair of scissors when you need them? "Thank you, Aunt Mildred. I appreciate your kind words." Frankie hoped she wasn't stuck back here long enough to see more than one year's worth of the little green monsters. She swayed. So much for land legs. "Much as I hate to admit it, last night is as responsible as seeing the hornworm facing the guillotine of Beatrice's mouth."

"No doubt you're right. Consider it just punishment for indulging in men's behavior," Mildred said, a smile softening the sting of her words. "Here." She handed Frankie a dipper of cool well water. "Rinse your mouth out a couple of times before drinking some." After pulling her hankie from an apron pocket, Mildred dipped it in the bucket, saturating it, and mopped Frankie's clammy brow. "You'll feel right as rain in a second."

"Sure, right as rain." Not! When she got home, she'd make sure tobacco was banned and go on a personal crusade against illegal moonshine.

Frankie replaced the dipper in the bucket and prepared to return to the field. "Hornworms." She shivered. Next to them, those three Union deserters would be a snap.

Hearing hooves clopping up the drive, she paused and looked behind her. "Oh, no," she muttered as a heavyset man made his way toward her on an equally wide mule.

"I didn't realize you'd met our neighbor, John Broady."

Frankie glanced at Mildred, surprised by the undercurrent of distaste in the woman's voice. "I haven't." At Mildred's raised eyebrow, Frankie realized she'd just made another mistake.

Before she could come up with an excuse, she heard a man spitting. At the flash of revulsion on Mildred's face, Frankie spun around and saw John Broady wipe the dripping tobacco juice from the corner of his mouth.

"Howdy, Miz Craig," Broady said, doffing his dusty hat. "And howdy to you too, missy." He slid off his mule and grinned. "Name's John Broady."

I was right. No family tree branches to speak of.

From the pale, almost transparent blue eyes, to the few strands of fine red hair gracing his shiny, balding head, the nineteenth-century John Broady was the identical twin of his great- grandson. The only distinguishing feature between the two was this Broady's scraggly red beard- -not an improvement.

Broady thrust out his right paw, grabbed Frankie's hand and squeezed.

"How do you do," she whispered. "I'm Frances Payne. A cousin from Roanoke." She pulled on her hand.

Broady held on.

Frankie's skin crawled as his mouth curved and balls of brown spittle collected at its edges. This John Broady wasn't just a simple clod like his progeny. He was worse.

His gaze dropped to her breasts and didn't waver.

Mildred moved forward. "Let the child be, John. She's feeling poorly."

Broady dropped her hand and took a step back.

Frankie surreptitiously wiped her hand on the skirt of her dress. "Thank you." She preferred dark, debonair and as dirt-free as possible with body odor under control. She shook her head. Poor Broady. A bar of soap would've elicited the same quick withdrawal as Ben's name. She mentally kicked herself. She wasn't being fair. The problem lay in her, not Broady. He was a product of his times. Then again so was Ben, as he'd proved last night.

"I assume you've come over to speak with William," Mildred said in a no-nonsense manner.

"No, ma'am. Ben's who I come to see. If'n you don't mind, Miz Craig, Miz Frances here can keep me company while we wait for him." Broady touched the brim of his hat. "Assumin', of course, you give your permission for me to stay with her while you're gettin' Ben."

"See that you remember you're a Southern gentleman, John." Mildred's voice held a firm warning.

Knowing better than to ignore Broady, Frankie quickly turned her attention back to him. With each step he took toward her, she retreated two.

"If you'll excuse me. I've got important work to do. Lots of worm heads to bite off."

"You're the cousin Frances who comes from Miz Craig's line, the one who had the brain fever, ain't you?" Frankie nodded and he continued, "It's good to see new blood's come to the area. I'm sure we'll become real close."

"You must be the John Broady the family talks about. I know Ben's going to be thrilled with your visit."

"Huh? Ben? Oh, Ben! I don't really need to see him. Pa just sent me to remind y'all about the barn dance and the pig pickin' this Saturday night and to ask if'n Miz Mildred could bring some of her pickled watermelon rind. We're celebratin' our heroes comin' home."

Broady's gaze swept over Frankie. "We can welcome you to the neighborhood, too, Miz Frances."

"Thank you, but no. The returning soldiers should remain the party's focus. After all, that's why everyone's attending. For the men, not to welcome me."

"Sure, sure. We're just glad you'll be comin'." Broady stuck his thumbs through the straps of his dusty overalls. "Most of the area boys weren't as lucky as me. Recognizin' my brain power," he tapped his head, "the army put me on special assignment."

"Right," Frankie whispered weakly, turning her face to the side in an attempt to avoid his sour breath.

"Yep. I'm workin' on findin' spies. But don't tell anyone. I'm supposed to report all traitors I find hereabouts." His chest puffed out until it matched his bulging stomach. "I'm sure to be decorated when General Lee becomes president."

This time Frankie didn't fight her smile. "I'm sure you'll get everything that's due you."

"Yep. No doubt about it." Broady licked his palm and slicked down the few hairs covering the top of his head. "Be sure to save the first dance for me?"

Frankie swallowed hard. Her gaze scanned the area for Ben. "I don't want to do anything that'll cause trouble, Mr. Broady."

"Call me John, Miz Frances."

"It looks like Ben's on his way, John." Frankie pointed to her right and frowned at Ben's scowl. Given the jerk thinks I've spread my legs for half the army, he probably thinks I'm propositioning this Neanderthal.

Broady's gaze followed Frankie's finger. His eyes widened.

"Why don't we ask him if he or Uncle William will have a problem with you having the first dance?"

"No need. Just tryin' to be hospitable, Miz Frances." Ashen-faced, Broady scrambled on his mule and, kicking his animal's sides, beat a hasty retreat.

"What did Broady want with you?" Ben growled.

"Nothing."

Frankie focused on the repeated clenching and relaxing of the muscle in Ben's jaw. She refused to be cowed by his presence. "He wanted to remind us of Saturday's dance and pig picking."

Ben's gaze narrowed on Frankie's red face and he shrugged. "It doesn't matter. I'm not going in any event."

"Why not? Afraid I'll embarrass you or your family?" Frankie glared up at him. "Don't worry, I won't lie with anyone, at least not in public. I do have a modicum of decorum and pride."

"Stop it, Frankie. I'm not going because I can't dance with this damned limp. I feel like a fool every time I try."

"Limp? I didn't notice a limp last night. The truth is, you think I'm an easy woman, a slut- -that's why you're not going."

"Easy?" "Difficult" was the word he'd use to describe Frankie, not "easy."

Ben snorted. They both knew the truth. Yet, the wench drew him. He'd been aware of her every breath all morning. Every time she staggered, only willpower had kept him from running to her side. Each time she'd left the field because of illness, he longed to hold her head and mop her brow.

He found his gaze followed her movements. He couldn't forget her or their time together. He inhaled deeply. Her scent tormented him. He bent forward and brushed some loose strands of hair off her face.

"It's best we forget last night, cousin."

"Okay, if that's what you want, cousin Ben, that's fine by me. So, you'll be coming to the dance, right?"

Ben jammed balled fists into his pockets. "No. If my leg's good enough to go to the dance, then I should be with my men. And everyone there will think the same thing."

"You're probably right to stay at home." She flashed a quicksilver grin. "Looks like I'll be taking James Cardwell up on his offer to be my escort."

"James?"

Ben's eyes narrowed. Rage tore through him. For the second time in less than twenty- four hours anger, jealousy and possessiveness rolled into one boiling mass. All that was needed was for him to paw the ground like his stallion and mark his territory. If Frankie weren't careful, he'd do just that. "When did he ask you to the dance?"

"Remember when Mr. Cardwell met with your father this morning?" He nodded. "James sent along a handwritten request. And Connie's loaning me a gorgeous dress. It's this incredible emerald color."

"She's allowing you wear her emerald gown?"

"Yep."

"Frances!"

"I've got to go. Your mama wants me." She spun away and started toward the kitchen porch.

Ben grabbed Frankie's arm. "Send word to James his kind offer of assistance isn't needed."

"Why?"

"I'll be your escort."

"I don't think so."

"What?"

"Given you think I'm not better than a camp-follower, I'd rather you kept your distance. We wouldn't want me to corrupt you, now would we? Besides, you're engaged to Beatrice, and the neighbors might talk. All in all, it's a good thing you aren't going to the dance."

Her gaze skimmed him, pausing on his groin before moving on. Ben shifted his stance, widening the distance between his legs. When she jerked free, he let her go without comment and watched her rush to his mother.

Was it possible she'd told him the truth? Perhaps she hadn't been with a man. Perhaps women did talk to one another. What if he'd condemned her unjustly?

No. She knew about a man's private parts. Hell, almost no one except the Jews were circumcised. He wouldn't have been either except at age twelve his organ grew faster then its foreskin. When the doctor told his father Ben could lose his manhood without the surgery, he went under the knife.

A shudder tore through him as he remembered the pain. Laudanum helped, but barely, and nothing helped when he'd needed to use the privy. He shook his head. It did no good thinking on that time.

It was a rare occurrence that a man had this done. So where had she learned about it? Ben clenched his fingers. Had it been through books and overhearing other women talk? Could he accept never knowing for sure? He had no choice. Not only had he felt the barrier, but more importantly, he loved her.

He raked his fingers through his hair. Love? Where had that thought come from? How could he love Frankie when he'd known her for less than five weeks? Surely it was another part of his body talking, not his heart.

Turning, Ben stalked back to his row of tobacco plants. He hated working these fields as much as he wanted Frankie. At the memory of last night, he closed his eyes. Lightning danced along his skin. Every nerve twitched with energy. Her presence set him on fire as no other woman's had. He had no choice. He had to marry her.

He shielded his eyes from the sun's blinding glare and scanned the acreage looking for his father.

"Now what?" He didn't trust his father being in deep conversation with Beatrice. When she nodded to his father and returned to her work with a grin, Ben knew he had cause to worry.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Ben paused at the entrance of the tool barn and searched the darkened interior. At last. His father was alone. All day the old man had surrounded himself with people. One thing for damn sure, Ben had refused to discuss marrying Frankie with Beatrice always at his father's side. That was a tactical mistake no one would make, not even a green second lieutenant.

Although after his treatment of her last night, he rather doubted Frankie would accept. At least not the first time. But he wasn't a colonel in the Confederate Army for nothing. He'd mastered tactics and strategy. He'd discovered how to go after and get what he wanted.

And he wanted Frankie as his wife.

Spotting his father alone at the workbench, Ben ambled toward him. "I'd like to speak with you, Father."

"Good. I wanted to speak with you, too," William said, keeping his eyes on the harness before him. "I have been thinking about the shipping business." He flicked Ben a glance and returned to the harness. "I realize you have little desire to follow me with the bateaux--"

"Noah's--"

"I pray Noah makes it home and can take it over as planned. But in case he does not, I want you to spend time on the river. Learn the business. It, more than tobacco, is where the Craig fortune comes from."

Ben knew what the old man wanted. He read his father's intentions as if they were headlines in the Richmond Whig: If you're on the river, you're not near Frankie and will marry the woman I've chosen.

Taking a deep breath, Ben prepared himself for the battle of his life. "I mean no disrespect, but I've no skills as a businessman. Nor does it interest me. This has always been Noah's strength, as farming was Joseph's. Mine's writing--putting words, ideas, stories on paper."

William dropped the harness and stood. "That is why your impending marriage to Beatrice is critical. She is what you need. Beatrice understands business. You will announce your engagement to her at Mr. Broady's party."

"I will not marry Beatrice, now or ever."

"Remember our agreement, Ben. You'll marry before you return to your regiment and your wife will be with child!"

"Exactly," Ben shot back. "I have until I return to my troops to decide. And I can promise one thing: I will never marry Beatrice."

"What is wrong with Beatrice?" William stalked up to Ben. "Do you think she is not good enough for you, son? Do you honestly believe I would have allowed Joseph to marry her if I had not thought Beatrice up to Craig standards?"

Ben inhaled sharply. He was no longer a boy who avoided disagreements and suppressed his own wishes. He was his own man. If he didn't broach the subject and assert his rights now, Ben knew he'd never be able to look at himself again. His honor, and after last night at the pond, that of his family's demanded he offer for Frankie. So why did he stand here like a boy in short- pants unable to take command--to show himself the colonel he was?

Squaring his shoulders, Ben matched his father's unwavering stare. "I can't abide Beatrice and never have. In truth, I tried to talk Joseph out of offering for her. Aside from her obvious hardness, I don't trust her. She's a manipulator. Put her in charge of your businesses and they'll soon become hers."

"Hogwash! The woman's aloof, that is all. She is respectable and strong enough to keep this family and hearth together after I am gone."

"Then it'll be without me." Ben leaned forward, his nose almost touching his father's. "I spent last night at the pond with Frankie. It's my duty to save her...her honor and that of our family's."

"Our honor!" William roared.

"Yes. She could be with child. Think of the consequences. Think of the disgrace."

"Has the entire family caught the chit's brain fever?" He jabbed his index finger into Ben's chest with each word. "I will not allow one foolish girl to destroy my plans for the family. Let her blow up pregnant, I will not sacrifice the Craig Legacy for that chit."

"And if she carries my child?"

"It could be anyone's. After all, if she would let you have your way with her, then obviously you are not her first; therefore, you will marry Beatrice. I will not have the crazy girl as the mother of your children--they are the Craig legacy."

"She has been with no one else." Ben quietly studied his father's rage. Amazing how he used to tremble in fear of this man. Hell, until a few moments ago, he still had. But his father was in for a surprise. He was about to meet the legendary Colonel Benjamin Craig. The man who soldiers in both armies talked of in hushed tones.

"You made the commitment to Beatrice, not I. This is not a promise I'll allow you to force upon me. And I informed Beatrice of this some weeks ago." Ben straightened and looked down at his father. "I'll have my legacy. Not yours." He jerked his thumb toward his chest. "Mine."

"If you refuse to obey me, I will see you disinherited. You'll have nothing. It is as you said, you're no businessman, son. Without me, you will have nothing."

"Except Frankie. Do what you must," Ben said quietly, his anger ebbing, leaving a pain and hollowness in its stead. Refusing to look at his father, Ben walked out of the barn.

* * *

Ben looked down at his journal entry.

Today I declared my independence.

He dipped his pen in the ink and returned to his writing.

I am no longer under my father's thumb. I am a man in my own right. If my father cannot or will not accept this, then so be it.

Ben paused as he absorbed the full impact of his words. He refused to return to the role of the good son if that meant following the man's every order. Now that he'd made the break, he felt a sense of purpose. The loss of Craig Knoll was inconsequential. He'd have the woman who turned his blood into lava and become the writer he'd always longed to be.

Relief flooded his every fiber. As suddenly as the warm relaxation came it was replaced with tension. One problem remained now--how to convince Frankie he wanted her for more than his bed. If her mention of pride was an indicator, he faced a major battle, one that would determine the outcome of the war between them.

Ben stopped rolling his pen between his fingers and once again dipped its point in the inkwell.

I love Frankie, but...There is always a but. Do I trust her? Do I believe I was her first man? Logic says she is lying. My heart asks, does it matter?

Yes. Trust is the foundation of all marriages. That foundation of trust is based on truth and honesty. Yet Frankie is my passion, my one obsession. I will never let her go. She is mine.

Our shared passion of last night was true and honest. It could not be feigned.

Ben set his pen aside. He was so tired of secrets. Until he'd come home to recover, he hadn't realized just how weary of war, mysteries and manipulation he'd become.

Tomorrow at the dance he'd open his heart to Frankie. No more lies. No more hiding. Tomorrow, he'd convince Frankie to be his wife.

* * *

Frankie studied her reflection in the cheval mirror. Sighing, she turned and walked over to a pair of green spool-heeled shoes. With a grimace, she squeezed her feet into them and tried not to hobble as she returned to the mirror.

Tilting her head first one way, then the other, Frankie continued to examine herself. Because of her hair's length, Connie had styled it in a modified fashion of the day, curling it under and back into a roll that lay in a silk net of fine green strands on Frankie's shoulders.

"Are you sure I look all right, Connie? I mean, my hair?" What was it about this type of clothing that brought out all her insecurities? Put in business attire, she faced the world as a hard- assed negotiator. Stick her in an antebellum gown and she became a walking, blithering mass of anxiety.

"You look beautiful, Frankie. Absolutely stunning. Ben won't be able to take his eyes off you. As for your hair--," Connie stuck an ornate pearl comb in the net, "--it's the best job I've ever done."

As Connie studied her, Frankie felt like a product undergoing a final quality control inspection.

"Ben had best not leave your side. Otherwise he'll lose you to another man."

Frankie smiled. She knew nothing she or Connie did would change William Craig's mind. Nor would it alter the fact Ben looked at her with confusion, not the certainty of a committed lover.

Remembering Uncle Henry's words, "Your destiny is already decided," Frankie calmed. Her hands skimmed the soft velvet bodice. It fit her petite frame to perfection. With its demure sweetheart neckline, it should have been a plainly cut velvet gown. However, on her its effect was anything but staid. The dress nipped in at her tiny waist and pushed her breasts up, leaving no doubt to their fullness.

Once again, she fingered the V's dip. "Are you sure I'm not showing too much cleavage, Connie?"

"Don't be such a goose. Even Mama Craig said it was perfect. Now stop fretting. It's time to go. The family's waiting for us."

"Right." Placing the finely woven fringed shawl Mildred had loaned her around her shoulders, Frankie swept out of the room in Connie's wake.

* * *

Since their confrontation yesterday, his father had barely spoken. Ben exhaled. Given their harsh words, there was no way he'd leave Frankie to his father's tender mercies at the dance. He wouldn't put it past the old man to approach Broady and offer him Frankie's hand.

He'd seen Broady's leer when looking at Frankie. Given half a chance, the man would compromise Frankie, forcing her into marriage. Of course Broady wasn't foolish enough to attempt that action without encouragement from a higher authority. No, there wasn't a doubt in Ben's mind it would have been done with the full cooperation of his father.

Ben smiled at the memory of his father's grimace when he'd announced he'd be attending the dance after all. Yep, he'd stuck an oar in the old man's plans but good. And before the night was over, Ben planned to capsize his father's entire scheme.

His father was about to learn that while he wasn't good at business, the colonel was very good at the mechanics of war.

The sound of the evening crickets interrupted his thoughts. Ben removed his watch from his waistcoat. Six-thirty. Where was everyone? They should have left ten minutes ago.

At that moment, Frankie stepped onto the veranda. Ben's gaze lingered on her as she slowly descended the stairs, taking special precautions to hold her skirts out of harm's way.

From the moment he'd met her he'd thought Frankie the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. Not even tobacco-stained arms had changed his mind. Tonight, she was Frances Payne the Siren, the Enchantress.

He stood mesmerized. His anger and disappointment were forgotten. Only his obsession with her remained. Then his gaze drifted to her full bosom, and he frowned.

Damned! Now every man would see his extraordinary cousin as he did.

When Frankie reached him, Ben held out his hand. "With your beauty, you should be going to a ball in Richmond, not a barn dance." His fingers caressed her knuckles.

"Why are you acting this way? It's most unbecoming, cousin--especially when your intended will arrive soon."

Ben shook his head. "Beatrice is not my intended, cousin."

As Ben lifted her up into the carriage, Frankie's gaze met his. He read the confusion in her eyes. Before the night was gone so too would be her distrust.

As he released Frankie, Connie joined them.

Frankie looked at Connie and shrugged. Whatever Ben's game was, he wouldn't win. No way would she expose her heart to him again. Use him, yes. Love him, no.

She bit the inside of her lip. Something told her her feelings weren't as easily controlled as buy and sell orders in the stock market. The blasted man's touch made her melt faster than the sun did while she worked in the tobacco fields.

"I don't believe it," Connie murmured. "How could she?"

"What?"

Connie tilted her head toward the front stairs.

Following Connie's direction Frankie spotted Beatrice, then glanced at Ben. At his horrified stare, she returned to studying Beatrice.

Frankie knew it was unkind, but the gown looked like a cast-off from Richmond's popular Miz Peaches's Bordello. Its color was shocking--bright purple--the feathers along the top of Beatrice's bodice barely hid her nipples. The gown and its matching boa were meant to advance her mission: the seduction of Ben.

Biting the inside of her cheek, Frankie struggled to keep a straight face as Beatrice stopped before the carriage's opening, waiting for Ben's assistance.

When it wasn't forthcoming, she heaved herself into the rig and glared down at Ben. "Well, aren't you going to say anything about my gown?"

"I see you're out of mourning."

And into advertising. Frankie pressed her lips together in a vain attempt to smother her bubbling giggles.

* * *

Grateful for the light of summer and the cool evening breeze, Ben took in the surrounding area, searching for cover in case of attack. Suddenly, he froze. Damn, even at a dance, he couldn't put the war from his mind. Yet something was going to happen, soon. He felt it in his bones.

The attack by the purple-feathered husband-hunter, he expected. It was the surprise assault he worried about. The one he couldn't see coming. It was out there, but where and when would it hit?

Turning back to the carriage, he grasped Frankie's waist and lifted her down.

"Thank you, Ben. I mean, cousin."

He smiled at her breathless voice. "My pleasure." He lowered Frankie slowly, enjoying the feel of her body skimming the length of him.

Only when her feet touched ground did he exhale. Her quiet elegance undid him. Only he knew what lay beneath the velvet and hoops--skin as smooth as silk. Her scent as fresh as newly bloomed magnolias drew him like sweet nectar, surrounding him until he knew he'd never want to leave, could never leave.

Ben adjusted his stance to shield his reaction to Frankie's touch. Then with a grimace, he turned back to the carriage and helped Beatrice down.

Ignoring her further, he moved away. Beatrice had already destroyed one Craig. He wasn't about to become her second victim. At least with Frankie there was passion.

"Ben," Beatrice said, her tone harsh with unsuppressed anger. "Your arm, please."

When Frankie and Connie tightened their grip on his arms, Ben flashed a smile over his shoulder. "I'm sorry, but short of offending the two ladies already holding my arms, I'm afraid there's nothing I can do. I suggest you take my father's free arm," he said as one of Broady's slaves led his carriage off.

Turning, Ben led the way to the Broady barn. Once at the barn, he waited for his parents and Beatrice to join them. When they did, Ben released Connie. Then smiling, he pointedly held Frankie's hand on his forearm for a moment longer than manners dictated. "If you'll excuse me. I saw some men by the back fence. I'll join you late--"

"You'll not disappear tonight and discuss the war," Mildred cut in. "I won't allow it."

"Yes, ma'am."

Frankie grinned at the resignation in Ben's voice that drew the two words out until they sounded like a sigh. Patting his back, Frankie drawled, "Don't worry, Ben." Frankie jerked her head slightly toward Beatrice moving toward a table laden with food. "I'm positive that before the evening's out you'll see more sparring than a discussion of the war could ever provide."

With a wink, she left Ben and his parents and went off in search of Connie. As she joined her friend, Frankie sensed someone watching her. She scanned the area. All the ambulatory soldiers from the area were dressed in clean mended uniforms.

Suddenly, she spotted the reason for her ill-ease. John Broady making a beeline for her. "Don't you dare leave me alone with Broady, Connie. Not if you want to live to see Noah."

"I'll protect you until your knight in shining armor arrives. And I do believe it won't be long." Connie turned to her right. "Why, Mary Luther, you look as pretty as a picture. It's been an age since we've seen each other." Connie pulled Frankie up beside her. "Mary, I'd like you to meet my best friend and cousin-in-law, Frankie. I just know you and she will become fast friends."

Frankie smiled, relieved for the momentary distraction as the young blonde woman smiled shyly at them.

"I-It's a pleasure s-seeing you, too, Mrs. Craig. And you, too, Frankie. I feel so much better knowing there's another woman my age here."

Frankie chuckled. "Yes, being the youngest certainly can be a trial. Especially when everyone around you thinks you're not only too young, but an airhead to boot."

At Mary's bewildered gaze, Frankie realized she'd slipped again. Leaning forward, she whispered into the young girl's ear, "Airhead means brainless, the candles are lit but no one's at home."

Mary clamped a hand over her mouth, trying unsuccessfully to muffle her giggles. "I know just what you mean, Frankie. I do believe Mrs. Craig is correct, we will become fast friends." She gave Frankie a hug, then turned back to Connie. "Do you think there will be much dancing? Because of the war and all, this is my first party."

"You'll do just fine," Connie crooned in a maternal tone. "I bet your mama taught you how to turn a pretty ankle. Where is she, by the way? Did she come?"

Mary Luther nodded and pointed toward the door. "Over there, waiting for Daddy to come in. I wish I was more like her."

Connie laughed. "Believe in yourself, honey." Connie nodded toward the door and placed her hand on Frankie's sleeve. "See that woman over there, Frankie? She's Mary's mama, Esther Luther, and she's been the belle of the ball since I was a child. She gives all us women a run for our money."

Frankie glanced at the doorway to see a handsome woman with graying hair, neatly pulled back in a chignon. She stood tall and erect, pride and dignity evident in her dress and demeanor. Frankie's gaze returned to Mary. "With a mother like that, you can become the best of whatever you want to be. Just get out there and dance."

Frankie caught a glimpse out of the corner of her eye. "In fact, there's a young man coming now."

Connie shook her head. "Not on your life. Sometimes you have to sacrifice." She pushed Frankie in Broady's general direction.

"Right," Frankie mumbled as she stumbled forward, then beat a hasty retreat back to Connie and Mary. Broady sidled up to them.

"Well, howdy, Miz Frances. You, too, Miz Constance and Miz Mary. Glad y'all could make it."

"Everything looks wonderful, John," Connie said, motioning to decorations. "I know all our young men appreciate this welcome home. I only wish Noah were here to enjoy it also."

"I'm sure he'll be comin' home real soon, Miz Constance." Broady grabbed Frankie's wrist. "Let's have a little music here, fellers," he called out as he dragged Frankie to the center of the barn's makeshift dance floor.

Frankie took a step back as a sour, foul odor hit her. Where had that come from? Certainly not from Broady. She could see by his clean hands and trimmed whiskers he'd bathed in preparation for tonight's dance.

Curiosity overcame her innate repulsion. Drawing nearer, she covertly sniffed. I'll be damned. He's only washed the areas someone can see. Strange that he didn't also include his rancid-smelling clothing.

Now she understood the Southern woman's use of the fan. It wasn't to keep cool, but to breathe when faced with an odorous suitor.

She almost wept in despair as the band struck up a slow version of "My Old Kentucky Home." When Broady pulled her flush against his distended belly, Frankie fought to maintain her hold on good manners. The last thing she could afford to create was a scene that would shame the Craigs before their neighbors.

With teeth clenched, she bit back a groan every time he stomped on her instep. She endured his leers down the front of her gown. When he started groping her in a manner which would be unseemly in any era, Frankie whispered through gritted teeth, "Take your hands off me, now. Or I'll create a scene that will make the Second Battle of Manassas look like a schoolboy skirmish."

With a smile, she pulled free and walked away as gracefully as possible on her abused feet. Spotting William Craig's glower, she nodded to him and continued toward Connie.

As she approached the edge of the crowd, Ben drew Frankie back onto the dance floor and into a slow unsteady waltz.

For the first time since their parting at the pond, Frankie felt hope and tried to squelch it, but couldn't. Not when she knew what this dance was costing Ben. She could see it in the beads of sweat on his forehead. She could feel it in his sure but careful steps. She didn't know when or how it'd happened, but Lord she loved this man.

Love? No way, José. Frankie swallowed hard. Okay, she had to save his life. He had to go with her back to the future. Once there, he was on his own. She refused to love a nineteenth-century man with archaic ideas about women and their place in society.

A waft of sour breath descended on them as Broady said, "This is still my dance."

"In case you didn't know it, Frankie's dance card is full. I filled it. She's my girl, Broady."

Nonplussed, Frankie displayed a degree of sangfroid she normally found impossible around men in social settings. She inhaled Ben's wonderfully clean yet slightly musky scent. She'd never need a fan around him. "Thank you, Ben."

"What for?"

"Rescuing me. Short of causing a scene, I doubt I could have escaped Mr. Broady's clutches."

"A scene wouldn't have bothered John. The reverse. He'd revel in it, claiming you were like all the other women after his wealth."

Frankie laughed. "Wealth? You're kidding, right?" No one, not even at night, could miss the lack of maintenance and overall poor condition of the Broady farm.

"People will believe just about anything. Especially if it's malicious and allows them to feel superior."

The last thing Frankie needed or wanted was to be the center of gossip. People in small Southern towns had long memories. Grudges, hatreds and juicy scandals had a way of surviving tens of generations.

"Would you believe such gossip?"

"No. I don't have any money yet. It's all Father's. 'Sides which, everyone can see you want me."

Suddenly Frankie halted mid-step, her gaze locked on an ashen-faced Connie. If Mary hadn't been holding onto Connie's shoulders, there wasn't a doubt in Frankie's mind that Connie would have collapsed in a puddle on the floor. "Excuse me," she said, rushing to her friend's side.

Ever since meeting Ben's ghost, Frankie had become a firm believer in psychic connections. As a result, she knew there could be only one explanation for the way Connie clutched her left arm. Something had happened to Noah.

"Oh, Frankie, it's horrible. My arm, it hurts so. It feels on fire."

"It just happened." Mary looked almost as white as Connie. "One minute she was going to introduce me to James Cardwell, and the next she was like this."

Frankie gently wiped at the tears streaming down Connie's face. "Is it Noah?"

"I th-think so," Connie said. "I know I'm fine. Yet the pain. It's unbearable." She closed her eyes and swayed.

Only Ben's quick reflexes saved Connie from falling to the ground. He glanced at Frankie. "Find my father. Hurry!"

Frankie collided with Mildred and William Craig as she rushed from the building. "It's Connie. She's...ill."

As they turned to reenter the barn, Connie and Ben joined them. "Oh, Papa Craig. It's Noah. Something's happened to him. I just know it!"

"Noah is fine, Constance. You are just overwrought."

"No! I can feel it. P-please take m-me home."

Mildred moved to Connie's other side. "Of course, child." She turned a grim face to her husband. "If the two of us take Constance home, you can then return for the others, William."

Frankie took a deep breath and touched Mildred's arm. "I'd like to go with you, too."

"Me too!" Mary said.

"I know how fond you are of Connie, Francis, but it won't be necessary, my dear. And you, Mary--this is your first party. Stay and enjoy the dance."

"I know Mama will know what to do, please let us help." Mary helped Mildred as they began to move Connie toward the open door.

Mildred shot her husband a pointed look.

"I'll get the carriage." William spun to leave, then paused beside Ben. "Since Beatrice is not at hand and we have a full load, I will come back for the three of you. Be ready to depart upon my return."

"Yes, sir."

Moments later, Frankie watched William Craig and the full carriage with Mildred, Esther and Mary Luther, and Connie pull away from the barn and down the night-shadowed lane. The knowledge she was helpless to alleviate the Craigs' present or future pain assailed her.

Ben moved next to Frankie. "Because of Connie, we know Noah's alive."

Her mouth open, Frankie stared up at him.

"Are you surprised I believe Connie's ability to feel Noah's pain? Don't be. Although neither is a hundred percent accurate, the two share an uncanny knack for knowing what's happening to the other often enough to make even a skeptic like me a believer."

"I believe in you." Frankie suspected she'd experience Ben's pain as surely as Connie had felt Noah's. She raised her gaze to his.

When Ben abruptly turned from her, she clenched her hands to keep from reaching out and gathering him to her. She'd felt his fear and sorrow. Although his body stood beside hers, his mind, maybe even his soul, had left to search the bloodstained fields of battle for his brother. She knew from Connie that Noah and Ben shared a special link.

She waited patiently for him to return. When he did, she swallowed back her own tears at the sight of his moist eyes.

"You didn't see me cry." Ben gripped her shoulders. "Do you hear? I didn't cry. I never weep."

Frankie nodded mutely.

He placed his hand on the small of Frankie's back and propelled her toward the barn's entrance. At the entrance, he hesitated.

Frankie stared up at him as Ben looked unseeing at the crowded party. She struggled to regain her own balance in the face of seeing this strong man look like a lost little boy. Taking his hand, Frankie pulled him back outside and leaned against the barn. "Talk to me, Ben."

Ben glanced up at the sky. "This moon and I have seen too much pain and death. All Virginia has. As a colonel it's my job to lead men into battle. Lead them to their deaths. There's no room or time for feelings. They get you killed."

He paused and closed his eyes. When he opened them, he looked down at Frankie. "Connie's a saint. But you know that, don't you?"

Frankie nodded, afraid to speak, fearing it would break the spell. She knew Ben needed to vent his sorrow. Come to grips with his fear that he might lose another brother.

"I remember one year when Connie visited her sisters. After getting drenched in a downpour, she caught cold. Noah swore at me for refusing to accept that he couldn't breathe because Connie was seriously ill."

Frankie sighed. "It must be wonderful to feel so close, so connected, to another person...and frightening."

Ben dipped his head. "Yes, it must be." He moved his lips against hers, caressing her with each syllable, powerless to stop himself.

"There you two are," Beatrice said in a low, harsh voice from behind them. "I've been waiting for the dance you promised me, Ben." She flipped the end of the feather boa over her shoulder.

Barely moving his head, Ben cut his eyes toward Beatrice. "I'm afraid you'll have to wait a little longer. I've filled Frankie's dance card for the rest of the evening." He held up his hand and in short, succinct sentences told her what had happened. "And before you think to tell my father of this kiss, you should know I've already informed him of my decision. The answer is no."

Strains of "The Blue Danube" filtered outside. Ben cupped Frankie's elbow as they re- entered the barn.

"You sure told off the Flying Purple People-Eater."

"The what?"

"It isn't important."

Taking Frankie in his arms, his smile faltered. "Remember, watch your toes."

"I think you're wonderful," she said, her movements matching his as he spun her around the wooden-planked floor, never missing a step. "Absolutely, one hundred percent magnificent."

After the waltz, Ben pulled Frankie back outside into the waiting shadows and the cool summer night. He had to make Frankie see he wasn't the pompous ass she'd called him. He could and would forgive her and gain her forgiveness. "After my harsh words, I doubt you will believe me, but, I love you and want to be with you, Frankie."

"What?"

"Life is short, especially during war. Frankie, you've changed me, the way I view my future. I--"

Frankie placed a finger over his lips. "I didn't want to make your life difficult, Ben. I know you have an obligation--"

Ben kissed her finger and removed it from his lips. She stepped forward only to stop when Ben said, "I am an honorable man! I have and will always discharge commitments made in the Craig name or by my actions. But as I told my father and just informed Beatrice, she and I will never marry. Marriage without love or passion is death by inches"

Frankie placed her palms on his chest. "I don't know what you need, but I'm afraid that it isn't me. I don't belong here. I'm from--"

Ben cut her words off with a kiss. Lifting his lips from hers, he said, "You belong with me."

"But Beatrice--"

"Is a figment of my father's imagination. It's neither my dream nor yours." Ben placed his hands on both her shoulders and drew her to him. "The feel of your naked body pressed against me will follow me to my grave. The only woman I want is you. I love you, Frankie. Only you."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Fury consumed Beatrice. She studied the assembled crowd. She hated them all. From their smiles and titters, Beatrice knew they'd seen Ben's possessiveness toward Frankie and pointed rejection of her.

Her gaze narrowed on the couple near the barn door--her enemy and the man responsible for her humiliation. As Frankie and Ben moved out into the night shadows, she followed. Her quarry might leave the dance, but they wouldn't escape her, or her vengeance.

Beatrice stayed behind the shrubbery as she approached the lovers' location. Her eyes widened as Frankie placed her hand on Ben's lips. "I don't want to talk. I want to be with only you. To love only you."

Beatrice's hand flew to her mouth as Ben's lips captured Frankie's in a deep, soul- rendering kiss. He'd never kissed her like that. He refused to touch her, except to remove her hands from his body.

Damn him. Damn them all.

Spinning, Beatrice raced across the open field. How could Ben betray her with that young hussy? They wouldn't get away with it. She'd see to it.

Swiping at her wet cheeks, she hurried to the far barn, two hundred feet away from her humiliation.

She'd always loved Ben. Well, wanted him, Beatrice silently corrected. From the moment she'd seen him at the cotillion, she'd wanted Ben and only Ben. Yet he'd never once approached her. And when she'd made obvious advances, he'd rejected her.

She refused to lose Ben. Why couldn't he see she was the woman for him? Didn't Ben understand the only reason she'd married Joseph was to be near him? She'd been so sure that once she was a widow, he'd come to her. Yet he hadn't. Not once in the fifteen months since Joseph's burial.

Beatrice closed her eyes and cupped her breasts. Lord, how she hungered for a man's touch and kiss. Sighing, she began to caress herself when a pair of callused hands covered hers.

"I've been watchin' you all night, Bea. You look real perty in that purple dress," John Broady said, nuzzling her neck. "I do declare you're the pertiest woman here tonight."

Beatrice turned. John would do for the moment. Yes indeedy, he would. With his unwitting help, she'd achieve her ambition of becoming Ben's wife. Once she became pregnant, she'd tell Papa Craig it was Ben's. Then he'd be hers. Hers for all time.

Beatrice wrapped her arms around Broady's neck. "I bet you've said that to all the women."

"No, ma'am. Only to you."

She pulled back a little and studied his face. Not up to her usual standards, but he'd satisfy her need. Suddenly, Beatrice frowned. "What about Frances Payne?"

"That little thing," Broady hooted. "Lord have mercy, Bea. She's just a girl, not a woman like you. 'Sides, she's Ben's gal. Tol' me so himself. And you know I don't go messin' with anythin' that's Ben Craig's."

Ben would pay, and pay dearly for his rejection. In the end, she'd get her revenge. Beatrice batted her eyelashes. "I'm glad you followed me, John." She traced his full mouth with her finger. "I've been watching you all evening, too." She heard his breath quicken and smiled. The man was a fool, but an easily led one.

"May I kiss you, John?"

"Oh, yes, Bea." She planted small pecks across his shirt-covered chest and nuzzled his beard-covered neck and face. "You can do anything you want. In fact, we can start now."

Broady picked Beatrice up like a barrel and, hauling her into the barn, collapsed in the first empty stall full of hay he found. "You're some woman, Bea."

His hands roamed her body, unbuttoning the back of her gown and sliding it down to her waist. A surge of triumph roared through Beatrice. She bit back a moan when his fingers squeezed the nipple of one breast while his mouth covered the other.

"Come on, Bea, get those underthings off. Papa Bear is comin' to visit."

Beatrice pulled back. "Not so fast, lover. It's been awhile since I've had a man." She reached out and began undoing the front of his shirt. "Let's enjoy ourselves. Besides, I want to see if what they say is true, John."

Broady rose and quickly shed his jacket and waistcoat. "And what'd that be?"

Beatrice's eyes raked his body. "As I recall, it's about big-footed men having something to brag about." Beatrice reached out and cupped his engorged penis. Moments later, a beaming Broady stood with his pants around his knees. Beatrice closed her eyes and sighed.

So much for wives' tales.

She should have known. Ben didn't have big feet, yet when she'd caught a glimpse of him bathing, he'd been hung like Papa Craig's prized stallion. Oh well, size wasn't everything. Only the resultant pregnancy from this evening's coupling mattered.

"Aw, Bea, don't go lookin' so disappointed." John grinned down at her. "Us farm boys know somethin' you oughta know too. The size of the bull ain't important. It's how he snorts."

"I've never heard that saying, John."

To Beatrice's surprise, Broady didn't say a word. He reached for her and gently eased her down into the hay-filled stall and set about proving his words.

Over the next ten minutes Beatrice learned the truth of Broady's promise. Her eyes grew wide with shock as she felt him enter her and begin to move. As he surged forward then retreated only to thrust home again, she felt her body mold to his.

Her hands caressed his sweat-slicked back. Suddenly she froze. A tremor deep within her worked its way to the surface. Her body tightened around Broady's ever-thickening manhood.

He threw his head back and groaned, "Oh, God, Bea, you're goin' be the death of me."

* * *

William Craig scanned the dancers for Ben, Frances and Beatrice. Neither female would be hard to spot. Ben would be with Frances. He'd refused to leave her side ever since John Broady had dragged her onto the dance floor. Beatrice, on the other hand, was easily located for another reason.

William shook his head. He had told Beatrice to use tonight's event for her debut back into society. He had not meant for her to dress like a trollop. Hell, he hadn't seen the like since he had taken Ben to Miz Peaches's in Richmond on his eighteenth birthday.

Exhaling harshly, William finally admitted perhaps Ben's assessment of Beatrice's character might be correct. However, that did not mean he approved of Frances. She was not strong enough for his son.

Ben was a dreamer. He needed a woman grounded in the real world. One who could manage the household and farming better than Frances. What was he thinking? Anyone could manage better than that chit.

Frowning, William continued to search the crowded barn for his brood. The furrows between his eyes deepened. Ben and Frances stood, hand in hand, at the threshold. This could not continue.

William stalked up to the two would-be lovers. "Where have you been?"

"Getting some fresh air."

William leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Neither of you needed to come out here for fresh air. I will not have this family talked about."

He glared at his father. "I'm the man you raised me to be, a man of conscience. This family's reputation won't be sullied because of me, or Frankie."

Surprised by his Ben's words, William looked at his son, seeing him as he was now, not at twelve. Time had shown the tree had grown straight and true. He studied Ben's erect posture and determined expression. The boy with his fears no longer existed. A man with a man's courage stood before him. A Craig, just and honorable. "I am sorry, Ben." William forced a smile. "Where is Beatrice?"

Ben glanced about the room. "She should be here." As James Cardwell moved past him, Ben clapped a hand on his shoulder. "James, have you seen Beatrice around?"

"In that purple dress, she'd be hard to miss." When the Craigs didn't join him in laughter, he immediately sobered. "I saw her walking toward the far barn. But don't worry; she isn't alone. John Broady's with her."

William looked at the three young people. James's smirk worried him. "You two stay here," he said. "I will be back in a few minutes."

Praying his suspicions were wrong, William stalked from the dance. At the weathered barn's entrance, he waited a second, listening for a sound. Suddenly, he heard Beatrice scream.

Taking a deep breath, William plunged into the dark interior. He froze in front of a supposedly empty stall. In the dim moonlight, he saw his daughter-in-law. His eyes widened. Beatrice sat astride John Broady with her boa wrapped around his neck as she rode him with a wild passion William had believed alien to her.

"Aw, come on, honey," John puffed. "Don't stop now. Have a heart, I'm almost there." Suddenly, he groaned. "Ah, that was good. You're one hell of a woman, Bea. I've shot more loads than I knew I had in me."

William ducked into the stall next to the lovers and cleared his throat. He listened to the two scramble to their feet, then the rustle of clothing being righted. When he deemed it safe, William stepped out into the open and glared at the couple.

Turning his gaze on Beatrice, William said, "I supported your desire to remain a Craig. I was wrong. You are no better than a whore." William grasped Beatrice's chin. "From this night forward, you are no kin of mine."

Releasing Beatrice, William shifted his attention to John. "It seems we have a wedding to plan, Mr. Broady. One which involves you and my former daughter-in-law."

Beatrice clutched at his sleeve. "Papa Craig, please."

"I am not your papa." William shook off Beatrice's grasping claws with the same ease he swatted a mosquito. "Should I ever hear tell of your claiming kinship with mine, they will be the last words you speak."

"M-Mr. C-Craig," Broady stuttered. "I w-wasn't plannin' on gettin' married."

"You should have thought of that before," William motioned to the scattered straw-filled stall, "that. This way, if Beatrice is with child, the babe will be with its true daddy." William spat on the ground at Broady's feet. He turned to Beatrice. "For the honor of my dead son's name, I will see to your wedding. But that, Beatrice, is the last you will ever get out of me."

* * *

William glared at them, unwilling and unable to hide his disgust. Beatrice stood sullen and fuming, but he knew she would never disobey him. Not if she hoped to retain acceptance by society.

Broady was another matter. The man reeked belligerence. William faced John. "Do not think about running. I will find and hogtie you and haul you back before you are five miles from here." His narrowed gaze went between the two. "I suggest neither of you move until I return."

Minutes later, he returned with Ben and Frankie in tow. "Frances, help make Beatrice presentable. I refuse to have the widow of a Craig the object of gossip. Ben, help John get all the straw out of his hair. We will present a united front, is that understood?"

"Yes, sir," they returned in unison.

Frankie's eyes met and held Ben's. His eyes held all the warmth of liquid nitrogen. She'd never seen him like this. Not even when he'd accused her of sleeping with other men.

Frankie touched his arm. "Ben?" Her hesitant voice surprised both of them.

He slowly exhaled, then shook his head and moved off toward Broady.

Turning, Frankie made her way to Beatrice. She picked straw from Beatrice's hair and re- adjusted the gown's skewed waistline.

Poor Broady. No way was he a match for Beatrice. Although, all things considered, I'd have thought Beatrice would've added a few branches to the tree.

With a small smile, Frankie stepped aside. Beatrice walked slowly toward Mr. Craig, her head held high and crushed boa feathers trailing behind her.

William turned toward Ben and Frankie. "Return to the dance. We will follow shortly."

* * *

Frankie watched in silence as William Craig marched up to the dance's bandstand and joined the musicians. After a quiet comment to the lead fiddler, the music stopped.

Except for the low murmurs from some women by the food table, silence descended.

Ben placed his mouth next to Frankie's ear. "I hope those two act like lovebirds. Otherwise, the Craig family honor is going to suffer tonight. And I refuse to have the bitch tarnish Joseph's name."

Frankie felt faint.

"I am so pleased to be here tonight to let all our dear friends know of an upcoming marriage in the Craig family," William Craig said, then paused.

Frankie glanced at Ben. She blinked rapidly, trying to stop the tears. It hurt to see him in pain. While Beatrice had damaged Mr. Craig's pride, she suspected that for Ben the true agony came from having his fears about his beloved brother's widow confirmed.

William Craig motioned to the barn's rear door. All heads turned and watched as Beatrice and John Broady entered. "Come along, you two," William said, a smile firmly in place.

Once they had joined him on the bandstand, he continued. "As you can see, my daughter- in-law, Beatrice, has come out of mourning. This evening she told me that she has looked favorably on a certain young man's attentions."

James Cardwell whispered, "From the looks of Broady, he got caught rolling in the hay."

Frankie swallowed at Ben's tightly leashed fury and returned her gaze to the woebegone- looking Broady. Conscious of the silence and stares of his neighbors, Broady kept his downcast gaze on the wood-slatted floor.

"I am pleased to announce the impending marriage of Beatrice Craig and John Broady." William glanced at the couple beside him. "Their union will take place at Craig Knoll within the week. Mildred and I would be honored if all of our friends were to attend."

"Yep, they've already started the honeymoon," James Cardwell said to Ben.

Frankie grabbed Ben's hand and squeezed. When he glanced down at her, she shook her head and whispered, "Never deny accusations. To do so only confirms them."

At Ben's nod, Frankie focused on Beatrice and her future. Poor Beatrice. She'd worn the Craig name like a royal mantle, and now she was going to be a Broady. Frankie's gaze drifted from the rigid woman beside Mr. Craig to a shell-shocked-looking John Broady.

"The perfect union. The witch and the witless." She glanced up at Ben and shrugged at his raised eyebrow.

* * *

Frankie stood at the threshold of Beatrice's bedroom, gathering her courage. Why did Beatrice have to be so cruel? Couldn't she see how hard the past ten days had been on Connie?

The first week after the dance, Connie had drifted in and out of consciousness. Only in the past few days had she recovered sufficiently to get up and move around.

"That's enough, Constance." Beatrice stomped her foot.

"Don't move. You'll topple the stool."

"I don't care. I refuse to stand still another moment."

Frankie quickly moved to Connie's side. "Connie just wants to help, Beatrice." She squeezed her friend's shoulder in silent camaraderie. "If she hadn't found a spool of tatted lace in her trunk, your gown would look the same as when you married Joseph."

"Dye it red, for all I care."

"I would if I had some. Better yet, how about a little tie-dye?"

Beatrice jumped down from the stool. "This is all your fault. And don't think I'll ever forget it either."

Frankie shivered. The look of retribution on Beatrice's face sent warnings to every cell in her body.

"Glad to see you understand." Beatrice started to turn away, then swung back and slapped Frankie's face before storming from the room.

Nonplussed, Frankie touched her left cheek and felt the outline of Beatrice's fingers. "My fault? I didn't tell Beatrice to get her jollies with Broady."

"Frankie!" Connie gasped in a scandalized tone which she ruined with a giggle. All humor left her face as she touched the welt. "It'll disappear within the hour."

Ben entered the room. "Are you all right?"

Frankie nodded.

"Did you hear something? It sounded like a wagon. Noah?" Connie raced toward the windows facing the front of the house.

"Wait!" Ben rushed after her. He reached Connie's side and pulled her from the window. He spoke in a low voice, hoarse with tightly leashed emotions, "I happened on the wagon as it turned in from Three Square Road. You need to be strong. You were right. He's lost his left arm."

Connie clutched her throat as silent tears painted wet streaks down her face. "Oh, my poor darling." She pulled free of Ben's grasp. "Oh, the pain he's endured." Low sobs racked her body.

Ben reached out and grabbed Connie's arm, jerking her to a stop. "Every soldier--Gray or Blue--fears this type of injury, Connie. Noah needs your strength, not your pity."

He turned Connie's face toward his. "Noah fears the family's reception. Right now, he thinks of himself as a cripple. To use his words, he's a 'one-armed freak.' He sees the loss of his arm as just punishment."

"Punishment?" Connie asked in tandem with Mildred.

Exhaling, Ben shifted his gaze to his father who'd just arrived from the kitchen. "He feels it's God's punishment for not having saved more of his men."

"Oh, my poor, sweet baby." Mildred moved to her husband's side and clutched at the front of his jacket.

William held his weeping wife against him as he stroked her back. "We cannot undo the past, only take care of the present."

William's gaze swept the occupants of the room. "Ben is right. Noah needs our support, not pity. We must treat him as we always have. Dry your tears, ladies. It is time to greet our returning hero."

Connie tore free of Ben's hold. She plowed pass Mildred and William, raced down the stairs and out the front door.

With his arm around Mildred, holding her close, William and his wife followed Connie.

The Craig family never ceased to amaze her. They put aside their anguish and sorrow in order to form a united front filled with determination to ease Noah's reentry back into the family fold.

Their actions didn't surprise her. She'd known this was how they would handle the situation.

It seemed love traveled well through the centuries and created the cement that held families together. The ability to love and accept one another was the greatest legacy a family could leave its descendants. In this the Craigs excelled--be it now or her time.

Ben held out his hand for Frankie. "All the family. Please, Frankie, I need you. So very much."

Frankie moved into his arms, emptying her mind of everything except the need to comfort him.

"God help us." His arms tightened around her. "If Connie doesn't handle Noah just right, we could lose him. I've seen it happen. He'll withdraw into himself and never come out."

"Well, isn't this a fine how-do-you-do."

At the sound of Beatrice's sharp voice, Frankie stiffened. When she tried to break free of Ben's embrace, he tensed. She tilted her head and glanced up at his face. She prayed he never looked at her like he was Beatrice--as if she didn't exist.

"Noah's come home, Beatrice. He's lost his left arm. Please join us out front. He needs to see the entire family," Ben said in tone that left Frankie cold from the inside out.

Beatrice sneered. "I am no longer a Craig. Your father's made that quite clear."

"Do as you please, Beatrice. But be warned, hurt Noah by saying the wrong word or gawking at him, and I'll hound you from the county."

With his hand resting on the small of her back, Ben escorted Frankie from the room, down the stairs and out of the house. As they stood on the veranda, Frankie choked back tears as she watched the family gather around Noah.

A war weary soldier has truly come home.

"You've come home." Connie's fingers tenderly traced the sunken hollows in his cheeks. "Oh, Noah--" She stepped back a moment, her gaze swiftly taking in her husband's condition. "You're so thin. I knew things were bad, but--"

"I'm not the same man I was, Connie. I've lost my arm. I'll understand if you can't look at me."

Connie's hand drifted down from Noah's cheek to the empty pinned sleeve on his left side. "You write with your right hand, Noah."

"What's that supposed to mean? I can't use a plow, or a hoe."

Connie stepped back, fisted hands resting on her hips. A scowl erased all welcoming warmth from her expression. "Tell me, Noah, would the loss of an arm change your love for me?"

He shook his head in answer.

"You must think me a shallow person." Connie fingered the material of his empty sleeve. "Well, let me tell you something, Noah Craig. I don't love your arm, nice as it was. I love your soul."

She laid a hand on Noah's heart. "And nothing, not even your casting me out, will change that love." Connie eased her arms around Noah's waist. "I was so afraid I was going to lose you. But you're home now. And if you ever leave me again--even for one night--well, I just won't stand for it. Do you hear?"

Everyone but Frankie released their collectively held breaths when Noah kissed Connie. She'd known from the beginning how Connie would react. For the past five nights, the two women had practiced this encounter.

"Tough love. It works every time," Frankie whispered to Ben.

* * *

Early morning light filtered through the lace curtains. Beatrice scowled down at Frankie's sun-kissed face. It was all her fault. No one looking at her sleeping the sleep of the innocent would guess she was no better than a tart. But Beatrice had known from the first moment she'd laid eyes on the girl there'd be trouble. She knew competition when she saw it.

If only Frankie had never come to Craig Knoll. Then she, Beatrice, the long-suffering widow of Joseph Craig, would be marrying Ben Craig tomorrow instead of marrying John Broady, a poor dirt farmer.

Beatrice glared at her remade wedding dress. It wasn't that she objected to having John as a lover. She didn't. He was the best she'd ever had. And she'd had a number, not that Joseph or his family had ever suspected. She'd always been so careful, planned her entire future. Until the night of the dance.

Her fingers clenched into fists.

With one last sneer, Beatrice moved toward the door. She looked back just in time to catch Frankie's eyelids flicker shut. "I knew it. You're awake."

Beatrice stalked over to Frankie's bed, grabbed the edge of blanket and top sheet and pulled.

Frankie eased to the other side of the narrow bed. Reaching the side of the mattress, she slid her feet onto the floor and scooted out of bed. "Lay another hand on me, Beatrice, and I'll deck you. Better yet, I'll throw you."

"This is all your fault. You turned Ben against me. You think you're so smart. Well, you aren't." Beatrice took a step toward Frankie. "I know all about you and Ben...and that night at the pond."

"So what? If you'd told anyone, you still wouldn't have had Ben. We both know Papa Craig would have goose-stepped us down the aisle." The words were out before Frankie could stop them. Tilting her head, she looked up at Beatrice and held her glare. "You got caught and this afternoon's payday. I sure hope John Broady's everything you've always wanted."

As Beatrice's hands grasped her neck, Frankie pivoted and flipped Beatrice over her hip and onto the floor. A split second later, Frankie's knee rested on the woman's chest and her hand held a shank of hair. "I warned you not to touch me."

Her eyes narrowed on Beatrice's whitened face and pinched lips. "Don't touch me, again, Beatrice. Next time, I'll really hurt you." Frankie rose and backed off.

Beatrice pushed herself up onto her feet. "We'll see who laughs last, missy. After today, I may be the lady of a different manor, but that won't put you any closer to getting Ben's ring on your finger. He'll never marry you. Craig Knoll means too much to him."

Frankie bit the inside of her lower lip. Beatrice was right. Craig Knoll and his family meant the world to Ben. Could she save him and stay in the past with him? No. No, she couldn't. She didn't fit into his world, his time--didn't want to either.

Not that she had to worry about it. Once she saved Ben's life, they'd go back to her home. She'd drag him into that portal, ready, willing and able or not--it made no difference to her. He'd owe her, and she planned to collect. And if she had to wing him to do so, too bad.

Beatrice leaned forward, her nose almost touching Frankie's. "Ben will use you. He'll satisfy his urges and nothing more."

"I should be so lucky." Frankie straightened and walked to the door. Her hand rested on the knob as she glanced over her shoulder. "But my one night with Ben will be a paradise versus a lifetime of hell living with John Broady." Frankie smiled. "But then, you've probably figured that out."

Beatrice's chin came up. "That's where you're wrong. You know nothing about John Broady. He's the best lover I've ever had. And trust me, Frances, I know of what I speak."

"I'm happy for you." Despite Frankie's best efforts to maintain a neutral tone, incredulity filled her voice. "Especially since John Broady's going to be your husband."

At Beatrice's screech, Frankie threw open the door and darted from the room. Once in the hall, she collided with Ben.

Grasping Frankie's shoulders, Ben steadied her, then glanced behind her. "Do you need something, Beatrice?"

"No!" Beatrice slammed the door, then stalked down the hall.

Ben stared at the shut but quivering door. "What did you say to her, Frankie?"

Frankie licked her lips. "Nothing. Honest."

"Now why don't I believe you?" Ben set her from him and placed a finger under her chin, tipping her head up. "I suggest you try to stay out of Beatrice's way, in case she doesn't get over her reaction to what you didn't say."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Ben knocked and entered the large room. "I thought I'd catch you alone for a few minutes."

Noah smiled at his brother. "You have the look of a besotted fool."

Ben struck his chest with his fist. "What have I ever done to deserve such an insult?"

"Plenty. I remember you accusing me of the same thing when I courted Connie. Come closer, it's easier to converse when you're not across the room." He patted the bed beside him. "Sit here and let's talk."

As Ben sat on the empty side of the large bed, Noah grinned. "Want to talk about Beatrice and your near-life sentence, or about our little cousin, Frankie"

"How did you--?" Ben hit his forehead with his palm. "Of course, Connie." The tension eased from his shoulders. "It appears my matchmaking sister-in-law has been busy."

"Connie brought me up to date last night. When she wrote me about your impending nuptials with Beatrice, I was surprised. Your dislike of the woman is an open secret."

A smile of satisfaction spread across his Ben's face. "Her actions with John Broady vindicated my opinion. She proved herself the manipulating trollop I'd always claimed. Even Father dropped the matter of our marrying after the scandal at the dance."

"Especially since he's the one who caught them together."

"Too true." Ben chuckled. "It's disconcerting to know Connie's told you everything of importance."

Noah smiled. "She only talked of things that interested her. Now tell me about Frankie."

"She's incredible. Absolutely perfect. It's--"

Noah's eyebrows shot upward. "Don't tell me you've bedded her?"

Ben bowed his head. "No, I didn't. Not that I didn't want to...and in fact, almost did so." Although four years separated them, he and Noah had always shared their innermost thoughts. Maybe that was why he found it difficult to prevaricate now.

"Damn it all, Ben. How could you? Connie tells me she's a fine woman and a true friend."

He raised his head. "I plan to marry her, Noah."

"According to Connie, Father disapproves of your choice. Are you sure you want to marry our little cousin? The cost--"

"Tell me, if he'd ordered you to cease your courting of Connie, would you have?"

"Never! But I love Connie. Can you say the same?"

"I think so. But," Ben shrugged, "there are complications."

"Such as?"

Ben looked away. He refused to tell Noah how he'd treated her, thinking her a slut. How once his blood had cooled, he remembered his finger touching her maidenhead. No, if he confessed his slander to his brother, then Connie would learn how he'd used Frankie. "She's-- "

"A little tetched?" Noah smiled and gripped Ben's hand. "Connie's a good judge of character. She's said Frankie has some strange ideas, but she also has a good and loving heart."

Ben sighed. "It's that strangeness that's turned Papa against her." He stood and walked to the window. Leaning against the frame, he stared out at the front yard. "I'm going to ask Frankie to marry me, Noah." He glanced back at the bed. "And I'd like to have your support."

Before his brother could answer, Noah grimaced. Ben rushed to the bedside. After adding a few drops of laudanum to Noah's glass, Ben brought the water to his lips.

Noah shook his head and shoved it away. "I don't want it."

"The doctor's letter said to use it if we had it. It eases the pain, Noah."

"And leaves a greater pain in its stead." When Ben continued to bring the water to his lips, Noah knocked the glass out of his hand. "No. I've seen the effects of this on the wounded. The spasms leave as quickly as they come."

Ben sat beside Noah. He knew what Noah said to be true. He'd seen the effects of this pain-numbing medication on too many of his comrades.

"Talk to me. Help me forget my troubles. Tell me about Frankie. When do you plan to ask for her hand?"

* * *

Frankie glanced about the flower-filled front parlor. With the exception of Noah, who lay on the overstuffed sofa, everyone sat straight-backed in rows of chairs facing the minister. They were the same French Rococo chairs that surrounded her dining room table. Frankie felt a rush of sadness that out of the original twenty-four here now, only seven would survive.

"May I sit beside you?"

Frankie's eyes widened as she took in a Ben she'd never met before, not even at the dance. "Of course," she said in a hushed voice. As he eased into the chair to the right of her, his black-suited knee brushed hers. Frankie's fingernails dug into the palm of her hand.

She slanted him a glance from under partially closed eyelids and caught his smile. The contact between them had been deliberate, she was sure of it. Blast the man. His mere presence robbed her of speech. And he knew it, too. Trying to regain control over her wayward body, she forced herself to focus on slow, deep breaths.

Ben leaned over and whispered, "You look particularly beautiful in that gown. It brings back such nice memories."

Frankie shivered at his words. His breath rustled the fine hairs of her ear. As his finger played with the knuckles of her fisted left hand hidden in the folds of her green velvet dress, a bolt of raw energy surged through her body. She slowly freed her hand. "Don't. Not now, Ben," she pleaded and winced inwardly at the lack of conviction in her voice. "It's critical we act as if this marriage were a love match, not a sham."

"As soon as the I-do's are completed all family obligations to Bea will be terminated."

"That's nice." She scooted toward the left edge of her seat.

Ben followed her move until he occupied a bit of both chairs. "I've been dreaming of you, Frankie. I take you to the pond, wrap you in my arms and--"

"Stop it. We can't--"

Ben pressed his fingers against her mouth. "The only thing of importance is that we were meant to be together."

She frowned at his purred words. Her gut told her the ghost had planned her return to the past for years. She'd bet over the years he'd whispered in her ear as she slept, "You're mine, Frankie..." to ensure she crumbled upon meeting the flesh and blood Ben.

The sound of a fiddle playing jarred her back to the present.

A grinning Broady stepped to the front before the minister. Frankie noticed his red hair was untamed as usual. Only his mustache, shiny with grease, stayed in place. Her eyes widened at his frock coat, which appeared to be several sizes too small.

When the guests turned to look out into the foyer, Frankie followed suit. She'd never seen Beatrice so grim. A pity for the stone-faced woman touched Frankie's heart. Then she remembered her conversation with Connie. Trying to make sense out of Beatrice's action, she and Connie had finally decided Beatrice had planned to get pregnant and claim Ben was the baby's father.

Frankie sighed. What could the woman have been thinking? Ben would have denied her accusation. No, that wouldn't have worked. Mr. Craig wanted their marriage so badly, he'd have forced it. Sure, after its birth the baby's bright red hair would have pointed to his true parentage and led to Beatrice's downfall within the family. Unfortunately it would have been a situation of "too bad, so sad" because she'd already be Mrs. Benjamin Craig.

Turning her attention back to Beatrice, Frankie focused on the woman's ramrod posture. She suspected if William Craig hadn't held onto her and then transferred the restraint to Broady, Beatrice would bolt for parts unknown.

Ben reclaimed her attention. "For such a joyous occasion, Beatrice doesn't seem very happy." He winked.

As she opened her mouth to hush him, he nodded to the front.

"You may kiss the bride," the preacher said in a rumbling baritone.

Broady grabbed Beatrice in a bear hug, bent her backward and covered her mouth in a long, noticeably probing kiss. Frankie watched in stunned silence as the rigid woman disappeared before her eyes.

Without Broady's arms for support, she would have collapsed. When he lifted his lips from hers, Beatrice's flushed face and wobbly legs supported the lie that this was a love match-- or at the very least, a "lust match."

As Broady half-carried a shell-shocked Beatrice toward the reception, Frankie joined a smiling Connie, chuckling Noah and a snickering James Cardwell. "Well, it looks like this isn't going to be a marriage made in hell after all," Frankie said.

"I should say not," Connie put in. "It appears that Beatrice truly cares for John."

"Care isn't the word I'd use," James said in a flat tone.

Frankie frowned at Noah's arched eyebrow and Ben's cough. She knew both men agreed, but were too polite to say, that there was a difference between love and lust. She'd experienced the difference at the pond. While Ben tried with his every action to undo the damage of that night, in the back of her mind she doubted his motives. She'd been an end to a means--protection from Beatrice.

The truth would show itself now that the threat of marriage to the woman he hated no longer existed.

Ben captured Frankie's hand in his and brought it to his lips for a kiss. "For my lady," he murmured as he bestowed a noisy kiss on one finger at a time to the accompaniment of Connie's giggles and Noah and James's chortles.

* * *

Ben dropped to the ground and, patting the space beside him, smiled up at Frankie. "Come, sit down, love. I won't bite. At least not very hard."

"That's not reassuring," she murmured. "Are you sure you aren't a relative of Dracula?"

"Dracula?" Ben frowned. "Who's Dracula?"

At Ben's harsh tone, Frankie started, suddenly realizing she'd made yet another mistake. Bram Stoker's world famous book wouldn't be written until 1897, she thought, remembering the delightful chills she'd experienced reading the classic for the first time.

"Frankie? I asked who's Dracula?"

Anger surfaced and Frankie returned his glower. That dirty, good-for-nothing, lying hypocrite. He probably thought she'd slept with Dracula. Was pining for him and had turned to Ben only out of loneliness.

If so, it was time she got some of her own back, not to mention have a little fun in the process. Frankie pasted an innocent smile on her face. "There's no need to be jealous of Dracula." She reached out to touch Ben's cheek. Her smile turned to mock worry when Ben jerked back from her.

"If he's no one, tell me about him."

The feral gleam in Ben's eyes filled her with energy and more than a little excitement. "He's a very dangerous man. No...he isn't really a man." When the tic in Ben's cheek continued to twitch, she added sweetly, "Dracula's a vampire."

"You equate me to a vampire?"

Without thinking, Frankie blurted, "Yes. You're magnetic. I can't keep away from you, even when you've hurt me and I know nothing good will come from it," she murmured, glancing about the still fields surrounding them and the pond. Suddenly, fingers lightly caressed the side of her neck.

"So, you can't resist me, hmm?" His lips followed the trail his feather touch had blazed. "You're mine, Frankie. All mine." He eased her onto her back, the tall grass bending under their weight to form a soft mattress.

Ben's possessiveness extinguished Frankie's smoldering flames of passion. It seemed passion came easily to him. Love and trust were impossibilities. She wondered if she'd ever forget that night at the pond and Ben's harsh words or look of betrayal. She doubted it. They were indelibly seared into her brain. Stiffening, she averted her face from his approaching lips. "I can't do this. Not again."

"A kiss? How can a kiss between two people be wrong?" he whispered, dropping a series of slow, bone-melting kisses down her neck until he came to the sensitive hollow. When he laved the pulsating point, then gave it a sharp nip, followed by a healing flick of his tongue and small suck, Frankie moaned in sweet agony.

"Oh, dear," she said with a shiver. She couldn't let it happen again. She framed his face with her hands. "I can't do this. Not here, not now."

"Then marry me. Within the week," Ben said just before his mouth covered hers in an urgent, hungry kiss.

His words penetrated Frankie's sensual haze with the sureness of a foghorn. She twisted her face to the side. "Marry you? This week?" she gasped, pushing on his shoulders.

Frankie felt like crying. Here were the words she'd longed to hear. Ben wanted to marry her. "I-I can't marry you."

He pulled back slowly. "Why not? I thought you loved me."

"I do. But there's more at stake than this." She motioned to them and the ground.

Ben leaned over her. His arms formed a cage about her head. The weight of his body anchored hers to the ground. "You say you love me and want me, so why won't you marry me?"

"You don't know anything about me. You think you do, but you don't. Believe me, you have no idea--"

"Is it the other man, Frankie? Do you still love Dracula? If so, I swear I'll drive all memory of him from you."

White hot fury flowed through her veins. "You jerk." Frankie broke free of Ben's grasp and scrambled to her feet. "I've told you, repeatedly, there's never been any one but you. Yet you refuse to believe me. As for Dracula, he's a fictional character in a novel."

Frankie pointed her finger at him. "You're the worst kind of double-standard Neanderthal." Turning, she strode five paces, stopped and looked over her shoulder. "Until you can accept that my word and honor have the same value as a man's, don't come near me."

His darkened gaze bore into hers. "Damnation woman!" he thundered. "What nonsense are you talking about? I just told you I love you--"

"You've never said anything about loving me. Be honest! You want one thing and one thing only: sex!"

"Yes, I feel lust for you, and it's a good thing I do. But I also want you as my wife, want you for all time."

"For all time," Frankie murmured. "Oh, Ben, for all time is not so simple."

"If the reason you hesitate is because of someone else--I'll--damnation I don't know what I'll do. We belong together. How can you deny it after the passion we've shared?"

She felt tears pool in her eyes, their moisture forming a track down her cheeks. Short of telling Ben the truth, what could she do? Somehow, she didn't think he'd believe her.

In six days the deserters arrived.

She needed to talk to Uncle Henry. Now!

* * *

Ben slid a glance at Frankie and frowned. Damnation, but the woman was going to be the ruin of all his honor. First he'd all but bedded her. Now he was lying. He shook his head at the whopper he'd just told. And trustingly, Frankie had believed him when he'd said his mother had ordered them to go fishing and smoke their catch.

His gaze locked with hers. In a flash, he saw worry clouding her gray eyes and held up his hand. "Frankie, just get in the boat. The sooner we catch and smoke the fish, the sooner you can be free of my company."

Ben scowled at her open suspicion, then exhaled harshly. He was tired of fighting with Frankie, his family and the war. She belonged to him, with him, and he refused to let her go. She loved him. That much he knew. Whether she'd forgive him was open to question.

Not that it mattered. After today, she'd be his. He was an expert at planning and implementing a campaign. Of course, he was also used to having his requests--okay, orders-- obeyed by all those under his command. Hell, even his family did as he requested--with the exception of his father and Frankie.

With his father it was understandable. Within the home the man was a general. Frankie was another matter. Which, given her inability to follow anyone's orders, meant she'd have found herself court-martialed.

After today, she'd have no recourse but surrender. Before he was through, Frankie would be forced to marry him.

Ben frowned. So much for following orders. "Get in, Frankie. There's nothing to be afraid of. The John boat's perfectly safe."

Frankie stared at the flat-bottomed vessel. "Right." She didn't trust the boat's outer surface of exposed, cracked wood. "How long's it been since it's had a maintenance check?"

"A what?"

"You know, had someone check it out. Shouldn't the wood have varnish on it?" she asked, her gaze glued to the pale sun-dried birch. Its shape reminded her of an arrow, pointed at one-end and squared off at the other. Empty, its side rode barely two feet above the water. Lord help them when their weight was added to it.

"Where're the lifejackets?"

"Trust me. I said it's safe, and it is."

Frankie's eyes widened when Ben stepped into the boat and reached up to help her down.

"Umm, Ben, do you swim?"

"Like a fish. Don't you? I'd think with five brothers you'd have learned."

"Yes, they taught me. I was also young and wasn't wearing boots and long skirts," Frankie said, remembering her hot pink bikini back home. She looked out at the fast-flowing James River. "And I've only swum in ponds or pools."

"Don't worry, Frankie. If anything should happen, I'll take care of you. If worst comes to worst, we can use your drawers as floats."

Great! Here she stood in her French-cut panties and Ben talked about her using bloomers as a Mae West. She inched forward, then eased down onto the seat. The boat tilted to one side and the seat wobbled, despite the bolts securing it to the sides.

"Frankie," Ben said, his voice filled with amusement. "You don't face me. You face the front. Here." He thrust an oar at her.

"I-I thought you'd do the rowing and I'd sit and watch you." Bewildered, Frankie stared at the long heavy paddle. "Then again, I can do my part." Sighing, Frankie hefted the oar. She'd never rowed a boat in her life. Nor had she seen a paddle this big or heavy. Clutching her oar, she changed her position. "Row, row, row your boat, pulling against a killer river," she sang under her breath.

With a shake of his head and a smile, Ben reached around Frankie and plucked the heavy paddle from her hand. After casting off, Ben rowed down the James three miles. Once anchored mid-stream, he said, "Turn around, Frankie. It's no fun fishing if you can't see each other when you talk."

Once she'd resettled herself, Ben handed her a baited fishing rod and picked up his pole. "Here, ladies first," he said. "Want to make a bet?"

"You want to bet over who catches the most fish?"

"Yep."

Frankie smiled at the laughter in his voice. A fool was quickly parted from his money. And I'm about to take Ben to the cleaners. She knew how to fish, and fish with the best of them. At twenty-one, she'd been Uncle Max's partner at the Southeastern Regional Bass Masters Competition, and her skill had gotten them in the top ten.

She licked her lips. "Sure. But only if you bait my hook. I don't like to handle worms."

Frankie ignored his snicker. She'd play him with the same finesse she used to reel in a five-pounder. "The one who catches the most fish in two hours doesn't have to clean them." At Ben's raised eyebrow, she said, "Don't tell me you now want to weasel out of the bet?"

Ben pulled his watch from his pocket--four o'clock. "Make it one hour and you're on," he said, casting off the opposite side of the boat.

* * *

Ben felt no dismay when Frankie got the first bite of the afternoon. As she slowly reeled in her catch, Ben studied her fierce expression. A wave of savage hunger washed through him, pooling in his groin. God help him, he didn't think he could last another day without touching her. She invaded his every thought, his every dream.

The memory of her delicate body wrapped around his waist, the water lapping at their backs, her mouth under his, and oh, Lord, those extraordinary breasts pressed against his chest drove him mad.

Frankie's gleeful laugh jolted Ben out of his fantasy. When she leaned over the side and struggled to lift the bass into the boat and her breasts rested against his knee, he groaned. Reaching around her, he hauled the fish in. "A two and a half pound large mouth."

"Let me see you do better than that," she said with a laugh.

Ben tossed the fish in the wicker basket and dropped the line back into the cool water, then reeled in his line and checked it. The bait was gone. He'd never felt the nibble. Of course, Moby Dick could have been on the other end and he wouldn't have noticed.

Forty minutes later, Ben looked at his empty hook in disgust. He'd caught a lousy small mouth bass, weighing less than a pound. In contrast, Frankie had three, all of them over two pounds, and two granddaddy cats.

"Want to call uncle?"

"Come here." Ben reached out to grasp Frankie's waist.

"Not until you say it. Go ahead, say it. It's easy. It's U-N-C-L-E."

"Uncle," Ben whispered.

"I-didn't-hear-you."

"Uncle."

"Say it loud. Very loud. Shout it for the world to hear," Frankie said between laughter.

"UNCLE!" Ben yelled. "Now, come here, you saucy bit of baggage, or I'll throw you overboard."

As Ben reached out to draw her to him, he glanced at the sky and stiffened. "Damn!" Thoughts of Frankie, of them making love, of him inside her, feeling her soft wetness surrounding him, had so filled his mind he'd forgotten the most basic rule of boating: keep an eye on the sky and an ear open to nature.

If he had, he'd have noticed the sudden quiet. Animals had taken to the ground. Birds no longer chirped. The air smelled heavy. The heat he'd felt had come from desire, not the sun.

After hoisting the anchor, Ben turned back to Frankie. "I need your help." He handed her an oar. "Let's make for the southern bank. It's smoother."

"What's the matter?"

"It's too quiet. There's a storm coming. Put your back into it, Frankie. We don't have much time." Wind hit them. Water splashed into the boat. "Shit!"

"What did you say?" Frankie screamed.

"The wind's coming at us from the northwest. That means trouble. Big trouble."

"Why?"

"During the summer, the strongest storms come from that direction. The river's tricky under the best of circumstances. And the worse the wind, the more dangerous the river. In this, anything can happen." Ben dug his oar into the churning water.

"I can't tell you how relieved that makes me feel, Ben."

The wind-forced rain lashed at her sideways. Frankie glanced down at her feet. The boat was taking on water. Shit was right. They were sinking.

Looking to her left, she saw saplings being uprooted. Virginia wasn't in tornado alley. Although that didn't mean a thing. A strong gale could do as much damage.

Furiously, she drove her oar repeatedly into the water, matching his strokes. The river wrenched it from her hands. "Ben, I've lost my oar."

"I've lost mine, too." The words had no sooner left his mouth when the boat groaned beneath them.

The sound of splintering wood followed. Water surged through the gaping hole in the hull and along the side. "Get that skirt off!"

Frankie tore at the waterlogged garment and jerked off her cross-trainers. She knew their weight could drag her under as surely as the long, sodden skirt.

Ben lunged forward, grabbed her arm and jumped feet first into the churning current. She came up gasping, struggling for air. Twigs slapped her as they roared by. Her eyes widened in horror.

Using one arm to hold her, Ben began swimming toward the bank.

A tree trunk was rocketing toward his skull. "Ben!" Frankie knew he'd never make it if he kept her in tow. She slowed him. He'd be lucky to survive even if he released her this instant. Which given his code of honor, he'd never do.

Frankie tore free of his grasp. "Go!" With a few quick strokes she pulled away from him.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Frankie groaned. Wincing, she touched the back of her head. Withdrawing her hand, she brought it in front of her face and gasped at her crimson-stained fingers.

Ben pressed her back onto the mattress of grass. "Easy, love. Not so fast," Ben said, his voice hoarse and strained. "You took a wallop to the back of your head." He held a compress made from his shirt to her wound.

"How long was I out?"

"Not long. Five, ten minutes at the most."

"Where are we?"

"About four miles down river from Craig Knoll." He smoothed Frankie's long hair from her face.

"The tree trunk missed my head by inches. You caught its corner." He shook his head. "Then you disappeared beneath the waters."

Ben brushed a gentle kiss across her forehead. "I was terrified I'd lost you." His lips touched a tender spot over her right eye. "Luckily, I spotted that wild mane of yours." His fingers traced the path of his gaze. "The next thing I knew, I had you in my arms and was carrying you ashore."

His hands quickly checked her arms, abdomen and legs for injuries.

Frankie shivered. Uncle Henry was right. Their destinies were written in the stars. They were alive--at least for the moment. Closing her eyes, she relaxed under Ben's calming caress. Only their breathing broke the quiet stillness. "The storm's over, isn't it?"

Ben studied the sky. "For now. It'll start up again, sooner than you think. Or want."

"That being the case, we'd better find shelter, and quick." As Frankie struggled to sit up, she realized that she was damn near naked. Her blouse hung open, most of its buttons missing. Nor did her lacy demi-bra or silk panties, now nothing more than transparent film, offer much coverage. "My clothes," she gasped.

"Calm down. Your skirt, shoes and petticoats," he gave a slight shrug, "belong to the fish. You still have some clothes on. I think." Ben hooked one finger under the lacy strap of her bra while the other traced her panties' high-cut edge. "What are these?"

Frankie didn't miss the hoarse rasp in his voice. Nothing like being almost naked with a man who thinks showing an ankle's sexy.

"The top one's a brassiere. The bottom's a new kind of bloomer. Mama ordered them for me from France--a store called Targét." She pinched the bridge of her nose. Thank the good Lord her brain still functioned. At least she'd remember to say they'd come from France and hadn't blurted out the truth about Neiman's. She inhaled a shaky breath. "How will we get home?"

"Walk."

"Walk?"

"Yes, but not right now." Ben lifted her to her feet. "We'd never make it before those storm clouds hit."

"If we start now--"

He turned her toward him. "I won't risk your taking a chill. There's an old cabin close by." Ben slipped his arm around Frankie's shoulders and held her next to him.

He needed to hold her, touch her, to reassure himself she was with him after all. God, he'd almost lost her. He'd never been as frightened as when she'd disappeared under the water. Not even during the war. All he could think of was he'd lost her just when he'd found her.

It was in that moment he knew he didn't care about Frankie's past. It wasn't important except that it had made her the woman he loved. And love her he did. He'd prayed to the Lord to give her back to him. He'd offered everything he had for a second chance.

Now that he had it, Ben refused to let anything come between them. Not his father, the war or Frankie's past.

The day hadn't gone as planned, yet all was not lost. Spending the night together, alone, in this cabin, would be sufficient to force a marriage.

Not the best way to start a marriage--a shotgun at the bride's back. But so be it. Once wed, he'd make sure Frankie was happy. So happy she'd never want anyone else, just as he knew having another woman would be an impossibility for him.

Ben glanced down at her slender legs. He had to find her clothing and fast. It was bad enough she talked strangely, but if his parents should see her undergarments--

He shook his head. It didn't bear thinking on.

An hour later, Ben pointed to a clearing ahead. "There it is."

Frankie's legs wobbled one last time, then buckled. Ben scooped her up his arms and held her against his chest. God, the feel of her skin touching his was almost more then he could bare.

She clutched his arm. "Sorry. I'm not usually such a wuss."

"A what?"

"A weakling, a burden."

"Nonsense. You're anything but that. Strong, determined, mule-headed, yes. A weakling, never."

As he kicked the door closed, her eyes drifted shut. "Huh-uh," she murmured.

Rain pelted the cedar-shake shingles. "We made it just in time." After laying her down on a narrow cot, Ben stood and stared down at her. Tremors racked her body. He had to do something, and fast. If the war had taught him nothing else it was that shock killed more people than the actual wound.

Ben moved to the center of the room. On the table next to the lard-oil lamp, he found a metal container of matches. He struck one, lit the lamp, then surveyed their accommodations. Two small beds ran along the east wall. Frankie's bed had the only mattress. Feeling her eyes on him, he glanced over his shoulder at her. "Not very fancy, but it's dry."

Warmth, she needed warmth. Until he had time to discover what their shelter contained, a fire would have to suffice. Turning, he strode over to the river rock wall and fireplace. With skill born from years of war and fear for Frankie, Ben rapidly placed kindling in the hearth and reached for another match. Once the blaze caught, he added a couple of logs.

Pushing himself upright, Ben walked to the window and pulled aside the deerskin covering. "It's coming down harder." He dropped the hide back over the opening. "I know there're blankets somewhere, and if I remember rightly, there's still some food here."

He paused, glanced at the cot, then under it. "Just as I thought. Reaching under it, he withdrew three blankets. After placing one over Frankie, he placed the other two on the foot of the bed.

Ben moved over to the cupboards. Focused on the need to provide Frankie with food, he didn't hear her ease off the bed and hobble to the table. Only when she grasped a chair and dropped down onto it did he hear her. With two steps, he was at her side. "Are you--"

"I'm fine, Ben. Just fine."

He exhaled. "Don't move again without my help. You're too weak."

"Okay."

Ben stared down at her, scared to his toes. Frankie was a lot of things, but meek wasn't one of them. Nor had she shown a willingness to follow orders. "At least you showed enough sense to wrap the cover around you."

He returned to the bed, retrieved a blanket, and placed another across her legs. "We have a banquet for dinner." He walked over to the open shelves. Moments later he place some jars on the table. "Peaches, tomatoes, plus green and lima beans."

"Sounds great." Placing an elbow on the rough-hewn table, she rested her head on her hand.

"This food's been here since deer hunting last November. Here," Ben said, putting a bowl of peaches before her. "These are Mama's special preserves."

Frankie shoved the bowl aside. "No, thanks. I don't feel like eating," she said, massaging her temples.

"I wish I had some laudanum." Ben lifted her from the chair and cradled her in his arms. "Maybe after you've slept, you'll feel better."

"No!"

"Why do you say that?"

"Sleeping's the worse thing a person can do with a concussion. You're supposed to stay awake for two or more hours after the injury. And later, someone has to wake you every couple of hours."

"You have some of the strangest notions."

"You don't know the half of it," she murmured. "Talk to me. Tell me about this place." Reaching up, she rested her hand against his cheek. "I'll be fine. I promise. Now, talk to me about the cabin."

With a shrug, Ben returned to his seat. "This is Craig Knoll property, but over the years, it's become a communal cabin. The local farmers use it when fishing." Ben rose and walked over to the fireplace. "It's also used during hunting season." Picking up a metal poker, he stoked the blaze.

As he started to rise, Ben spotted bloodstains on Frankie's feet. "Damn it, why didn't you say something about them?" Not waiting for an answer, he charged outside to the water barrel and returned with a filled bucket. Once he'd emptied some water into the kettle, he slung it over the fire to heat. "We have to clean your feet, now." He shook his head. "What were you thinking? What was I thinking? I knew you didn't have shoes. Damn."

Once the water came to a boil, he added it to a metal tub full of cold water. Sitting it at her feet, he placed each cut and scratched foot in the pan and gently washed them. Fear throbbed through him. "Didn't you think about infection?"

"No more than you," Frankie snapped, then ruined it with a yawn. She slipped her hand under the blanket and scratched her thigh. Rats, she wasn't in any condition to be seen by the family. When they were rescued and Mr. Craig saw her getup, she'd be dead meat. Then again, maybe they could get home before anyone found them. "Do you think the family is searching for us?"

"They will, but not before morning. Between the storm and the dark, it's too dangerous to travel."

"Then no one will be out looking for us right now, true?"

Ben shook his head. "I know we don't always speak the same language, but--"

"I just wanted to be sure." She rubbed her hands together. "If the family stays put, then we can make it home by morning under our own steam." She waved a hand over herself. "Once there, you sneak into my room and get me some clothes. That way, your father won't have a heart attack when he sees me." She shoved Ben's shoulder. "Stop glowering at me."

"Sometimes I wonder about you. I've just told you about the dangers during a storm, your feet are torn-up, and you want to walk home without shoes. My dear, we were lucky to have made it to the cabin."

"B-but your father. What's he going to think when he sees me practically naked?" She rolled her eyes. "I can hear him now!"

"He's a reasonable man."

"That's bull crap and you know it. He already disapproves of me, and this," she plucked at her bra, "will confirm his worst fears."

"He'll be thankful we're alive and well. That's what's important." He perused Frankie's scantily clad form. Yes, his father would be grateful they were alive. He'd also march the two of them down the aisle within hours of returning home.

Ben fingered the brassiere's front clasp. "I know you said your undergarments are from France, but I've never seen one of these before. Nor that scrap of silk you use instead of bloomers."

"You mean the ladies at Miz Peaches's didn't wear lingerie like mine?"

"No."

"I'm surprised. I mean, my mother bought them before the blockade, so they've been around for a while."

Ben smiled. He'd discovered whenever she bit her lower lip before answering and he'd best think twice before accepting at face value anything she said. "Mama likes to keep up with the latest in fashion. I wonder if she uses them, too."

Frankie's blanched face confirmed she hadn't told him the entire truth. Chances were, she hadn't told him a fraction of the truth. If only she'd trust him.

He removed his shirt and tore it into strips. As he removed her feet from the cooled water, he used pieces of cloth to dry each foot, then wrapped them with the remaining strips.

Rising from the floor, he walked over to the one usable bed, and spread the remaining blanket over the mattress. Returning to Frankie, he lifted the blanket off her lap. "I know this is awkward, but you need to get out of your wet things before you take a chill. So do I for that matter. I'll step outside while you undress and get under the covers. I can undress after you're asleep." He raise his hand and the blanket. "I'll wrap this around me."

"But I can't go to sleep yet. I've explained that to you."

"Don't worry." His finger caressed her cheek. "I'll sit by the fire and wake you throughout the night."

* * *

Ben shivered. Damn, it was cold. Frowning, he rolled his shoulders and glanced at the glowing embers of what had been a blaze. He'd fallen asleep. And by the condition of the coals in the hearth, it'd been far longer than two hours.

He bolted to his feet, threw another log on the fire, then rushed to Frankie's side. "Wake up, love. Wake up." He lifted her by the shoulders and shook her. When her hands batted at him, he exhaled. "Frankie?"

At her silence, he tossed aside the top blanket. Oblivious to her nakedness, he stood Frankie on her feet and forced her to walk with him.

"I said wake me, not make me walk the floor like a pill-popper."

He swallowed and gathered her to him.

"Ben--"

"Shush." He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. "I fell asleep. When I woke, I had trouble rousing you. After your telling me of its importance, I feared I'd lost you." Her arms encircled his waist. Taut breasts grazed his hot skin. When she placed a tentative kiss on his bare chest, a shudder ripped through him.

He'd been granted a second chance, and by George he was going to make the most of it. When morning came, she would be his and his alone.

Scooping her up in his arms, Ben strode to the bed and laid her gently upon the faded gray covering. As he eased down beside her, he asked in a low, hoarse voice, "Do you understand what I want?"

Frankie tugged at the blanket around Ben's waist. As it came free, his mouth covered hers. Pent-up desire broke free. His probing tongue sought hers in response.

And respond she did.

Her body trembled with desire, and Ben almost came apart. Sensations raced along his nerves, setting him on fire as his tongue teased her nipple, promising more. Ben lifted his head.

Her fingers threaded through his hair, trying to hold him in place. "Don't leave me."

"I'm not." His tongue painted a trail down one breast and up the other. As his lips closed over their new target, his hand started its own sensual exploration. Touching her. Learning her.

Moaning, Frankie bucked, squirmed and raised her hips to his questing fingers. When she hooked a leg around his thigh, Ben eased over her, covering her body with his. Then with a groan, he pulled back. "Too fast." He pressed kisses along her ribcage, down her abdomen.

At her gasp, he smiled and buried his fingers in the nest hiding the moist, full folds of her hunger.

Perspiration dewed her arched body. Spasms overcame her. "Beeennn."

He slid up her body, and with one thrust entered her. Her hot, tight sheath held him in its grip. Desperation for release drove him. He thrust against her, into her, harder and faster. He threw back his sweat-slicked head and groaned, spilling himself inside her. Then gasping for breath, he collapsed on her. "I won't let you leave me, Frankie," he murmured next to her ear.

He'd been right. He was Frankie's first lover, and by God, he'd be her last. Ben raised up on his forearms and stared down at her beautiful, tear-streaked face.

Ben caressed her face. "I'm so sorry about my behavior at the pond." He withdrew from her and walked over to the bucket of water. He poured some in the pan and carried it back to the bed. "My only excuse is I love you so much that when you talked about me," he motioned at the tip of his penis, "I went insane with jealousy. Can you ever forgive?"

"Yes, of course. I love you, too."

Ben smiled. He'd won the war. "Let me clean you." He pulled a knife from his boot. After slicing the top edge of the blanket he tore off a strip. He dipped it into the water and slowly, reverently cleansed the mixture of his seed and her blood from her thighs.

After emptying the water outside, he threw the strip into the fire and returned to Frankie. He slipped beneath the cover. As his arm drew her to him, Ben felt her stiffen. "Let me hold you. Much as I'd like to spend the night loving you, you're too sore. But come our wedding night," he kissed her forehead, "it won't hurt. It will be filled with only pleasure."

"Wedding night?"

"Yes, wedding night. Now rest."

* * *

Light filtered around the sides of the deerskin window covering. Frankie sighed. So this is the morning after, she thought, nuzzling Ben's chest as his fingers traced a path down her spine.

"We'll get married immediately." Before she could correct him, he tensed and his caresses stopped. "I heard something." Ben set her aside and rolled out of bed.

"Your father! No, I can't let him see like this."

"You're right, this sight," he hand skimmed her exposed breast and bare hip, "is meant for my eyes alone. Put this on." Ben tossed Frankie the remnants of his shirt. "It'll cover some, but not enough."

She buttoned his shirt, then seeing her panties, lunged for then and slipped them on.

After securing his trousers, Ben's gaze narrowed on her exposed body. "Check over there," he said, pointing to a small chest. "I think there may be some pants. Put them on."

Frankie opened the case, retrieved a pair of trousers, and slid them over her hips.

A partially clad Ben opened the door a crack. The footsteps he'd heard were now clearly audible to even her untrained ears. "Sit down over there." Ben pointed to the table. "It's out of sight."

Frankie limped to the chair. Seeing Ben's drawn knife, she positioned herself for easy flight. Indistinct voices, their words muffled by the crunching of pine needles under boots, filtered into the cabin.

"It's Uncle Henry. He's not alone."

Frankie closed her eyes. Damn! The last thing she needed was for William Craig to find her in this condition. One look and he'd know they'd made love. Just what she needed--a shotgun wedding. She could hear the preacher now. "Do you take this woman, for better or worse, in sickness and in health, in the nineteenth and twenty-first centuries?"

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

"Thank God you two are alive." Mr. Craig advanced into the room and clasped his son to him. "We found pieces of your boat and feared the worst."

Once free of his father's embrace, Ben sheathed his knife in his boot next to the bed. Within seconds, he'd pulled on both boots. "We're fine. When the boat capsized, a log hit Frankie on the back of her head. Her feet are also cut up from the walk here. Otherwise, we're none the worse for wear."

"Good. Good. You won't have to walk the five miles home, Frances. The horses are tethered just out of sight in the woods."

Ben glanced at Frankie and smiled. Much as he wanted her compromised, he felt relief his father hadn't guessed how they'd passed the night.

Mr. Craig walked over to Frankie. He helped her stand and gave her a hug. "It sounds as if you have been through an ordeal." He turned her around and examined the back of her head. "You will be fine, Frances. 'Tis a clean cut."

Henry nodded. "Gotta get these young'ens home, sir. They're worn to a bone."

"Yes, yes." Mr. Craig's gaze drifted to the rumpled blankets on the bed behind Henry, then back to a red-faced Frankie.

Turning, Mr. Craig marched over to the bed. He pulled back the top blanket. The stained bedding told everything. "I need to speak with my son. Take Frances to the horses, Henry, and wait."

"Yes, sir." Henry helped Frankie from the chair.

Ben knew from experience what that note of steel in his father's voice meant.

As Henry and Frankie's footsteps faded, William Craig pivoted and faced his son. "Sit down," he said in a low voice.

Ben remained standing. He refused to allow the old man to tarnish the most wonderful night of his life. The night he'd discovered the truth about Frankie.

Ben slowly exhaled. Except for how the situation impacted Frankie, he didn't care what his father thought or said. "Don't think to blame Frankie. This was all my doing. I planned it. I've made no secret of the fact that I want Frankie as my wife."

"I can see that." William's gaze narrowed on the bloodstained blanket. "You claimed she was no longer an innocent."

"She no longer is."

"You also said she could be with your child!"

"And after last night, she probably is." Ben raised an eyebrow as his father's body shook with barely leashed rage.

"Was it not enough that Beatrice dishonored the family name? Was not her publicly shaming us at the county's biggest event in two years enough humiliation? Do you hate me so that you feel it necessary to go her one better?"

William stormed back to the bed. Wrenching the evidence from the cot, he waved the soiled blanket in the air. "Do you realize what this will do to your mother? She will die if her cousin Jacob discovers what you have done to his baby girl! Where is your honor?"

"I fail to see how this will reflect on Craig honor." He advanced on his father. "Only those here know what took place. I will marry the woman I want. And after last night, I don't expect you to stand in the way."

"You did this out of spite."

"Wrong. We almost died yesterday. In fact, Frankie came damned close to it." Ben stood before his father. "If you and Mama had found yourself in the same position before you wed, can you honestly say you wouldn't have shared your love?" He clasped his father's arm.

William shook off Ben's hand. "Your mother and I are not at issue! Your shameful behavior is!"

"There's nothing dishonorable or shameful about it!"

"You knew how I felt about a union between the two of you. Yet you compromised yourself."

"I don't want Frankie hurt. A rushed wedding will shame her. I won't allow that."

"Not allow?" William's gaze narrowed on his son's face. "She could be with child this very minute."

William turned from his silent son and walked slowly to the door. "Your horse is tethered outside. Clean this place before leaving and burn that," he said, pointing to the blanket. "No one must learn of your shame."

He paused and glanced back at Ben. "You shall marry Frances. You will also be disinherited. From the day of your union with Frances Payne, neither of you will be welcome in my home. Noah will run the estate and upon my death gain ownership of all my assets."

* * *

In less than twenty-four hours her life had turned inside out. Frankie shuddered. She now knew how a shunned person felt within the Amish community. In desperation, she'd left the house and sought refuge in the quiet solace of her thinking place beside the pond.

She'd hoped watching the sun's reflection dance on the pond's current would bring her some measure of peace. No such luck. "How can one moment of joy and ecstasy destroy the fabric of a loving family?"

Her travel through time had been a disaster for everyone. Even the discovery that she and Ben loved one another wasn't a happy occurrence. Yes, she'd saved him from Beatrice. But not really. He'd never have married her anyway. The deserters killed him first.

At least before her arrival, the family hadn't been a divided camp. And to think, she'd blamed the Civil War for splitting families apart. Throughout the long hours of yesterday, Mr. Craig had refused to acknowledge either her or Ben's presence. That is until the evening meal and the family discovered the reason he'd avoided the two of them.

The Civil War was sandlot baseball compared to the uproar created by the announcement of their impending marriage and Ben's disinheritance.

Unfortunately, sleep had offered her no respite. She'd tossed in cold, swirling blackness breaking once to allow her glimpses of Ben. He was standing in the pond, the moon's light glistening off his wet chest. Frankie sighed. The last thing she wanted to remember was her experience with white lightning and the feel of Ben's solid hands stroking and teasing her.

Frankie rose. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Ben striding toward her. Lord help her now.

"Hello, love," Ben said, his voice a gentle caress on her frayed nerves. "Why have you hidden yourself from everyone?"

"After last night's debacle, how can you ask me that?" Frankie pushed his hands away. "Your father holds me in such contempt he's disowning you for marrying me."

Ben grasped her shoulders and pulled her to him. After wrapping one arm around a squirming Frankie, he tipped her head up.

"Ben, stop it."

"Sometimes you talk too much."

His lips covered hers, transmitting fierce anger and frustration. She melted against him, and his kiss turned gentle, teasing, questing and loving. Raising his head, he traced Frankie's lower lip with his thumb. She shivered as the memory of how good it was between them flooded her.

Smiling, Ben bent down on one knee. As he took her right hand in his, Frankie closed her eyes and prayed for strength.

"Frances Payne, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

Pulling her fingers free, Frankie swayed and steadied herself. She had to tell him the truth. He deserved nothing less. She swallowed convulsively, took a deep breath, and said, "Remember when I told you there was much you didn't know about me? Well, you're about to learn everything."

Frankie stood. "Although I'm called Frankie, I'm not your cousin, Frances Payne. My name's Frances Matthews." His nostrils flared, and she swallowed hard, again. When he rose, she braced herself for a tidal wave of hurt and disbelief.

"If you don't want to marry me now that I have nothing, say so. Say it plainly, Frankie, but don't make up a tale about being someone else. It dishonors us both. And together we've brought sufficient shame on the family without adding more."

Frankie knew his comment wasn't aimed at just their actions together, but also at his uncertainty about his ability to keep her. "I love you, Ben. Everything I've done has been because I love you. Well, maybe not everything. But everything since I figured out I loved you."

She clasped his left hand between both of hers. "I'm also telling the truth. I am Frances, Frankie, Matthews. I was born over a hundred years in the future and am twenty-nine years old. I've graduated from University of Virginia in Charlottesville with a Masters in History and also have a Masters in Business Administration from Duke University in North Carolina."

Freeing himself from her hold, Ben took two steps back and jammed his hands in his trousers pockets. The sound of paper being crushed shattered the momentary stillness.

"Please, listen to me, Ben--"

"What kind of fool do you take me for?"

"I am from the future. I live in the United States of America. We have fifty states now. After the North won the Civil War, we formed a stronger union." She gave an apologetic shrug. "In my time, we think of ourselves as Americans first, Virginians second. Except for the reenactors--they live completely in the past."

"Pray continue. I'm fascinated by this tale you're weaving. Is it possible my father's been right about you, Miss Pay--Matthews? Tell me the truth, Frances."

She studied Ben's closed expression. "You stubborn, nineteenth-century jackass! If you think I allowed your ghost to force me to take this trip back in time to be jerked around by a male chauvinist pig, you've got another think coming."

Frankie undid her blouse and pulled it open, exposing her front-clasp demi-bra. "Remember this little number?" She swatted his hands away before refastening her top. "Well, I lied. They don't come from your time period. Hell, the bra isn't even invented yet. But then, neither are my French-cut panties. And then there's Dracula. Well, guess what, big boy, Bram Stoker doesn't write the story of the count until 1897."

Frankie poked him in the chest. "The things I've put up with." She raised a finger with each item. "No indoor plumbing. No electricity. No supermarkets. No microwaves. And no e- mail! Do you have any idea how hard it's been for me, an e-mail junkie, to be cut off from my computer?"

She glared at him. He looked just like the photos of shell-shocked soldiers--wide-eyed and incapable of speech. "And why have I put up with all this? Because I can't get home unless I save your life, and you go back with me." She stomped her foot. "And at the moment, I'm stuck in the past with the man I love who thinks I'm looney tunes."

"My father was right. You are crazy."

"Yeah, right. Crazy in love. But nuts, no way. Follow me. I've got something to show you." Frankie marched toward the house and her satchel. She'd come back to save him and she was damned well going to do it. If it meant she was stuck back here and changed the blasted time line, then by George, Ben was going to know what she'd given up for him.

Ben grabbed her arm. "Where are we going?"

"To my room."

"I can't go into lady's room unescorted."

"Oh, that's rich. You can jump my bones, but the sight of my bed will cause a curse on your family?" Suddenly, she stopped and glanced at Ben's dour expression and grimaced. "Damned fool man."

He was right about going to her bedroom, but for the wrong reason. All the important stuff, except for her aspirin, was with Uncle Henry. Worse, her bag was leather--soft, finely tanned leather--but not a foreign substance. Then again, she did have her toiletries and a few other things.

"Come on."

Five minutes later, they stood beside her bed, all her belongs dumped on top of the bedcover. Frankie picked up the empty bag and turned it inside out. "See this. It's called a zipper. They aren't invented until around the turn of the century."

Frankie then picked up her tube of toothpaste. "This replaces what you all call toothpowder." She tossed it back with the other stuff. Then she pointed to items on the bed. "That's deodorant in a gel, that's sun block, there's some aspirin. Its expiration date is," she looked at the back, "March 2005."

"It says three slash zero five. That means 1905."

Frankie laughed. The absurdity of the situation struck her as symbolic of her entire trip to the past. "Nothing like the millennium changeover to screw everything up." At his confusion and growing anger, she pulled herself together. "Sorry. You'd have to be from my time to understand. You do believe I'm from the future, don't you?"

Please believe me, Ben.

Ben studied the plastic bottle she'd thrown him. As he returned it, his eyes met hers. "No. You're a Yankee spy. Your lies grate on my tired Southern heart. I thought I could accept it, but now--"

"It's a good thing I love you, or else I'd leave you to your fate here and now." Frankie tossed the items back into her pack. After placing it in its niche, she turned to him. "I love you. I've told you the truth. If you can't accept it, so be it."

"Do you realize how crazy you sound?" Ben shook his head as if to clear a muddled brain. "I need to think. Alone." With shoulders stooped and still shaking his head, he walked from her room.

To Frankie, he looked beaten. Like a man who'd lost everything that mattered to him.

She stood, staring at the empty doorway until exhaustion overtook her. Ben hadn't believed her. Sure it was a crazy story. She'd admit that. But if he'd loved her as he claimed, he wouldn't have walked away.

Well, maybe he would have. It was, after all, a wild, unbelievable story.

Still, he could have looked back!

* * *

Frankie headed for the forest. She didn't want to see Ben again. Her ego didn't need another rejection. At least not until she'd recovered from this one.

She could just see their next encounter. "I love you, Frankie. You know that, don't you? I think it best if we wait to wed. Let's find out if you're with child before we do anything irreversible."

She couldn't really blame him. Her story was difficult to accept. She suspected even H.G. Wells would've had trouble.

"The good news is Mr. Craig'll be delighted with this turn of events." Her shoulders slumped. "Or else, he'll say family honor demands we marry. And then I'll be locked away in the attic like Mrs. Rochester."

Frankie pushed aside some oleander. Spotting a tree trunk, she plopped down, propped her elbows on her knees and rested her chin on her hands. While disappearing without waiting to be thrown out didn't display much trust in the spirits, it was easier on her bruised and battered ego.

"Leave for where? I don't belong here." She scuffed the ground with the toes of her button-top shoes. "Of course. If I find the deserters first, I can divert them before they reach Craig Knoll."

If successful, she'd save not just Ben, but four lives. Later she'd could sneak into Ben's bedroom and use the wardrobe's portal. It would have to work. After all, she'd have four, not one, pluses on the life side of the chart.

Frowning, she toed a dandelion. A twig snapped. She froze, afraid to breathe. She wasn't prepared to meet the deserters. She needed to change her clothes. Her dreams of this time had shown her wearing male clothing and man's hat.

She eased off the stump. Crouching, she waddled toward a stand of gum trees.

"Chile, stop."

At Uncle Henry's voice, Frankie halted. With her hands she scrubbed at her wet face. One humiliation after another. At his touch, she flinched and moved further into the foliage's shadows.

"What's wrong, Miz Frankie? Why're you sittin' here with your heart breaking?"

Frankie inhaled sharply and lifted her head. "I told Ben the truth. Now he thinks I'm insane." She blinked rapidly, unable to stem her tears. "He's left me. He doesn't want to be around me."

"What makes you think Ben doesn't want you?" Henry placed a hand on Frankie's back and guided her into the clearing. "What'd the boy say to you that has you in this here state?"

"First, he thinks I'm a liar." She pressed her lips together, afraid to continue. Afraid she'd lose what little of her dignity remained. She proved no match for Uncle Henry's silent scrutiny. Swallowing, she resumed. "When I showed him the things inside my bag, he decided I was a spy for the Yankees."

"Did you set him straight?"

"Sure. Not that it did any good." Frankie walked back to the stump and dropped down beside it. She kept her eyes on the rings of the tree's weathered remnant. "When he left, he said he wanted to think. Alone." She met Uncle Henry's steady gaze. "What he really meant was he needed time to figure a way out of the mess he's gotten into because of me."

"You make me sad, chile. Where's your faith in the spirits?" Shaking his head, Henry chuckled. "That boy loves you. He ain't lettin' you go. He's mixed-up, sure. Don't know what to think. But I taught him well. He believes in fate. I need to talk to him, that's all."

Frankie shrugged. "I've got to find those deserters before they reach Craig Knoll. Otherwise, it won't matter what Ben feels or thinks."

Henry clapped a hand on her shoulder. "You can't go trackin' them men looking that way."

"I know." Frankie plucked at her skirt. "While still back in my own time, I had a dream about this. I was wearing men's work clothing." She laughed. "Any idea where I can get a man's floppy hat to go with those pants and shirt Ella gave me?"

Henry laughed. "Sure do. You'll look just like your dream." He glanced down at her feet. "You'll be needin' shoes, too."

"Right. These won't do. Make sure they're a size too big. My feet are still sore. Oh, yeah." She snapped her fingers. "I had a really old rifle."

"See, the fates were workin' on this before you came. They were preparin' you. Did they give you any more secrets I should know?"

Frankie frowned. "Nothing worth mentioning. Oh, what about the rifle?"

"Bet it was this here rifle," he held up an old musket and smiled, "you were holdin'."

"Maybe so, Uncle Henry." Frankie laughed. "Maybe so."

"Now you goes on up to the house, chile, while I prepare things for your trip."

"But I need to leave now."

"Time isn't right. I've got to get the things you need. Now git!"

* * *

An assortment of items were spread on the small pine table in Henry's kitchen. Danger lurked in the woods. A charm bag for protection's necessary if Miz Frankie wants to survive her meetin' with them Blue Coats.

Henry fingered an indigo stone polished to a high sheen through the years by the James River. As he held it, a calming warmth flowed through him. Smiling, Henry placed it in the bag.

The fundamental requirement to enduring the trials ahead was to be surrounded by peace and serenity. For safekeeping from evil forces and spirits he included special herbs and, to assure no harm came from water, the skeleton of a small toad's head.

His final act was to remove the red talisman his father had given him from his own charm bag. It had been handed down to the eldest male in his family for generations. It's worth through the years had been proven.

Smiling, Henry secured the bag. Masta Ben and Miz Frankie were destined to have beautiful children. In his dreams the spirits had assured him of this.

Henry frowned. Dreams!

Lately, his dreams held more than the usual omens and had proven difficult to interpret. Henry reached up and clutched his charm bag. The spirits wanted something from him, but what? He'd done their bidding. He'd shielded Miz Frankie and would explain the truth to Masta Ben. What more could they expect?

With a shake of his head, Henry stood. He needed to collect her. Time was short. He froze. Raised gooseflesh formed on his skin.

Dropping Frankie's bag in his shirt, he turned to greet his unannounced, but expected visitor. Henry motioned to the spare chair across from him as he returned to his. "Somethin' wrong, Masta Ben? You look a mite disturbed."

"A mite!" Ben dragged a hand through his hair. "Every decision I've made has been based on the belief Frankie and I would have a life together. I thought she loved me."

"Why do you think Miz Frankie don't love you?"

"She's lied to us all." Ben leaned forward and grabbed his old mentor's hands. "Frankie's a spy for the Yankees."

Henry shook his head. "Sometimes I wonder about you white men."

"I'm not a moron, Uncle Henry--" Ben rubbed his neck. "She told the wildest tale I've ever heard." He folded his arms across his chest. "Wipe that smile off your face, old man. She claims her name's not Frances Payne but Frances Matthews and she's from the future." Ben snorted. "The future."

Henry laughed as Ben's glower darkened.

"Mind telling me what's so humorous about falling in love with a damned crazy spy?"

"You are." Henry rose from his seat and walked around the table. He placed his hands on Ben's shoulders. "Where's your faith in the spirits, boy? Miz Frankie hasn't lied. She is from the future." Henry forced Ben to remain in his seat. "I saw her drop from the sky myself. One minute there was nothin' there and the next," he snapped his fingers, "she be laying on the ground wearing this here shirt."

Henry reached into a cabinet and withdrew a black sweatshirt with white lettering across the front. "See. It says here, 'goddess formerly known as princess'."

Ben's mouth dropped.

"Yep. That's what Miz Frankie is, a goddess."

"Why didn't you say something before?"

"Was waiting for the spirits to speak." Henry stared down at Ben. "And they have. That chile's suffering for you. Only one reason. Your ghost visits her at Craig Knoll."

"My ghost? Are you all insane? When I die, I can guarantee you I won't be haunting Craig Knoll!"

Henry rested his elbows on the table. Through narrowed eyes he watched Ben as his steepled fingers tapped his lips. "Accordin' to Miz Frankie, you get yourself killed by one of them Yankee deserters in three days. She came here to save you. Then the two of you go back to the future."

"You don't actually believe this madness, do you?"

"I thought I taught you better." Henry dropped his hands and shook his head. "Maybe Miz Frankie ain't the first who isn't who they say the are. I've learned lots from them books in your library. Seems there've been lots of men before their time. How abouts Moses or Ezekiel? How do we know they didn't come from other times?"

Despite his skepticism, Ben leaned forward, fascinated by Uncle Henry's words. Rising, Henry ambled over to a chest, opened it, and withdrew a bandana-secured package. Once he'd resumed his seat, he slid the bundle to Ben. "Open it."

Ben unknotted the cloth and spread it open. Before him lay a bunch of keys, a soft leather rectangle filled with paper and another soft leather container.

Ben picked up the keys. One was different from the others. It was long, slender, almost cylindrical, had ridges cut into the top and bottom. The end had the head of a cat centered in it, and when he touched it, it depressed and a light shone. "What the hell is this?"

"Miz Frankie says it's her key to her Jaguar."

"She has a key for a cat?"

"Nope. An auto-mo-bile. She says it's a horseless carriage."

Ben dropped it back on the table. "Of course." He opened the rectangle filled with paper. "And what's this?"

"She says it's a checkbook."

Ben opened the register. He jaw dropped. "She has over eight thousand dollars in here!"

Henry shrugged. "She says that's her everyday spending money. Nothin' special."

And I'd been worried she didn't want me because I no longer had money. What a joke. In her time, Frankie's wealthy beyond imagination. Shit! Now what do I do?

After a hard gulp, Ben opened the next container. It held paper money unlike any he'd every seen and a number of small cards. He pulled out the one with her picture on it. It said it was a Commonwealth of Virginia Driver's License and expired in 2006.

Ben lifted his gaze to Uncle Henry's. "It's true then. She came from the future."

"Yep."

"How did she accomplish it?"

"Don't rightly know. She told me your ghost pushed her in that wardrobe in your room. Maybe time ain't this." Henry drew a straight line in the air. "But more like this." Using his right index finger, he made a small circle, forming the base of a cone, and increased its size with each revolution. "Maybe when the rings touch, or get real close, a body can jump from this here time to the other."

"It makes as much sense as anything else. Now, about my being a ghost, how did it happen and why would I send Frankie back in time?"

"To keep you from gettin' killed by them Yankee deserters."

"I see." Ben leaned forward, struggling to keep the desperation from his voice. "Does she love me, or is it an act so I'll help her get home?"

"That chile loves you, Masta Ben. Oh, not when she first came here. Oh, no." Uncle Henry laughed. "All she wanted then was to go home. She even wanted to shoot you herself and drag you into the closet, but I told her it wouldn't work. You had to go because you wanted to and were heart-whole." He shook his head. "You never did see such a hissy fit in your life. But now she loves you more than anythin'."

Uncle Henry grabbed Ben's hand. "I tell you true. Miz Frankie can't stay here. There's too much danger to her and the future. But you can go with her. Think about it. When you're ready, we can talk and do some plannin'."

Ben sagged in relief. Money or not, there was hope for her. If he could only have her in the future, then so be it. "What can I do? According to you and Frankie, I'm supposed to be killed in three days."

"Let it be for now, Masta Ben. The fates, they've gotta work alone for now."

Ben shook his head. "Patience has never been my strong suit."

"Then take a walk in the woods and think about your future. When you come back, we'll talk some more." Henry watched the man he loved like a son limp off into the woods. "Love, she can mess up your mind like nothin' else."

Returning to the table, he retrieved the magic bag, held it up to the light and studied it. "Don't you be lettin' no black magic come in now. Ya hear?"

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

At the sound of tortured breathing from exhausted horses, Ben froze. His ax at his side, he limped toward the front of the mansion, then slowed at the sight of Cardwell's obvious fear and distress. "Where're your father and Noah?" Bruce Cardwell jumped down from the buckboard. "It's bad news. To say it more than once..." Cardwell shook his head. "It's unfit for ladies' ears, but your women folk best hear it, too. But not from me."

"I understand, sir." Ben started up the front steps two at a time. As he reached the front porch, Noah exited the house.

"What's the problem?"

Ben handed Noah the ax. "Later. Keep the women inside while I get Father." He leapt from the top stair onto the ground. His leg buckled under him. After recovering his balance, he moved slowly toward the barn.

A short time later, the Craig men stood before Bruce Cardwell who shook his head solemnly. "My family's fine. I only wish all the Goochland County families could say the same." He mopped his forehead with a blue rag.

Foreboding raced along Ben's nerve endings. "Has something happened to Frankie?"

Cardwell's gaze swung from William Craig to Ben. Fear and worry marred his face. "Is she not with you here at home?"

Ben shook his head. The sense of menace increased as Bruce Cardwell's face blanched the color of day old ash. "You better find her fast, Ben. There're three Blue Coats in the area. Two white and one colored. They've already hit the Luther place."

Deserters! A cold sweat bathed Ben's body. He opened his mouth.

Cardwell held up a hand. He averted his eyes and stared at the ground. "Adam Luther accompanied me to Goochland Court House. When we returned, we discovered Esther dying of a knife wound. She'd been gutted--after they raped her. In the bedroom, little Mary lay naked and tied to the bed, raped too."

"Yankee deserters," Ben said, his voice barely audible.

"Yes. Esther told us before she died. Said it was the colored man who knifed her. And Mary, she's talking out of her skull. Don't think she'll ever be right again. Kept saying she wanted to die." Cardwell shook his head. "Probably better if she had, too."

Hands clenched at his side, Ben stepped forward, stopping less than a foot from Cardwell. "Did Mrs. Luther describe the men?"

"She couldn't say much. Just that there were three of them."

Ben's chest closed around his heart. According to Uncle Henry, Frankie had mentioned one of the deserter's had a bandaged hand. "Nothing else?" Ben asked, his gaze narrowing on Cardwell's drooping head.

"They killed Tommy." Cardwell raised his eyes from the ground.

Ben jerked. "Why'd they do that? The boy was no threat. He couldn't walk, couldn't feed himself, what'd they think, he was going to jump up and defend the women folk?"

"No sense to none of it." Cardwell shook his head. "Esther had her knife on her and said she cut one of the white boy's hand good before the butcher sliced her.

Three deserters--two white and one black. The bandaged hand. Ben closed his eyes and swallowed hard. Everything Frankie had told Uncle Henry was true. Cardwell's next words sent a shot of terror through Ben. "Don't leave your women alone for one second. There's no telling where these animals will attack next."

If he'd driven her away and into the path of danger--Ben inhaled sharply. He refused to give in to panic or despair. Frankie was safe. She had to be.

William Craig nodded. He waited until the Cardwell rig pulled away from the drive before saying, "We need to warn the women." He shot each of his sons a hard glance. "No reason to tell them all the details." Without waiting for a response, William started toward the front stairs.

Ben mulled over everything he'd learned about Frankie in the last two months. He doubted this news would have the same effect on her as on his mother and Connie. Petite, even fragile in appearance she may seem, but he knew better. Frankie's core was harder than steel.

According to Frankie, time was short. He had to tell her he loved her and refused to live without her. She also needed to know he agreed with Uncle Henry. They couldn't stay in this time period. He'd return with her to the twenty-first century.

Considering his penchant for writing, perhaps that was where he truly belonged. After all, Uncle Henry had insisted they couldn't change history. Which meant they must devise a plan that staged his death.

Hearing his father say, "Mildred, I need to speak with you," yanked Ben back to the current horror facing them. His gaze focused on his mother. She never raised her eyes from kneading a large lump of dough. Seconds later, she dumped the bowl's contents onto the floured table and neatly divided it into three equal piles.

"Pray do so." When her husband didn't say anything, she looked up. "I can do two things at once, William."

"Yes, my dear, I know you can. But I would like to speak with you, and Constance," he nodded at his daughter-in-law as she handed Mildred a greased loaf pan, "and Frances."

"Frances?"

"Isn't Frankie in the house?" Ben knew the answer as he asked the question. His gut told him his words and actions had crushed her, and she hadn't returned to the house.

"I thought she was with you, Ben," Mildred said. "You went in search of her right after dinner."

Ben grabbed the back of a chair. He felt the blood drain from his body and pool in his feet. Where in the hell was she? He knew the answer even as he asked himself the question. Determined to save him, she'd gone out hunting for the deserters. He shot his father a glance. "You best tell them the news while I get Uncle Henry to help me find Frankie."

* * *

Ben strode into the cabin. "Where's Frankie? I know you've seen her, haven't you, Uncle Henry?"

Henry stared at the grim-faced man before him. He'd never seen Masta Ben out of control. Unlike his father, little riled Ben. Yet the boy was sitting on a razor's edge. "Haven't seen her. She's probably out walking, tryin' to collect her thoughts."

Ben's complexion whitened further. In that moment, Henry realized his dreams, while unclear, had been a warning. One he'd ignored. He should never have helped the little one in her newest plan.

He rose from his chair. "What's the matter, Masta Ben? Somethin' happen?"

Henry clapped his large hand on Ben's shoulder. A muscle spasmed beneath the surface as Ben related Cardwell's news. The earlier feelings of impending danger now made sense. Unless they reached her in time, both she and Ben would become victims of the Blue Coats. "What do you know about where Frankie's gone?"

Henry rubbed his grizzled chin. "I'll tell only if you stay in this chair." At Ben's nod, Henry continued. "I promised the chile not to say anything, but what with the Luther ladies and all." He shrugged. "Miz Frankie's at the ole lean-to."

Ben tried to bolt to his feet, but Henry kept him firmly seated. "I gave her my musket, black powder and bullets. She aims to track them down and keep them from comin' here."

"My God, man," Ben roared, jumping to his feet. "They've already raped two women and killed one of them. Do you honestly think they won't go after Frankie just because she tells them she's from the future and they'll die if they come to Craig Knoll? One look at her, and they'll be on her like a pack of wild dogs."

"Don't think so." Henry pushed himself upright and walked over to a shelf. Removing a cloth, he returned to the table and carefully unfolded it. "She looks like a boy."

Ben stared in disbelief at the long blonde plait in the middle of the cloth. "One look at her silky hair and they'll know."

"Ain't no hair there now, boy. Leastways, not much."

Ben lifted the silken threads to his face and inhaled her scent. Didn't she realize nothing could ever make her undesirable?

"She'll be okay. She's wearing my grandson's boots and breeches and Isaiah's shirt and vest. She wrapped her chest and's wearing my straw hat. She looks like a boy."

"Pray you're right." Ben grabbed his sweat-stained hat and jammed it on his head. "Let's get going. We've got over a mile to cover and not much time."

"You have another gun?"

Ben paused at the cabin's threshold. "No. We'll have to make do with this one. Can't afford to lose what light's left going home for another one." He collected his Sharp from beside the door.

"Don't like going off in these woods without something. Not with them three on the loose."

Ben glanced back at his mentor and frowned. Damn but he wanted to rail at the man, hold him responsible for Frankie's disappearance. But he couldn't. Ben knew he alone was the culpable party. "Use the revolver in my satchel."

As he handed Uncle Henry the gun, Ben glanced at the darkening sky. "If I remember rightly, it'll take almost one hour to get there."

Henry pointed to the churning black clouds in the sky. "It'll be dark soon. A big one's comin'. More than likely it'll be stormin' before we reach Miz Frankie."

"More than likely." Ben took two steps and stopped in his tracks. "How could you have let Frankie go off by herself?"

Henry patted Ben's back. "She'll be safe. She came a long way to save you. Nothin's gonna stop her. You know that."

Ben headed into the waiting forest. "Stubborn mule-headed female." He prayed he had the opportunity to throttle Frankie. One second thought, first he'd cover her in kisses. Then he'd give her a good thrashing for taking twenty years off his life. A rustling to their right caught both men's attention. They crouched and trained their weapons in the direction of the noise. A small red fox bolted from the bushes and disappeared into the thicket on their left. "Damn!"

In a matter of minutes, they'd gone from seasoned hunters who sensed their prey before seeing any signs to that of first time woodsmen. Trembling, Ben lowered his rifle and uncocked the firing pin before setting out again.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Frankie bolted to her feet and aimed the old musket at the chest of a Union private. One look at the man's flat, dead eyes and her blood ran cold. This man had to be one of the deserters. She scanned the area. Now, to find the other two.

"Put it down, son. Don't mean you no harm."

"Stay where you are. I'm warning you. Don't come any closer or I'll gut shoot you." Frankie hated the quiver in her voice and the smile that twitched at the corner of the private's mouth. Her eyes narrowed on him as he set his rifle and satchel on the ground.

"Name's Billy Parson." Rising to his feet, the private held his palms turned upward and took a step forward. "I ain't gonna hurt you, son. Just come to share your fire and some grub."

As she stepped back, a large hand clamped over her mouth and another wrenched the rifle from her other hand.

"If I remove my hand, you promise not to call out."

At her nod, the large black man released her and moved to the side.

"What's your name, boy?"

"Frankie."

The black man snorted. "This here's a child, Billy. Why, his voice is still girly."

Frankie's gaze moved rapidly between the two tall men. Where was the third one? Twigs snapped to her right. She turned toward the noise. A young soldier, no more than eighteen, entered the clearing.

Her gaze darted from one deserter to the next, never settling on one. Just before they'd arrived, she realized this endeavor was a mistake. A major mistake. She'd have fired an assistant for suggesting something so ill thought out.

Talk about a knee-jerk reaction. Nothing like letting hurt feelings rule her decisions, not to mention an "I'll show you" attitude. In the process, she'd put herself and Ben at risk.

What had happened to her? Ever since arriving back here her vaunted ability to look at all opinions in a cold clinical manner had disappeared. Most of the time.

Frankie straightened. At least they hadn't killed her out of hand and had seemingly bought into her being a boy. She stared at the one called Billy and shivered. There wasn't a doubt in her mind that had he lived in her time, he'd be sitting on death row.

"Whatcha doin' here in these woods, boy?" Billy grabbed Frankie's arm and twisted it behind her. "You don't want to make me angry, boy. So answer me, now. Whatcha doing out here and where're your folks?"

"I live here." Frankie pointed to the lean-to. "The fever got my ma and younger sister a month back. My daddy was killed by your kind."

"Let him go, Billy." The newest member of the group pulled Frankie free of his partner. "You live here alone?"

At Frankie's mute nod, Billy asked, "How do you live, boy? Whatcha you eat?"

She took a deep breath and slowly released it. "I told you. I live in there. It's right big."

"Check it out, Robby Boy," Billy ordered. "And your food?"

"I got some jerky and biscuits left. Was gonna shoot me some squirrel tomorrow. Ain't got much. Didn't have much even 'fore my ma died."

Frankie watched Robby crawl out from the lean-to.

"Boy's right, Billy. This place is plenty big enough for all of us. And it's dry."

A twelve-year-old boy was brave, Frankie reminded herself. They thought themselves invincible--even when faced by three Union deserters. She needed to talk to the young one, get him on her side.

She struggled not to cringe under the large black man's and Billy's scrutiny. Picture them as vulnerable. Yeah, right. Vulnerable as lions after a single gazelle. She returned their gaze. Handle it. She'd imagine them buck naked the way she did audiences when giving speeches. Her lips twitched as she visualized Billy without a stitch on and a very small pe--

"What do you think's so funny, boy?" Billy snapped.

"Nothing." Once again she straightened her shoulders and met their smirking gazes. Every muscle tensed awaiting the devil and his disciples' decision.

"I don't trust no son of a Reb. This boy'll run off first chance." He grabbed Frankie's shoulder and squeezed until she whimpered. "You're a trap." Billy's eyes searched the darkened woods. "Don't like it. Too quiet." He gave Frankie a shove toward the shelter. "Grab your gear, boy. You're going with us." He turned toward the large black man. "You watch him close, Joe."

"He's gonna slow us up good," Joe said, slinging Frankie's rifle over his shoulder. "I'll kill him and be done with it."

"No!" Robby stepped forward.

Joe swung the rifle barrel toward Robert.

"Hate to admit, but the boy's right. If those Rebs are looking for us," Billy shot a hard look at Joe, "we got us a bargaining chip." He paused and stared down at his bleeding hand. "We'll leave right after Robby Boy fixes me up."

Robby lifted his gaze from Billy's hand. "Bleeding's slowed."

"Damned old broad," Billy growled. "She wasn't no good neither."

Frankie almost swallowed her tongue. My God, what have they done?

"She was dying." Robby tied off the strip with an extra pull.

Billy's gaze hardened. "Never thought she had a knife. Shoulda stuck her soon as she entered the house. It'd have saved us trouble." He jerked his hand free. "This ain't nothing but a scratch."

He leaned back against a tree. "Yep, sure did enjoy that nice, tight, young piece of pussy. How 'bout you boys?"

Frankie watched in dawning horror as a surge of satisfaction filled Billy's face at the blush of embarrassment in Robby's face.

"Sure nuff," Joe said with a grin. "But we best be on guard. Ain't too worried about the girlie. She wasn't in any condition to tell tales. But her mama, now that's another story. Nothin' like a dying woman's words to get a rope round your neck."

Rolling to his feet, Billy picked up his rifle and threw his knapsack over his shoulder. "Right you are, Joe. Time's a wasting. We best be on our way and clear out of these parts before the hounds get on us." He mopped his face with a soaked cloth. "Damned rain."

Joe grinned. "Course 'cause of the damned rain them hounds can't pick up our scent. Best spread out some, too."

Fear raced through Frankie as she fell in behind Billy and Joe with the young one they called Robby Boy taking the rear. She forced herself to keep pace with Billy and Joe. She knew they'd control whether she lived or died.

"Surely do thank you, Billy. Them two white ladies sure was nice."

"Yeah, nothing like having some snatch to take the edge off." Billy shoved Frankie. "To bad you had to stick the old lady before I got her. I don't like my women near dead when I mount them."

"She had lots of life still in her when you got her, an' you know it."

Frankie clamped her mouth shut. Thank God, she knew from history the Craig women were safe. Otherwise, upon hearing their laughter and enjoyment at destroying two innocent lives, she'd have totally lost it.

Bile seared her throat. What was it about war that made men think rape of the other side's women was acceptable?

As they trudged through the forest, Frankie struggled to maintain her bearings. It was hopeless. Without the sun to guide her, her sense of direction didn't exist. Two things she knew for sure. Today was June eighteenth, and the deserters wouldn't arrive at Craig Knoll until the evening of the twenty-first.

By the time Billy decided to make camp, Frankie figured out her captors didn't have a compass. Now with its dense cloud cover, even the night sky thwarted them.

She tamped down her rising fear. The good news was they were as lost as she. The bad news was they'd expect her to know her way around these woods. No way she could admit she didn't know where they were any more than they did. Hell, she had trouble figuring out the four directions. Give her landmarks any day over "home's to the west."

"Hey, you, boy!" Billy shouted. "Get over here." Frankie scurried to Billy's side. "Glad to see you know how to follow orders, boy. Now this is what's gonna happen. You bed down here beside me."

Joe snickered. "Hey, Billy, you goin' for young boys now?"

"Shit, no! I ain't perverted. I'm jus' gonna make sure the boy stays put." Billy shoved Frankie down onto the ground. "You know the drill. Robert takes first watch, then you, Joe, and me last." He tossed his bag down next to Frankie's head and dropped down beside her. "Don't think of trying to leave, kid. I'll kill you sure as look at you."

"Y-yes, sir." She bit back a moan when Billy looped a leather thong around her left ankle and secured it to his right.

With clenched hands at her side, Frankie lay stiff and unmoving. She gnawed on her lower lip. I just need some patience. Then I'll escape.

Within minutes, Billy's slow steady breathing turned to snoring. Frankie slid her hand into her pants pocket and teased out her Swiss army knife. She lay rigid, listening for Joe and Robert. Where were they?

She waited, straining to hear the slightest movement. Robert coughed. Joe's low swearing soon followed. Frankie placed them each at a forty-five degree angle from her with Billy and she at the apex of the triangle. She eased up onto her elbows and attempted to scan the area. Safe. If she couldn't see them, they couldn't see her.

Fear of imminent discovery lent speed to her movements. She slid the knife blade under the binding and sawed through the raw leather. Once free, she returned the knife to her trousers, and eased onto her feet. She knew she should use a rock and crack Billy's head with it, but she couldn't.

She didn't fear killing Billy. He deserved it. No, what terrified her was missing his head, having him wake up, discover she wasn't a young boy, and after raping her use his knife to slowly torture her before slitting her throat.

Better to admit defeat and slip away into the night. Frankie squeezed her eyes shut. Defeat. She saw it all now. She'd repeated history, not changed it. She wondered, if not for her, would the deserters have shown up at Craig Knoll tonight or tomorrow instead of the twenty- first? If so, all she'd done was delay them. History it seemed wasn't as malleable as she'd thought.

Opening her eyes, Frankie began carefully retracing their earlier steps. Anxiety ruled her slow and cautious movements. Ten minutes later, she sidled through a stand of gum trees a hundred feet from the deserters' camp. She sank down alongside a tree, wrapped her arms around her knees. Her body shook as silent sobs and tremors raked it.

* * *

"Not likely Miz Frankie took off lookin' for those scoundrels. I warned her about the coming storm. She knows that without sun or stars a body can get lost in these here woods. Even us."

"I know, Uncle Henry, I know," Ben whispered. After a short discussion, he and Henry separated. Mindful that three armed and dangerous men were somewhere in the area, Ben moved in from the side while Henry approached from the rear.

Arriving at the protected entrance, Ben saw the remains of a small fire. He rubbed the ashes between his fingers. Barely warm. It'd been out for a couple of hours.

Pushing aside the shrubbery, he entered the shelter's dark confines. "Frankie?" Only his breathing broke the suffocating stillness. Fingers felt the interior, searching for a trace of the woman he loved. They found only air and hard-packed dirt. The side of his hand brushed against a lamp. He struck a match and lit the lamp's oil. Other than the flickering light, the shelter gave no hint of recent occupancy.

As he backed out, a piece of cloth snagged between the supports caught his eye. Ben pulled the scrap free. Holding it next to the lamp, he examined it.

Blue Coats!

Ben bolted from the structure. "The bastards have her!"

"I found this." Henry held up a horn of black powder. "They think Miz Frankie's a boy. If not, they'd have done to her what they did to the Luther ladies."

A bolt of lightning lit the sky. The intensity of the wind increased. "Won't help Miz Frankie none if we get killed in this storm. Best remain here. We can't do anything 'til we have some stars or the sun to guide us."

Henry pushed aside a bush and entered the lean-to. Masta Ben looked as if he were dying. The boy's fear over Miz Frankie was something to behold. Henry fingered his charm bag. She was safe, for now. He felt it in his bones. Because of the stone he'd added to her bag, the spirits would alert him to any danger.

Henry's eyelids drifted closed as thunder rolled over them. Suddenly a picture flashed before him. Blood smeared in the interior of a carriage without horses. The buggy sat next to a building with the sign "Emergicenter" over the portico.

He clutched his charm bag. The vision came from Miz Frankie's time. Henry struggled to will the image away. It confused him.

From the beginning of time, his people had trusted in the spirits. As the head of his household and clan, could he do any less? With a sigh, Henry forced his body to relax and abandoned his worries. The spirits and God knew his soul and the future. He was their instrument, nothing more.

* * *

Frankie plowed her way blindly through the forest--her only thought, to evade capture. But how could she do that? She'd left a trail a blind man could follow. First she'd lost her straw hat in the stand of gum trees. Now after who knew how many hours, what little sense of direction she'd possessed had disappeared.

She scanned the area. For all she knew, she'd been going in circles and the deserters could be on the other side of this stand of trees.

A ragged line of electricity tore open the sky. Its brief glow showed oaks, maples and native firs bent by the wind. Some would never survive the storm's violent fury. And if she didn't find shelter soon, neither would she.

Science told her never stay under a tree during an electrical storm. "Like I have a choice. A forest's nothing but trees." Another bolt of lightning lit the sky. Spotting an ancient oak, she made a decision. She prayed its girth and the fact only its upper reaches followed the wind's dictates meant it might survive the gale. Battling the wind, she headed toward the tree.

Thunder boomed around her. Ozone and burnt wood filled the air. The atmosphere took on a life of its own. Brilliant flashes turned the midnight sky into bright daylight. She felt the heat from nearby strikes. Her water-laden hair stood and danced.

She saw lightning strike the tree ahead of her. A heavy branch sheared off, heading toward her as a boom rent the air. Spinning, she raced with the wind at her back.

A crushing weight slammed into her.

Rough pine needles prickled Frankie's face. The smell of wet sod and moldy leaves filtered through her fogged senses.

She lifted her head. The tap dancing troupe behind her eyes warned against making any rash movements. Fear chilled her to the marrow. Hoping a fetal position would offer more protection from the continued bombardment of twigs and foliage, she started to curl onto her side.

Searing pain shot up her legs and into the base of her skull.

The sky looked like phosphorus flares were exploding during a battle from Hell. Once again, she attempted to raise her head and take stock of her situation. Both legs were pinned by a large limb from the giant oak, its circumference larger than a medium-sized tree.

Thinking to form a depression into which she could sink and pull herself free, she arched her back and clawed at the soft wet earth under her. Mud oozed into the hole, replacing the soil removed.

Frankie collapsed onto the soggy ground. Closing her eyes, she covered her head with her right hand as she rated the odds of being discovered alive. They weren't appealing. Ben had no reason to be out here looking for her. Worse, Uncle Henry didn't plan to check on her before tomorrow.

Short of being found by the deserters, there wasn't much hope of survival. Forget that. Even if the deserters came upon her, Billy would make her pay, and pay, and pay.

The throbbing in her head increased. Her body felt cold, her legs anesthetized. Blurred vision worsened.

She had only one hope of salvation. Her right hand clasped her charm bag and she prayed--prayed for rescue and Ben's life. It wasn't that she feared death. She didn't. It was the knowledge that her headstrong, foolish behavior had cost them both their lives that tortured her.

"Ben."

Slowly all sensations faded.

She floated in a sea of gray.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Ben raked his fingers through his hair. Uncle Henry and he had searched the area in an ever-widening circle and found nothing. Then he'd discovered hell--Frankie's hat among a stand of gum trees. A few minutes later, he entered a small clearing and found the remains of the deserters' camp and the pack Uncle Henry had given her.

Despite frustration eating at him like a gangrenous sore, Ben believed they'd find Frankie alive and in one piece. He had to believe it. Until she'd disappeared, he hadn't realized that he not only loved her, but that she was his life.

Seven hours later, Ben glanced at the sun setting low in the west. Lifting his hand, he measured the distance between the horizon and sun. "Only two fingers of light left. Where are you, love?" He heard a low moan, no louder than the groan of the wind. Every nerve of his being reached out to identify its location.

Then he heard it again. A whimper, not much louder than an hour-old kitten mewing for its mother.

Ben pivoted to his right. He sacrificed stealth in his race over the bracken-covered floor. He approached a massive and newly felled oak limb. Ben dropped to Frankie's side. "I found her. Over here, Uncle Henry." His hands traveled swiftly over her, feeling for broken bones.

Frankie's low moan in response to his touch was music to his ears. He pressed a kiss to her leaf-blanketed hair. "I'm here, love. And I'll never leave you again. Once we get you home, you'll be just fine."

"Sorry, the IPO report isn't ready."

Ben glanced up at Uncle Henry and shrugged. "She must be talking about something from her time."

"More'n likely," Henry answered absently. He circled their position. "We've got us a problem." He moved to Frankie's head and squatted beside Ben. "This branch is layin' across Miz Frankie's left ankle and the other leg like this," he said, angling his palm at sixty-five degrees.

Ben rose and walked around Frankie, examining all their options. "We can use that small tree as a lever." He pointed to a sapling knocked down within the past twenty-four hours. "The fulcrum can be that large rock over there."

Without words, they worked side by side. Urgency commanded their actions. Once they'd positioned the rock and sapling, Ben said, "Pull her out fast. I don't know how long this scrawny thing can hold up. Get ready now. I'll lift on three."

Moments later, Ben rolled Frankie onto her back. One look at her ashen complexion and he knew they could still lose her.

"We've got to get the chile home, fast."

Ben scooped Frankie up and cradled her in his arms. "When we clear the woods, we won't need you for protection. Take off and alert the main house."

"It's a long journey through these woods. It'd be better if we take turns carrying."

"Wrong." Ben looked down at his old friend and mentor. "It'd be better if you keep a sharp eye out for those deserters." He crushed Frankie to his chest, bent his head and kissed her forehead. He couldn't lose her. Not now.

Without Frankie at his side, he only existed, not lived. She was his other half. She completed him.

* * *

"Thanks be to God," William Craig said at the sight of Ben. He hurried toward his son. "Your mother and Constance have everything in readiness, son," William Craig gasped on reaching Ben's side.

Ben staggered, then straightened. At the sight of his father's outstretched arms, he shook his head and held her close to him. "Have you sent for Doctor Elon?"

William fell in beside Ben. "Yes. Isaiah's on his way as we speak." He glanced up at Ben. "Son, I beg you, please forgive the harsh things I have said. Once Frances is better, you may marry her with a free heart and my complete approval."

Ben stopped and stared at his father. Never in twenty-nine years had he heard William Craig apologize. "Thank you. Your blessing means a lot." Ben blinked back tears. "And I know your words of welcome will please Frankie." Ben strode toward the house.

As they crossed to the back stairs, Mildred rushed from the house. "How's Frances?"

"Alive." Ben walked past his mother. "But burning with fever."

"Land sakes! Get the child upstairs. Constance, take the bucket of warm water and cloths and follow us upstairs," Mildred called out, entering the kitchen. "Uncle Henry said he'd return with a special poultice."

Ben nodded. He didn't have the time or energy to answer her, not with his entire being focused on Frankie. Uncle Henry had assured him she'd be right as rain come tomorrow.

Ben didn't believe him. Oh, he wanted to, but couldn't. He knew the stillness of approaching death when he saw it. He recognized the symptoms. Labored breathing. Lack of color except for the fever's flush. Oh, yes, he knew the signs. He'd seen them too many times in the war.

Yet in spite of the horrible deaths he'd seen due to infection off the battlefield, what had left him with nightmares had been the two deaths owing to fever in his own family. Once with his sister Elizabeth and again when fever took Connie's little Elizabeth. He'd barely survived losing his sister, brother and niece.

The belief they had gone to a better place was what he'd clung to back then. If he should lose Frankie, he wouldn't survive. Nor would he be able to convince himself the Lord needed her more than he did.

"Ben?"

"I'm okay, Mama." Ben settled Frankie gently on the bed, determined to stay at her side.

Mildred laid her hand on his arm. "I need to remove Frances's damp clothing." She turned toward the door and motioned with her hands. "Scoot, all of you. Including you, Ben." She glanced at her daughter-in-law. "Do you have everything we need, Constance?"

"Yes ma'am. Uncle Henry's downstairs." Connie set the bucket of water on the floor and cloths on the table next to the bed. "Here are Uncle Henry's poultices. One's for her chest, the other her forehead."

The two women worked as one stripping Frankie's sodden clothing. "Silly girl," Mildred muttered as she removed the bindings on Frankie's chest.

Connie pulled down the trousers and Frankie's panties, then gasped. "She's bleeding."

"It's her time of the month."

"No, there's too much blood." Connie raised tear-filled eyes. "And she finished her monthly flow just over two weeks ago."

* * *

Ben eased into the silent room filled with sad-faced women and Doctor Elon shaking his head. He'd given everyone time to do their work and she'd worsened.

It was his turn now. Uncle Henry's poultices were all well and good, but what she really needed was for her broken heart and spirit to heal.

"Mama?"

"Come in, son." Mildred adjusted the newly moistened cloth on Frankie's forehead.

"I'll take over." Ben saw his mother hesitate, look at him closely, then nod. He wondered if his eyes communicated his desperate need and resolve to be with Frankie.

Mildred lifted her gaze to Ben. "Uncle Henry said he's mixing up a new medicine that should help. He'll be here shortly."

Ben sank down on the bed beside Frankie. "Has she spoken?" he asked, taking her hand in his and caressing the knuckles. His mother's silence drew his attention. Lifting his head, he caught a worried glance she flashed Connie. "Mama?"

"Nothing that makes sense. It's the fever that's talking, not Frances." At Ben's raised eyebrow, Mildred sighed and continued. "She keeps saying 'time, no time' and 'must save him'. As I said, it's the fever talking."

Ben knew differently. It wasn't the fever talking. It was Frankie's fear of the deserters. He forced himself to ask, "Doctor Elon, is Frankie going to be okay?"

Doctor Elon shrugged. "Don't rightly know. If she lasts the night, she has a chance."

Ben inhaled sharply. "That being the case, I want to be the one to take care of her. Go on to bed, Mama. You too, Doctor Elon. I'll stay with Frankie. It's my place."

Ben waited for the door to latch before glancing up. He'd read his mother's fear and had heard Doctor Elon's conviction that Frankie wouldn't live out the night.

Ben refused to accept their verdict. She wouldn't have traveled through time to save him if she were going to die. His ghost wouldn't have allowed it. Ben knew this for a certainty.

He loved Frankie more than his own life. His spirit wouldn't have haunted her, drawn her back in time if it'd meant her death. For her death would mean his.

Wringing out another cloth, he mopped at her feverish brow. If only she'd wake. With Frankie's knowledge from the future, he could save her. "You can't leave me, not now, love. Not like this. We have our whole lives ahead of us." Frankie's moan and restless movements in response to his words gave him hope.

Ben's gaze strayed to the door as it eased open and Uncle Henry entered the room and stepped up to the bed.

He set a small glass of water and a spoon on the table. "Miz Frankie's has something that should help." Uncle Henry reached under the bed and pulled out her satchel. "Lord forgive for I'm doing something I swore I wouldn't, usin' somethin' from the future."

Moments later, he withdrew a bottle and handed it to Ben. "This here's called aspirin. Miz Frankie told me about it. It's for fever and things. If'n she's right, then this will help her more than Doctor Elon."

Ben's eyes widened as he read the instructions on the back of the lightweight container. Frankie had called this material plastic. A slow smile creased his weary face. "It says take two every four hours or as needed."

Using his thumbs, Ben pushed the cap up. It didn't budge. Then he caught the hard lid between his teeth. This time, his teeth almost came loose.

"Wonder how the people keep from dying before they open this thing."

"You want me to get a hammer?"

"Yes." Ben's fingers rubbed the top and he frowned. "No, wait. There's some writing here." He held the bottle next to a candle. "Ah, I see, we have to put this arrow here and then push."

The lid popped off.

Ben shook out three white pills, dropped them in the glass, crushed them, then added water. He whispered, "Frankie, love, open your mouth. Come on, love. That's it, open wide." He placed the glass next to her parted lips and slowly dribbled the mixture into her mouth. "Good girl. That's right, take it all."

Ben forced most of the water down Frankie. "Get me some cold water and see if there's any ice left in the icehouse. Then I'll need you to stand guard outside while I bathe her with the ice water." He tossed back the covers over Frankie. "Wait," he said. "You need this to prepare her next dose." Ben tossed Uncle Henry the lightweight bottle of white pills.

Once the door closed, he ripped her chemise off and began sponging her body with water.

* * *

"Wake up, Frankie, now!"

Frankie opened her eyes. A gray fog surrounded her body. As her eyelids began to close, the shroud separated and an ethereal Ben approached her.

"Ben." She sighed and reached out to grasp him through the mist.

"You love the living Ben, Frankie. I'm his ghost."

Her eyelids drifted shut. "Oh, yes, the ghost."

"At the moment, you're suspended in a special place between life and death. I'm here to give you guidance. Choose wisely and we'll be together." He touched her bare shoulder. "No. You must wake, Frankie. Return to the living Ben. It's your destiny."

"You didn't want me. You sent me away!" she hissed bitterly, batting at him.

"No, Frankie, I never sent you away. And if you die here, now, in this place, it won't be like before. I'll willingly court death from the deserters to be at you side. Go back to the other Ben, now. Save us both."

A soft cool breeze washed over Frankie's face. "You didn't want me."

"Ah, but I did, my love. I've never stopped wanting or loving you. My life has been an hollow existence without you. I've searched for you, Frankie. Now it's you turn to fight for me. Our lives and love depend upon your choice."

Once again, the fog shrouded her.

* * *

"You must come back to me," Ben whispered, bathing her face with a cool cloth. "Forgive me. I know I hurt you. Let me heal that wound. To heal all the wounds. Please let me love you. Open your heart to me, forgive me."

Frankie stared up at a gray-faced Ben. She lifted her right hand to his face. Her fingers traced his gaunt cheeks. "I had the strangest dream. Your ghost visited me and--"

"I thank him for sending you back to me," Ben said against her lips. His mouth covered hers in a soul-shattering kiss. He'd come very close to losing her. Just when he'd believed she'd crossed the threshold back to safety she'd descended into the grip of death.

Her saying "Ben" hadn't been a welcome, but rather a farewell. Stark terror had struck him at the realization she was slipping away from him.

It had taken him only seconds to realize she'd called a different Ben. His ghost. The spirit that had sent her to him was now pressing her to go back to the live Ben. That she had chosen to risk his rejection once again at a ghost's, or dream's, urging, he'd never forget nor demean.

He wouldn't jeopardize the second chance they'd been given. "I love you." Ben placed small butterfly kisses over her face.

"Why was I not called?"

Ben jerked upright. An outraged Doctor Elon and his beaming mother stood in the doorway. "Because I didn't feel like sharing this moment."

The doctor strode over to the bed. "If you will remove yourself, so that I can examine the patient." He sat beside Frankie and gasped, "She's naked!"

"Naturally. How else do you bathe a person with ice water?" Ben winked at Frankie. "I'll be back as soon as he leaves." He jerked his thumb toward the doctor.

Upon exiting the room fifteen minutes later, Doctor Elon found a relaxed Ben leaning against the facing wall. "She should recover without any lasting ill-effects."

He grasped Ben's elbow and guided him to the end of the hall. "Sit," he ordered. "Your mother has told me of the intimate relationship which exists between you and the young lady."

"Really." Ben raised an eyebrow.

"It was necessary, I assure you. For a couple of hours there was a great deal of bleeding."

"Bleeding?" Ben bolted from the chair. "Where? Except for the fever, there was no injury. Frankie was fine."

"Sit down, Ben." Doctor Elon settled himself in one of the chairs and sighed. "I believe your betrothed was with child." The doctor ignored Ben's cry of anguish and continued. "While her loss of blood has left her weak, it was too early for Frances to be aware of its existence."

Ben nodded. Because of his reckless disregard for society's conventions Frankie had suffered. His only consolation was she'd never know of the child they'd lost.

That burden would be his alone to carry. He retrieved the letter he'd written the other day from his pocket and reread it. Just as he'd thought. It needed one last line to be perfect.

* * *

Frankie struggled to shake off the dragging effects of yesterday's fever. She glanced at Ben asleep in the chair beside her, his head resting on her bed. Then she noticed a piece of paper. She slid it out from under his fingers and smoothed the badly wrinkled sheet.

June 18, 1884

Somewhere I've known you before.
In another life; in another time
I've held your face between my hands.
Forced your lips apart with mine.
I've owned you like this before.
Before we were born into this life
We shared another space filled with this
Same sacred scene of greed,
Disconnected from the world
Connected only to our own and private eternity.
On some strange patch of earth
I took you before in this same way.
And in some other moment of time,
You breathed the same moans of contentment
into the night.
I believe you Frankie

Ben had to have intended to give it to her the day she'd told him the truth. At the time, she hadn't understood where the crinkling sound of paper had come from. Now she did. Ben's pocket. Her gaze narrowed on the last line. Tears mingled with a smile. He'd truly accepted she'd come from the future.

No matter what gifts she'd receive in the years to come, this one would always be the most precious. With a sigh, she folded the love poem and studied his face.

As if sensing his gaze on him, his eyes opened.

Frankie couldn't return his welcoming smile, not yet. There still existed one more hurdle. "Your mother told me of the baby."

His head snapped back as if slapped. "Why?"

"I needed to know. She said men mean well, but they don't understand a woman's loss. She's right. Hormones have a way of making themselves felt."

Frankie averted her head and blinked rapidly. Once back in control of her emotions, she faced Ben. "It's time for the truth. No more lies, no matter how well intentioned," he quietly demanded.

"I wanted your baby, Ben." Frankie licked her lips. "I've also known from the beginning I'd go home, back to my time."

Ben lifted her, placing pillows behind her back. After making sure her every whim was satisfied, he sat beside her, and pressed her cheek to his chest. "I watched you approach the pond that night. As you took off your dress, I felt you would hear me. My heart beat so fast, so hard I knew its thunder would alert you to my presence. I couldn't speak. My voice, I lost it."

Ben pulled back and stared into the glistening gray pools of Frankie's eyes. "My eyes drank you in. And when you called out my name, neither Sherman nor the whole Union Army could have kept me from your warmth."

He kissed her forehead. "I didn't stop to think or examine. I knew this was the most powerful longing I would ever have. You were so responsive. Every touch seemed to give you more pleasure. Then it happened again in the cabin, and I knew it was real, not a dream."

His mouth closed over hers. As her lips parted, he pulled back. "I have to say this now while I can. You were right, Frankie. I was afraid. Afraid something so perfect might escape me." Ben exhaled. "I was a fool."

Tears that had earlier threatened escaped. "I'm so sorry about the baby. If I hadn't--"

He gathered her into his arms and held her against his chest. "We will have other children, love. We will have as many as you wish." He looked into her eyes. "Just marry me and promise never to leave me again."

"I don't belong here, Ben. Your parents believe I'm your mother's cousin. But we both know that's not true." Frankie stared down at their entwined fingers.

Ben lifted her face. "I'm returning home with you, Frankie, to your time."

"But--"

"Shush." He placed a finger over her parted lips. "I made the decision long before I discovered you missing. I even started to write you."

Frankie's fingers caressed the edge of the paper--his gift of love. It would always be her special treasure.

Ben continued. "You told Uncle Henry that according to history I die tomorrow evening." He brushed his mouth over hers. "Perhaps we can make it seem as if I die, thereby satisfying both history and the need to be at your side."

"Of course! Nothing changes yet everything changes. Why didn't I think of that before?"

His lips brushed hers. "You made a fatal military error. Focused on only one solution."

"But that isn't like me. I always anticipate, plan for a variety of actions and reactions. So why didn't I this time?"

"Maybe we both needed to travel this path to be together."

"Maybe. But it's been a damned hard road and not much fun." Frankie frowned. "Now, how do we save your life yet make it seem you died?"

"That, my love, is the question. Since Uncle Henry knows the truth about us--"

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

"What truth does Uncle Henry know that I don't?" William Craig stepped into the room. He calmly shut the door after him and met the apprehensive stares of his son and Frances without a blink.

The absurdity of the explanation Mr. Craig was about to hear tickled Frankie. At Ben's look of pain and Mr. Craig's thinning lips, she bit her lower lip, trying to quell her rising laughter.

"Get Uncle Henry," she squeaked, giving Ben a shove. "Get ready to join the circus, Uncle William." She grabbed a pillow from behind her and buried her face in it.

A few minutes later, Ben returned with Uncle Henry in tow. When Frankie lifted her head from her damp pillow, she noticed a suspicious glint lit Uncle Henry's eyes. The old reprobate thought their plight amusing.

Pretend you're facing the board of directors. That simple command restored control of her seesawing emotions. "It seems we have ourselves a problem, Uncle Henry. Mr. Craig wants to know what's going on. I figured you'd be the best person to tell him." She settled back against the bed's headboard, folded her hands in her lap and nodded.

Uncle Henry advanced into the room. "It's one mighty strange story." He waited until both men had seated themselves on Connie's old bed. "But I swear to you, Masta William, what I'm about to tell you is the good Lord's own truth. Miz Frankie here is a goddess from the future."

Frankie grinned as he pulled her sweatshirt out from under his shirt and handed it to Mr. Craig.

* * *

William rose from his chair, walked to the window and looked out over the front lawn of Craig Knoll. The story was beyond amazing, yet he never doubted for a moment that it was anything other than the truth.

He'd help his son and this extraordinary young woman using every means at his disposal. "How does the Craig family and Craig Knoll fare in your time, Frances?"

"Craig Knoll has grown more beautiful and stately with each year. Aunt Ginnie's enlarged the mansion. Her husband, Uncle Maxwell--he's Connie's and Noah's great-grandson--is a successful businessman. The Craigs are one of Virginia's wealthiest and most respected families."

William turned from the window. He blinked rapidly as if afraid he might show too much emotion.

Frankie winked at him. "That's because you had the foresight to convert all your money into gold and hid it along with all the family treasures."

William nodded. He hadn't forgotten her earlier advice. While he had believed her tetched, he had also recognized the truth of what she had recommended and had already begun exchanging his Confederate dollars for gold.

"Noah and Constance have a son?"

"Yes, sir. He's born March the fifth, 1865."

A slow, satisfied smile broke free. "A grandson. I will be damned. A grandson. Is he their only child?"

Frankie met Mr. Craig's laser-blue gaze. "No. They also have a daughter." She shook her head. "I couldn't find anything about her after the age of seventeen. No death records, nothing. Since Noah, there's been only one child, a male born to each Craig generation."

She shrugged. "That is, until this one. Uncle Max and Aunt Ginnie were unable to have any children. I'm not a Craig. My mother was Aunt Ginnie's sister. I was six when my parents died and have lived with them ever since."

"I see." An overwhelming sadness pressed on William. "So the Craig family name ceases with your uncle, my great-great-grandson."

"Not necessarily," Frankie said. "It's almost as if history knew this was to happen and was waiting for Ben's arrival." Frankie's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "I suspect when told the truth, Uncle Max will claim Ben as his younger brother, his father's love child."

"My son would be illegitimate! A bastard! Surely your aunt will never accede to such humiliation?" William couldn't believe this young woman would possibly entertain such a suggestion. "Why, if she accepted Ben, she would never be allowed in a decent family's parlor again!"

"Why not? Uncle Max's father never remarried after Max's mother died. Why couldn't Ben be the product of a liaison? As for the rest." Frankie shrugged. "Everyone knows the Craig family sticks together. Exclude one and you've excluded all. Besides, money speaks. No one will risk Max Craig's wrath."

"Some thing's never change," Ben observed.

Frankie wrinkled her nose at Ben. William watched in silence as she chattered on. Her love of and joy in talking about her family clear to him.

"Aunt Ginnie will like you, Ben. And she'll be relieved your ghost's no longer haunting the house. You have no idea how hard it's been to get and keep workers. Especially if they tried to move the armoire in your downstairs room."

William approached the bed. "And I thought you weak and unworthy of the Craig name. You are an extremely brave young woman."

He shook his head. "When I recall my treatment of you." He placed a hand on her cheek. "What if due to me, you had fled back to your time? All would have been lost. How were you able to bear my hateful words?" William asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I couldn't leave. According to Uncle Henry, I needed Ben at my side in order to return home." Frankie reached out and clutched his hand. "Most importantly though, I kept reminding myself of something Ben's ghost said: 'It was a leap of faith.' I believe love's eternal. Because of that, endless possibilities exist." Frankie watched as William's eyes filled with unshed tears.

"I am losing my son, forever."

"No," she answered softly. "You're going to save him. He won't die. He'll live. If he stays, he'll either be killed or the two of us will change history. That's a luxury none of us can afford."

Frankie pulled herself erect. "You're receiving a gift few have. You'll know Ben's alive and loved in the future with me."

William glanced at Henry. "Do you agree?"

"Yes, sir. I saw it all in a dream. Miz Frankie's gotta go home. Miz Mildred's kin is gonna arrive right soon. 'Sides which, Miz Frankie doesn't fit it here."

"True." William resumed his pacing. "I will write a letter to Jacob and cancel Frances's visit." He focused on his son and Frankie. Everything that had happened between the two of them now made sense. Even her comments of gold having lasting value.

He now fully understood the task before him. Save the family and its fortune.

He smiled down at the two lovers. "As for you two, when you disappear, the family can think you have run off together."

"No! History must play itself out." Frankie clasped her hands. "Too much is at stake."

William sat hastily on the bed, flanking her across from Ben.

Henry positioned a chair by the headboard and plopped onto it. "Do you have a plan for savin' Masta Ben?"

Frankie smiled. "Of sorts. It should also prevent too great a time paradox." She waved off their question. "We pretend the deserters kill Ben."

"How do we accomplish that trick?" William folded his arms across his chest. What magic from the future would Frankie use to save his son?

"We'll use the same method Clint Eastwood did in A Fistful of Dollars."

William stared at Frankie. "A fistful of dollars?"

Frankie wrinkled her nose. "It's a movie. I mean, a moving picture. That is, a daguerreotype that shows action. I--oh, never mind." She waved their questions off before they could voice them. "It isn't important. The critical point is how Eastwood kept himself alive by wearing a shield of metal under his serape. It formed a bulletproof vest."

The three men exchanged glances. "It might work," William said, his mind shifting quickly through all the possible uses for a device like the one they would manufacture for his son. He turned his attention to Henry. "There is the old apron from the town's cannon in the barn, Henry. Take it to the blacksmith. Tell him what we want, and I must have it by tomorrow noon."

"What about your disappearance?" Ben asked. "I'm not traveling through time without you at my side, Frances Matthews."

"Not only won't I let you. Neither of us can go unless we're holding the other's hand." Frankie threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. Henry and William's coughs reminded Frankie they weren't alone. "I'll think of an excuse for my vanishing later."

William's brow furrowed. "What else do you need, Frankie?"

"The deserters will arrive tomorrow evening just after a storm ends." Frankie gnawed on her lower lip. "You need to decide how best to handle the women. They shouldn't get too close to Ben after he's supposedly killed."

Henry leaned forward, his clasped hands hanging between his knees. "Suppose we pretend Masta Ben's shot, and I carry him to the milk rooms."

Frankie nodded. "I can be sent to bed prior to the incident, then sneak down the back stairs to the milk rooms." She looked at Uncle Henry. "Remind me to tell you something about those rooms."

"I believe you should tell me, young lady."

Frankie grinned. She'd wondered how long it would take before the real Mr. Craig returned. "It isn't important. At least not for a while."

"There is one problem." William rubbed his jaw. "Mildred will insist upon seeing her son."

Frankie swallowed. She knew she couldn't let Mildred discover the truth, yet the thought of the woman suffering needlessly distressed her. "What can we do?"

William patted her hand. His eyes narrowed in contemplation. "That will be my problem, not yours, child. I will think of something. We will bury one of the Yanks as Ben and dispose of the others before the women see them."

Ben leaned forward. "If you think it's necessary, tell Mama the truth. I won't have her dying of heartbreak over me as she almost did over Joseph."

"Agreed," William said. He returned to studying Frankie. Her steady, gray gaze reassured William she could solve any problem that came her way. Yet still, he had to ask, "Even if your uncle and aunt agree to your plan, how will you explain my son's sudden presence in your world?"

Ben jerked upright. "Damnation and hellfire! I'll be shown up as an impostor. At least you knew our history, Frankie. I know nothing about your time."

"That's the least of your problems. In my time, it's easy to discover the truth about a person's personal history. You," she glanced at Ben, "are going to need identification. And lots of it."

Frankie gnawed on her lower lip, then snapped her fingers. "Uncle Max." She glanced at the three blank-faced men beside her. "We need to get a message to my Uncle Max." She frowned. "But how?"

William's gaze met hers. "We must find a reputable person or law firm whose lineage survives to your time and place. Do you know of one, Frankie?"

"Yes." She slowly exhaled. "There's a law firm in Richmond. It advertises it's serviced central Virginia families for over a hundred and seventy years. Its name is Hartsford and Palmer."

"Damn, Horace Hartsford and I have known each other since we were in short pants." William paused, then smiled. "Yes, the man can be trusted to do as we ask and not ask questions."

"Great." Frankie rubbed her hands together. "We'll both write letters to Uncle Max and Aunt Ginnie. I'll give you when and where to have them delivered. Then after the war, you can turn them over into Horace Harsford's care."

Smiling, Frankie started to rise from the bed, collapsed back against the headboard and pillows and groaned. "It isn't fair. I go out to save Ben and return the invalid." Her fist slammed onto the mattress. "There's too much to do for me to be laid up."

"Shush." Ben kissed her forehead. "You'll be up and around by tomorrow. That's soon enough. Right now, we need your knowledge and imagination."

"Ben is right, Frances. Rest." William patted her shoulder. "Let us three men do the necessary labor."

His son had chosen well. He'd met his match in Frankie. She was a woman of imagination and ingenuity. She also displayed total loyalty to those she loved.

Regret buffeted William. He had let his obstinacy and perverse intransigence cost him the opportunity to fully appreciate this wondrous female who had traveled through time to save his son.

* * *

"Papa Craig's changed his mind about you, Frankie. He is singing your praises. Honest. I heard him myself," Connie said as she fluffed the pillows behind Frankie. "Noah says Papa Craig's accepted you into the family. Isn't that grand? We will be sisters after all."

Frankie watched Connie flit around the room. Frankie had never seen her like this. She couldn't stay still. "Please sit, Connie." Frankie patted the mattress beside her. "It's exhausting watching you." She examined Connie's glowing face. "Okay, tell me. What's the big secret?"

Connie collapsed on the bed, shot a glance at the closed door, and flashed a grin. "I think I'm with child. I know it's too soon to tell, yet--"

"You know." A sense of peace and completeness washed over Frankie. "Just like you knew it when Noah was injured. I couldn't be happier. You and Noah deserve the joy a healthy baby will bring you." Life took many interesting turns. Such as hers with this trip through time. How often did a person get to meet their future in-laws and their uncle's antecedents at the same time? It boggled the mind to think she was about to become an aunt and a great-great- granddaughter-in-law. "Have you told Noah?"

"No." Connie plucked at the gathers in her skirt. "I want to make sure before telling him." She raised her eyes to Frankie's. "Being with child is hard for me. I've lost three children before the fourth month. I can't bear the thought of raising Noah's hopes just to dash them."

With one hand Frankie cupped Connie's cheek. She laid the other on her friend's abdomen. "I have a feeling about this time. You'll have a robust little boy who will make you proud."

"Thank you, Frankie." Connie gave her a quick hug. "Now, we must plan your wedding."

"I want a church wedding with my family beside me."

"And so you shall have one. But for now, I'll leave you. Doctor Elon said you must rest." Connie bent and kissed Frankie's cheek. "I'll see you after you've napped."

As Frankie's eyes drifted close, she made a startling realization. As desperately as she wanted Aunt Ginnie's comforting arms around her and to see Uncle Max's smiling face, she would miss the Craigs of 1864 and Henry's family. She had twenty-four hours to store a lifetime of memories.

She squeezed her eyes shut. A tear seeped out and ran into her hairline. She remembered her difficulties in acclimating to these austere surroundings. Who was she kidding? She never had adjusted.

Would Ben end up being like her, longing to return to his era? She prayed he wouldn't hate her for having taken him from his home and his life. Because no matter how much she tried to explain, there was no way she could prepare him for her fast, noisy and technologically driven culture lacking in common civility.

"Oh God, Ben, I hope you survive the adjustment."

* * *

Frankie eased into the small barn. The three men she sought stood huddled in the far corner. Straw and soft dirt cushioned her steps. "What are you doing?" she asked, coming up behind them.

Uncle Henry and William jumped at the sound of her voice. Only Ben remained undisturbed.

Ben chuckled. "So you come with cat's feet, Frankie. What else should I know?" He reached out, encircled her waist and drew her to his side. "Luckily, I always sense your presence." He looked down into cool gray pools and almost lost himself in her gaze.

After a moment, Ben pulled himself back to her original question. "Uncle Henry returned from the blacksmith with this." He removed a black-hammered sheet of metal from Henry's hands and inspected it. "What do you think?"

"It looks good. Put it on."

Ben slipped the leather strap around his neck. The shield hung on the strap's ends, covering his chest and upper abdomen.

Frankie ran her fingers along the rough surface. "Did the smith ask any questions?"

"Masta William is workin' on a secret invention." Uncle Henry briefly touched Ben's steel-covered heart. "I have somethin' for you." Henry removed his charm bag from around his neck. "Here. I've carried this since my daddy gave it to me. It has special magic. I want you to wear it now. It'll to keep you safe." He flashed a grin. "It'll also give you lots of youngens."

Fighting emotion that threatened to erupt, Ben bent and allowed Henry to slip the leather thong and its precious cargo over his head. "It'll lay next to my heart, always."

Uncle Henry nodded. "Good."

William cleared his throat. "Here, son. Take this." William pulled his gold watch from his vest pocket. "I know you lost yours in the James during the storm. Whenever you check the timepiece, remember how much your mother and I love you. If there are any other items of special meaning, tell me and I will place them in the milk room."

"Thank you." Ben blinked several more times. "I'll never forget." Words failed him. How did one say good-bye forever to those they loved? To life as he knew it? One second his father and all those he loved would be with him. The next, he'd be alone, in another time with only Frankie at his side and memories of his long dead family.

His arm tightened around Frankie's waist. Comfort would come from the woman at his side. His love. He'd made the correct choice.

He could live a full life knowing his family had survived this bloody war and prospered. Without Frankie, he wouldn't want to survive.

William cleared his throat and said gruffly, "Is there anything else we should know, Frankie?"

Misty-eyed, Frankie forced herself to focus on logic, grab the life preserver that action offered and not dwell on the emotion that threatened to drown them all. "The wedding quilt." With an economy of words she explained to William its importance.

"I shall tell her I used it as Ben's burial shroud and secrete it where you said you'll find it in your time."

Frankie's brow furrowed in thought. "What about things at Uncle Henry's? I can't leave them here."

"Good God, no! Uncle Henry." Ben glanced at his friend. For the first time he noticed that Uncle Henry seemed old. It broke his heart. Uncle Henry was the man who'd helped make him into the adult he'd become. Ben swallowed and forced a smile. "Could you please bring Frankie's items with you?"

"Be my pleasure, Masta Ben."

"Henry," Ben called out. "Do you think that between now and when I leave you could drop the master and I the uncle. I want to remember you as my friend, not as a servant."

A smile lit Henry's face. "I'd be honored, Ben." He made a small bow.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Frankie scanned the immediate area. Dark clouds swirled overhead. She shook her head. If she were into omens, one look would warn her the future didn't bode well. And it didn't. Within the hour, the lives of the Craig family would be forever changed.

Frankie inhaled. It wasn't just the storm. There was something else in the air. She sniffed, again. What was that odor? Then it hit her. The smell of the armoire and time travel filled her senses.

"It's really going to happen."

"What's going to happen?"

Ice filled Frankie's veins. It can't be. Not now! She glanced to the right of the backstairs. Damn it! "What are you doing here, Beatrice?"

"Why, I've come to pay a visit on my former family and say how thrilled I am to hear Ben's marrying you."

"Right." Frankie touched Uncle Henry's magic pouch hidden beneath her blouse. Nothing like having all the evil players in one place at one time.

"Now that you're not at death's door, it's time you paid for making a fool out of me."

She stepped to the left, pivoted and raised her hands to deflect any charge Beatrice made. "You did it to yourself. No one can make a fool out of anyone but themselves." Blast and double blast, Beatrice could single-handedly screw everything up. She had to do something and fast. "This is just between the two of us. I suggest we go down to the milk rooms."

Beatrice scanned the immediate area. "Where is everyone?"

"The men are patrolling the woods. Mama Craig and Connie are upstairs."

As Beatrice turned to go down the stairs, Frankie pulled the door closed. A shadow fell across her. She slowly turned and faced a gun. "Where'd you get that?"

"John may lack the social graces, but he has plenty of hardware to help persuade you to his way of thinking." She grinned. "Or in this case, mine."

Frankie folded her arms across her chest. Beatrice was an evil grasping shrew who wouldn't stop until she got what she wanted. But kill someone, in cold blood, that was probably the one thing she couldn't do. Although, given the way her hand was shaking, there was always the chance the damned gun would go off and hit its target.

She had to do something fast. Otherwise, all their plans would be for naught. Not to mention what few branches there were on the Broady family tree would cease. "Hand me the gun, Beatrice. You don't want to kill anyone, me included. Think of the shame. Think of the humiliation from a public hanging."

"What do you know of shame and humiliation?"

Frankie watched the woman's eyes fill with tears. "More than you might think." She inched forward and to the right. If she kept Beatrice talking, got her worked up emotionally, chances were the woman wouldn't notice her actions.

"You have ruined my social standing, my life. Tobacco farming was bad enough, but chicken farming is worse." She steadied the weapon. "I've wanted Ben since I was a young woman. With him at my side, I would have been the lady of the manor. My children would have become statesmen and successful businessmen. Now they're doomed to being nothing but farmers and mule-drivers."

Pity overwhelmed Frankie. Given proper direction in her youth, Beatrice could have been a loving woman and would have achieved her heart's desire. "We all are responsible for the choices we make and their consequences." She reached out, twisted the gun from Beatrice's hand, tossed it aside, then flipped her onto her back in one smooth move.

"This is the consequence of thinking because I'm small I'm weak." The next moment she sat on the woman's chest and clamped her hand over Beatrice's mouth to prevent her screaming. "Now, now, we can't have any unladylike behavior. Wouldn't want to ruin what was left of your reputation, now would we?"

Frankie smiled at the woman's nod, then frowned at her wide-eyed stare.

"What happened, Frankie?"

Damn, and double blast. She glanced over her shoulder at Connie. "Revenge," she whispered. As Connie started to speak, Frankie put a finger over her lips, then pointed to the gun. "Get that. We also need something to muzzle Bea and ropes to hold her. I don't have time to deal with her machinations at the moment."

"Here." Connie handed her some clean rags, then dropped the rope at her feet.

Frankie struggled to control a bucking Beatrice. "I need your help." Once they'd gagged the fighting woman, they rolled her onto her stomach and tied her with the rope.

Connie sighed, withdrew the gun from her pocket where she'd put it and brought it down on the back of Beatrice's head.

Frankie's gaze went between the unconscious woman and Connie whose face was lit by a Madonna smile. "Why?"

"It was more humane. You're exhausted and," she placed a hand on her abdomen, "in my delicate condition I shouldn't be dealing with this." She waved her other hand over the motionless Beatrice.

Frankie stood and hugged Connie. "Thank you, sister." She pulled back, then brushed Connie's hair from her face. "Always remember, that is what you are to me, my sister."

"Naturally. As you are with me." Smiling, she glanced down at the subdued woman lying at their feet. "What do we do about her?"

"Under the stairwell." Frankie pointed to the shrubs at the base of the porch. "Ask Uncle Henry when to untie her. Have Noah do it. He can tell her if she makes any more trouble, he'll ensure she's ostracized by every level of society in Goochland County. And that includes the chicken farmers."

Moments later, Frankie rubbed the small of her back. "I'm going to miss you."

"What are you talking about? Everything's been settled between Ben and Papa Craig. You aren't going anywhere."

"You're right, of course. But if anything should happen, always remember that whatever happens is for the best. Also know that I will be safe just as y'all will."

"You're talking crazy again."

"Ah, so, now I'm crazy, not eccentric." With a rag, Frankie wiped away Connie's tears. "My sweet sister, always remember that love transcends time. That is my gift to you. Never forget it, either."

She swallowed at Connie's sad smile. Frankie knew it was impossible, but it was as if her sister of the heart understood what was about to happen. Frankie blinked back her own tears. Then again, given the psychic connection between Connie and Noah, anything was possible.

"Yes, love does transcend time and place." She clasped Frankie's arm. "What can I do?"

"Give me one last hug, then return to Aunt Mildred. It's critical you two stay where Uncle William tells you to."

After they parted, Connie disappeared into the house.

Minutes later, Frankie hurried up the back stairs. As she reached for the door handle, Mildred pulled it open, grabbed her arm, and jerked her inside.

"Frances Payne, you'll be the death of me. What in blue blazes were you thinking of standing out there in the rain?" She wrapped a blanket around Frankie's shaking shoulders.

"Sit," Mildred said, shoving Frankie onto a chair. Mildred poured hot water in a cup with a slice of lemon and some honey. "Drink this, it'll warm you. You're still ill and need to take more care."

While Frankie drank the hot honeyed lemon water, Mildred said, "I want you out of these wet clothes and into bed. This minute, young lady." Mildred pointed her finger toward the back stairs that led to the second floor. "Take the cup with you."

"Yes, ma'am."

Frankie rushed to her room and behind a locked door. She pulled her satchel and jeans from under the bed. As she stripped, she spotted the dress--the beautiful emerald green velvet ball gown.

Without another thought, she jammed her jeans and sweatshirt into her bag. Grinning, she slipped into the gown. She knew it was silly, but she couldn't bear to leave it behind. She'd been wearing the dress the first time Ben declared his love. And once they were back home, every time she wore it they'd remember not just that night but Ben's loving family.

As the storm's strength lessened, Frankie eased down the back stairs. She had to make it to the milk rooms in the basement before she was missed. She paused on the bottom step at the sound of voices.

Frankie peeked around the threshold.

William swept Mildred into his arms and tried to usher her from the room. "Don't worry about Frances, Mildred. She's safe where she is. Go join Constance and Noah in the front parlor. Now."

When Ben and Henry entered the kitchen and doused the lights, William placed his hand on Mildred's back. "Henry spotted three men moving out of the woods toward the back of the house."

Frankie grinned when he winked at her.

"Promise me that you'll stay in the parlor. I can't protect the family if I'm worrying about your safety."

"I promise. Oh, William!" Mildred's hand flew to her mouth. "These could be the deserters y'all are hunting. The one's who killed Esther."

"More than likely, my dear. We'll find out for sure shortly."

Frankie watched Ben and Henry take up positions beside the back door just as they had in her dream.

Then Ben glanced back and spotted her. "Get into my room, now, Frankie. Your things are already there."

* * *

A dog barked, then barked again.

"Shitfire! Hit the dirt!" Billy withdrew his knife, aimed and threw it as the dog jumped for Joe. Hearing the animal drop, he flattened himself on the muddy ground. He didn't check his cohorts. He didn't need to. They understood what was at risk. If discovered, the element of surprise no longer existed.

Billy rose into a low crouch. "Use the woodpile for cover."

Once hidden, he peered at his target. Something wasn't right. He watched the back door. It remained closed. Why?

He'd seen lights and movement just before the dog had barked. Now they faced nothing but black stillness. Billy's gut warned him to leave, leave as quickly as they could.

Robert coughed. A low, hacking cough followed by retching.

Billy slanted a glance at the young man twenty feet to his left. Damn but he should have slit Robby Boy's throat the other night. The man was a liability. One that could cost them their lives. If they got away from here alive, Billy vowed he'd do just that--slit the boy's gullet.

"Get your weapons ready." Without thinking, Billy automatically bit off the end of a cartridge, poured the powder down the rifle's barrel and squeezed out the bullet. In seconds he'd primed his weapon.

"Think we should pin our names and address on our jackets?" Robert asked.

"Don't have a home." Billy snorted. "And I ain't plannin' on dyin'. Let's go." He motioned to Robert to take the left, then tapped Joe on the shoulder and pointed for him to take the center while he took the right flank. At least this way one of them had a chance for survival.

Suddenly, Billy saw a white man and niggra step onto the porch. Without a word, the white man raised his rifle, aimed and shot. Billy heard Robby Boy's cry and a body drop.

Billy didn't need a second warning. He took off running. He knew if he made it to the shrubs he'd be safe. Then he'd pick the Reb bastard off at his leisure.

Before he'd traveled ten feet another shot rang out. Billy heard a gurgle and knew Joe had bought the farm. He glanced at the Reb. They had two rifles. Damn! The old slave reloaded while the Reb used the other.

Billy rushed the porch. He knew he'd been hit before he heard the shot or felt the pain. His legs crumbled under him. He collapsed. Hot liquid poured from his chest.

He'd always known when he died it would be because someone killed him. He'd just expected to be hung, not shot.

No doubt about it, his blasted wife was laughing in her grave where he'd put her. He could almost see her waiting for him at the end of that dark tunnel. He didn't bother to look up. The call wouldn't come from above. His own actions had seen to that.

Billy's eyes stared at the Reb's uneven gait. He'd been shot by a damned cripple. His fingers tightened on his unfired rifle. No reason why he couldn't take the son of a bitch with him.

* * *

"They all be dead, Ben." Henry leaned against the chimney. "Your daddy's comin' in a minute. We've got to get you to the milk rooms."

"Good." Ben looked up at Henry from under lowered lids. "I'm hit." A warm wetness spread along his upper chest. He'd felt the Yank's bullet hit the steel plate, shattering it and sending a shard of metal into his upper chest. He prayed the wound was shallow. But from the amount of blood, he doubted it.

"Stay where you are. If'n you get up, all's lost. We've done enough changin' history. Don't need to be doin' no more."

William sprinted down the back stairs. "Son!" he exclaimed in a loud shout. At Mildred's wail, he stopped short. Turning, he shot a look of warning up a Noah. "Get the women inside, Noah. They don't need to see this."

As Noah ushered Mildred and Connie back into the house, he said, "I'll be back and help you, Papa."

"No! You have seen enough blood. Henry and I will take care of everything that needs doing." William waited until the three Craigs had disappeared from sight. "Come on, Henry, time to carry Ben into the basement."

"I've been hit."

William glanced one last time at the house and turned back to the two men. "Henry, you take one side and I'll take the other. Once we are in the milk rooms, we can think of something."

"Frankie's told me some about the doctors and medicine in her time. They can help me."

William slipped an arm around his son's waist and helped him to his feet.

Moments later, Frankie rushed to meet them.

"It seems history is determined to extract its due," Ben murmured in a detached voice.

"He's going into shock." Frankie removed the shield, ripped Ben's shirt off, and examined the wound. "We have to do something about this first. Put him on the bed."

At the sight of so much blood she almost vomited. She took a deep breath and reached down inside herself for strength she'd never used. "Get me some clean cloths. Now."

"I'll get them." Henry charged over to Ben's bed and started ripping his sheet into strips.

"With the amount of powder used, these bullets pack the same wallop as an AK-47. So it isn't surprising that the shield shattered. Heck, depending upon the weapon, a fifty or fifty-five caliber bullet was used."

"I'll dig the metal out," Henry offered.

Frankie winced. The wound was shallow, but it was still painful. The thought of having even minor surgery without at least lidocaine sickened her. "Okay, Henry. But sterilize your probe with fire first."

"Frankie," Ben whispered. She leaned down to his lips. "Love you."

"I know. I love you, too." Before she finished, Ben passed out. All things considered, Frankie figured it was a good thing he did. At least he wouldn't make any noise when Henry went about his work.

As Henry pulled two knives from the fire, Frankie turned away and began folding the strips of cloth into pressure bandages. No way could she watch Henry. The last thing any of them need was her joining Ben in a state of oblivion on the floor.

It took several minutes for Henry to dig the shard out of an unconscious Ben. As he dropped the chunk onto the table, Frankie picked it up, wrapped it in some tissue and stuck it in her bag.

"We have to slow the bleeding." Frankie retrieved the layers of folded material. "Press these down on the wound. With luck, the pressure will work," she ordered William.

Henry glanced up toward the house. "Time's runnin' out, Miz Frankie."

"I know." She checked the wound. "The bleeding's slacked off. Help me get him up," she said to William.

"I'll be fine." Ben winced as he sat upright.

After replacing the compresses, Frankie used the torn sheeting from Ben's bed as strapping. "That should hold until we get him to the Emergicenter and they can stitch it."

"Emergicenter? Ah, now I understand. They're doctors. I saw it in a dream."

Her eyes widened, then she nodded. Why Henry's comment had surprised was a surprise in itself. "Damn." Frankly smacked her forehead with the palm of her hand. "In my time, all gunshot wounds have to be reported to the police. It might be better if you were wearing your uniform, Ben."

She helped Ben into a clean shirt and his Confederate uniform, stepped back, then watched Ben and his father embrace. She smiled when both men stiffened, then surreptitiously swiped at their wet faces.

She knew how hard it was for Ben to leave his family. Together, they'd shared their joys and weathered their sorrows. Frankie prayed she and the twenty-first century Craigs were sufficient to fill the void.

First things first, Frankie reminded herself. Ben needed medical help. Lordy, how she dreaded dealing with the doctors. Required by law, they'd report his wound. Okay, it wasn't a bullet hole, but how in the blue blazes did she explain shrapnel? He was part of a reenactment and a piece of equipment exploded?

Of course, that's exactly what she'd say. "It'll work out," she muttered, moving toward the wardrobe. At the open armoire, she stopped. "Where's your rifle, Ben?"

"Outside."

"We need it." She quickly explained the problem.

William slipped outside, retrieved the weapon and when he returned gave it Frankie. "I am truly sorry you cannot stay in my time, young lady. The two of us could have made a fortune together."

Frankie saw acceptance and regret in William Craig's eyes. "I'm just happy I got to know you." She threw her arms around her father-in-law to be and kissed his damp cheek. "I'll make you proud to have me as your daughter-in-law."

"You already have. Love my son, that is all I ask."

"I promise. Remember, buy gold and bury it for later."

Frankie bit her lip. Should she? Why not. How much change could a few more helpful comments make? "Invest in railroads. Oh, and be sure your heirs are out of everything on the New York Stock Exchange by January 1929. Tell them not to buy anything until 1931. Have them put the money in short-term U.S. securities in the interim."

She grabbed her satchel, put it over one shoulder, then picked up the rifle and almost collapsed under its weight.

"Give it to me, love. It is after all mine."

Beaming, Frankie moved next to Ben. She handed him the weapon. As he staggered under the added weight, she heard him gasp. Her gaze narrowed on his bandaged wound. He'd started to bleed again.

She had to get him back to her time fast. "Now's not the time for machismo." She easily pulled the rifle from his grasp. "Let's go. I'm not sure how this time portal works, but I'd feel better if we wrapped our arms around one another's waist as we entered it."

She glanced back to the two men. "Uncle Henry, you need to unwrap a package under the back stairs. Ask Connie."

"I'll take care of, chile."

Ben slipped his arm around Frankie's shoulders and held tight. "Shall we go home?"

As one, they entered the wardrobe.

* * *

"It's him, the ghost!"

Frankie groaned. The voice was familiar. Too familiar. She pushed herself up off the frozen ground and glared at a pasty-faced John Broady. "John--"

"How'd you get here before us?" Groaning, Ben picked up the rifle and, using it as leverage, pulled himself upright. "Did Beatrice come with you, too?"

"Oh, no you don't. You stay away. Bad 'nuff you haunt the Craigs, you ain't hauntin' me, too. No siree." Broady made the sign of the cross in triplicate.

Frankie bit the inside of her cheek. "John, he isn't a ghost. He's real."

Broady continued to back toward his mule, holding both hands up, his fingers forming a cross.

Frankie glared at him. "Crosses only work for vampires, John. And Ben is as real as you and me."

"He's cast a spell on you, Frankie." Broady jumped on his mule and kicked it into motion. "I'll be back with a priest and we'll save you."

Ben snorted. "Obviously, Beatrice had no impact on the family."

"Guess not," she muttered. A quick glance at the house confirmed her worst fears. "Whoops."

"What did you mean by whoops?"

"I mean I should've kept my mouth shut and never made any financial suggestions."

Frankie slowly rose. The landscape looked the same as when she'd left. But that was all. She sighed. Aunt Ginnie had done a lot more than remodel. She'd expanded the house into a mansion.

Then again, money was no object.

"Did your suggestions hurt the family?"

"Not exactly. In fact, the Craigs are doing real well. Uncle Max is now the fifth wealthiest man in the world. And the Craig Charity Foundation which I administer? Well, its value is no longer forty million, but now has around twenty billion in assets, give or take a hundred mil."

She wrapped her arm around Ben. "Come on, let's get you to the hospital." She pushed and prodded a shell-shocked Ben toward the five-car garage.

"How could that happen? And how would you know what's changed? You weren't here during the changes. I would think you'd be as much a stranger here as I."

"But I was here. I lived twenty-nine years before going back to your time. Near as I can tell, the TV show Outer Limits has it right."

"TV?"

"Later. I'll have to show you one to explain it. Now, as I was saying, the person who goes back in time makes changes, then comes forward again and remembers everything as it was before leaving plus all the changes made. Only those who stayed in the present don't know about the changes, because their lives have gone on as always. The ripple starts with the first change."

"Frankie? Do you have any idea how crazy you sound?"

"Yep. Just about as nuts as I did telling you I'd traveled through time in an armoire." Frankie dug in her satchel, withdrew a small black box and punched a button.

As the door opened, Ben's mouth dropped. "How, what..."

"It's an automatic garage door opener. This," she held up the box, "sends a signal to its counterpart inside which tells the door to open. Then electricity opens it."

"Of course, why didn't I think of that?"

"There's no need for sarcasm. After all, I didn't throw a hissy fit when I arrived back in your time and everything around me was strange. Nope, I fit right in."

"Yeah. It was amazing how no one noticed anything strange about you." Ben chuckled, then started to howl only to stop in a gasp. "Damn, I hurt."

"Let's get you to the doctor." Frankie opened the passenger door of her Jaguar. After more pushing and prodding, she got Ben inside and buckled up.

He plucked at the shoulder strap. "I'm inside a box. Why do I have to wear this?"

"Because it's the law. And if I stop suddenly, you won't."

Ben glanced around. "Where're the horses?"

"Under the front hood." Frankie slammed his door, cutting off his next question. Seconds later she slid into the driver's seat. Why had she ever said anything to William Craig? Because I have a big mouth. The railroad suggestion had been bad enough, but the January 1929 bit had been the killer.

"Damn, I knew better, too." If there was one thing Frankie understood besides the stock market, it was science fiction, and time travel was a major backdrop to a lot of the stories.

"What did you know better?"

"Later." A lot later. Maybe never. She jammed the key into the ignition and turned it. As the engine roared to life, she glanced at Ben, started to face front, then paused and turned back to him open-mouthed.

Ben sat ramrod stiff, staring straight ahead, with a hand on the armrest and another on his bucket seat.

She reached out and caressed his fingers. "You can loosen your grip." If he didn't, she'd have to reupholster the car. As it was, she doubted the leather would ever recover. "The noise is just the engine. Relax. Enjoy the trip."

She shoved the car into reverse. "Looks like the radio won't be needed," she muttered, backing out of the garage to the accompaniment of moans and groans.

Remembering how Ben had laughed at her during her first attempt at milking, Frankie flashed him a grin. Paybacks are hell. "Hang on, the ten mile trip'll only take around six minutes."

At the gurgling sound to her right, she shoved the Jag into forward, and laughing, pressed the pedal to the metal.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Baby's breath peaked out from a cedar garland and smooth, rich-green magnolia leaves. Interspersed among the greenery on the fireplace mantle were large burgundy bows.

Ginnie Craig stepped back from her creation. "Well, what do you think?"

Max viewed his wife's handiwork from his armchair. "It's beautiful as always, my dear." He smiled at the twinkle in Ginnie's eyes. She reminded him of the perfect glass of champagne. Beneath the effervescence lay a subtle tartness that offset the sweetness of the grape. In its aftermath a warm tingling spread throughout his body as if he'd received a rare gift from the gods.

Even after twenty-eight years of marriage, Ginnie excited and exasperated him, sometimes simultaneously. He doubted he'd ever understand her. She hated the cold, dreary Richmond winters. So they always spent all of January at their place in Barbados. Yet every year, she insisted on both the Richmond house and Craig Knoll having a large Christmas tree and every corner filled with seasonal plants and decorations.

Max set his brandy snifter on the table and opened his arms. "Now, love. It's time for the fun." He waggled his blondish eyebrows and attempted to look the part of a lecherous but sophisticated older man.

Amid gales of laughter, Ginnie collapsed on his lap. "Oh, Max, I sometimes wonder at your timing."

"I know, my dear. That's what makes it so much fun." He nuzzled her neck as he flicked open the buttons of her blouse and pushed it aside. He reveled in the assurance that with Ginnie he could be free and not the staid, ever proper Maxwell Craig. With Ginnie, he never feared censure.

As his lips followed his fingers, Ginnie hissed, "Stop it, Maxwell." She glanced at the doorway, then glared at him when he laughed.

Well, almost never, he corrected. "Ah, Ginnie. Do you think I'd be so boorish as to seduce my wife in front of a roaring fire with the doors open and servants around?" Max laughed. "We're alone. Now I can have my wicked way with you anywhere I want without fear of discovery." His mouth closed around a silk-covered nipple.

The front door knocker boomed. Max flashed a disgusted grimace at the hallway. "Damn. Just when it was getting fun." He pulled Ginnie's blouse together and set her on the ottoman. "Better button up. It looks like we have company whether we want it or not."

At the threshold, Max paused. Glancing back at his disheveled wife, he winked. "We'll pick up where we left off as soon as I get rid of whoever this is," he said, his body responding to the sight of Ginnie's silk blouse molding itself to the wet bra's cup.

Still smiling, Max opened the door. A distinguished looking man in his late sixties stood before him. At the sight of a briefcase in the hand of the stranger, all traces of amusement disappeared. "May I help you?"

"I'm Horace Hartsford the fourth from the law firm Hartsford and Palmer, Mr. Craig." He handed Max his business card. "I realize I'm not your attorney of record, but I have some documents of yours."

"Come in." Max stepped aside. He shut the door after the man entered the foyer. "Follow me." As they entered the living room, he winked at Ginnie when she flamed at the sight of their visitor, then introduced them.

Smiling, Max settled himself next to Ginnie on the sofa. "Now, what's this about having some documents that belong to me?"

"I am fulfilling an obligation incurred by my firm almost a hundred and fifty years ago. My great-grandfather Horace Hartsford was employed to secure and hold safe these letters." Mr. Hartsford set his briefcase across his knees and opened it. "This was entrusted into our firm's safekeeping by your ancestor, William Craig, in 1866."

He withdrew an oilskin wrapped packet from inside his case, handed it to Max, then locked and set the briefcase at this feet. "This packet came with specific instructions." Mr. Hartsford handed Max a yellowed, brittle piece of paper. "As you can see, the instructions are to deliver the bundle to Mr. Maxwell Craig, heir to Craig Knoll, on today's date at exactly twelve noon."

Max slowly read the written instructions. "This doesn't make sense." He set the letter aside on a table, then stared at the wrapped package in his lap. "This has to be a hoax. Has my niece, Frankie, sent you here?"

Stiff pride marked Mr. Hartsford movements as he retrieved his briefcase and stood. "I assure you, Mr. Craig, that Hartsford and Palmer would not be a party to a hoax. That," he pointed at the package in Max's lap, "has been in our vault, as I told you, since 1866." Briefcase in hand, he rose and nodded to Ginnie, then to Max. "It has been a pleasure to meet you both. Now, in accordance with the dictates of the letter, I shall leave."

Max started to rise. Before he could take a step, Mr. Hartsford exited the room. Seconds later the front door snapped shut and Max flopped back onto the couch. He looked over at Ginnie and shrugged. "What do you think?"

"That you'd better open it."

"Might as well." Max picked the fruit knife off his dessert plate, slipped the blade under the twine, and cut the dried cord with one stroke. Gingerly, he removed the outer wrapping, exposing three sealed letters. His fingers traced the loose, folded sheet of paper. "I'd like to believe this is one of Frankie's better jokes. But given the fragile state of these," he waved his hand over the documents, "and that Horace Hartsford is involved, I can't."

"What's the note say?"

"Read the letters in the order in which you received them." Max set the cracked paper on the table.

Ginnie touched his arm. "Do you really think Frankie's involved?"

"We'll soon find out."

"Open the first letter, Max," Ginnie pleaded. "I know it defies your sense of logic. But anything's possible. Why look at us."

Max chuckled at her rejoinder, remembering the fights he'd had with his parents about marrying Ginnie. When he finally decided to hell with them, they'd eloped. He looked back down at his lap. Slipping his fruit knife under the first envelope's wax seal, he popped it off. "Here goes," he said, removing its contents:

June 21, 1864

Dear Maxwell:

It strikes me you will feel as awkward reading these words as I am writing them. If you are anything like me, you will find what I am about to tell you difficult to comprehend.

I myself have found the situation taxing. I would prefer to disregard what I have learned, but too many circumstances proclaim it to be the truth. Your niece, Frances--Frankie--Matthews, has made a journey through time. She is now upstairs penning a letter to you and her Aunt Ginnie as I write these words.

"Oh my God." Ginnie bounced on the sofa. "My baby traveled through time."

Max raised his head and stared at his wife. He'd never seen her more beautiful. There was an incandescent glow about her. Joy and excitement with a touch of trepidation swirled around her like a fog.

"Don't stop now, Max. Continue. Continue."

When you obtain this packet of correspondence, if in fact you do, Frances and my son Ben will have left our world for yours.

I grieve for the loss of my son. But I know that without Frances's intervention, he would have been lost to us by a tragic incident in my time. Frances also assures me her Aunt Ginnie is familiar with the story of Benjamin's encounter with three Blue Coats, as is a Mr. John Broady from your time. As such, I shall refrain from retelling it.

I entrust to you, my great-great-grandson, my oldest and most loved child. Benjamin will need your assistance to fit into your world as I am sure it is much different from ours. Frances has assured me that you have sufficient power and money to make this possible.

I pray Frances and Ben arrive safely. Please give them my love. Tell them they are forever in my prayers. Tell Ben I have locked the wardrobe and put the key in the location he and Henry had chosen. He will know what I mean.

In closing, I am ashamed to admit that when I met your niece, I thought Frances a weak and slow-witted female. I now realize she has more courage and intelligence than most men fighting in this War of Northern Aggression.

"It's signed, 'Best Regards, William Craig'." Max's strokes were gentle and reverent as they traced the signature of his great-great-grandfather.

"Max." Ginnie cupped his chin and turned his face toward hers. "Oh, my dear, I should have realized how this would affect you," she murmured as she leaned over and kissed her husband's tear-streaked face.

Max pulled free of Ginnie. He hated showing any form of weakness. And what were tears in a man if not a weakness? He gently set aside William Craig's letter, then unsealed the one from Frankie and began reading:

Dear Aunt Ginnie and Uncle Max,

I can see you two huddled over my letter. Uncle Max unsure whether it's one of my jokes and, you, Aunt Ginnie, unable to sit still. I finally did what you've been suggesting for years, Aunt Ginnie. I went on an adventure, unwillingly at first, and finally found love.

I've got to tell you living in 1864 is hard work. I miss everything from our era and can't wait to return with my love in tow. That means you're going to have to use some of the Craig pull to get Ben an identity, Uncle Max.

Now for the tricky part. Ben and I are going to try to come home to you and Craig Knoll. I'm not sure if time travel is a one-way street or if a round trip's possible. Uncle Henry swears we'll go home. In fact, he says we'll arrive within seconds of my departure. But who knows what'll happen. After all, time travel is supposedly only found in science fiction.

After you finish reading this letter, please come out to Craig Knoll. If I timed the delivery correctly, you should get these letters about an hour after I entered the armoire. Love, Frankie.

Max glanced at the third letter, then at his misty-eyed wife. He tucked the unopened envelope in his sheepskin jacket's inner pocket. "Let's go."

"But Maxwell, we haven't read the third letter."

"That's because it's addressed to Frances and Benjamin Craig. It's theirs to open, love."

* * *

Max drove his Mercedes as he did all things--with quiet skill and sureness of touch. As the car crested the hill leading to Craig Knoll's entrance, he noted the drive was empty. "Frankie's car isn't in front."

"Maybe it's in the garage."

"Maybe." Max rolled to a stop and turned off the engine. "Let's check out the garage, and if her car's there, let's head for the bottom apartment." He slid out of the car.

Ginnie met him as he rounded the front and grabbed his hand in hers. "I'm scared, Max. What if...what if Frankie didn't make it back? I couldn't handle it if we lost her. She's the child we never had."

Max pulled Ginnie against him and gave her a hard kiss. "Let's take it one step at a time. It'll turn out okay. Trust me," he whispered. He hoped this was one promise that took care of itself. Because for the life of him, he didn't know how he'd solve it.

As they walked toward the path leading to the lower apartment, Max stopped. In the distance he heard the sound of a car horn. "Listen." As one, Max and Ginnie turned.

Ginnie shielded her eyes from the low December sun's rays. "It's Frankie! And she's not alone."

"So I see." Max blinked rapidly several times. Joy and relief at Frankie's arrival weakened his knees.

Ginnie pulled free of his hold and raced toward the slowing Jaguar, waving her arms and screaming, "Frankie!"

By the time Max arrived at the car, Ginnie had opened the door, pulled Frankie from it, and embraced her in a suffocating hug. Max surveyed the scene. Grinning, he opened the front passenger door and helped an ashen-faced young man from the car.

"Frankie, you and your Aunt Ginnie open up the house, not the lower apartment." Max clasped the young man's right hand in his. "You must be Benjamin."

"Yes, sir. Does she always go that fast?"

"I don't know. How fast did she say was she going?"

"She said seventy miles an hour," Ben answered in a hoarse whisper.

Max smiled at the weak-kneed man before him and couldn't stop himself from saying, "Seventy? You were lucky. Frankie loves speed. She usually goes faster, around eight or ninety if she thinks she can get away with it. Get used to it, son. Frankie's a holy terror." He laughed and clapped Ben on the shoulder.

Max watched in horror as Ben almost crumbled under his lighthearted tap. "Sorry. Let me help you."

Ben nodded, then turned back to the Jag. "It is a beautiful machine. And I am certain, once I know how and why it operates as it does, I, too, will enjoy handling it," he said, his fingers lightly caressing the polished metal.

Max knew in that moment he was going to like this man. "We'd better go. Frankie's at the door, tapping her foot." He helped the reeling man navigate the front stairs.

* * *

They sat around the kitchen table sipping cups of hot coffee. As Frankie finished her story, Max took in Ben's blood-stained shirt. "From the looks of things, you didn't escape without injury."

Max nodded as Frankie explained with a minimum of words what had transpired during their last hours in the past. He then turned his scrutiny on Ben. "I'm surprised they didn't admit you to the hospital."

"I suspect they wanted to, but Frankie wouldn't allow it." He clasped her hand in his. "She told them I was her fiancé and you would be furious if I wasn't at Craig Knoll when you and Mrs. Craig arrived." Ben smiled at Frankie. "She said I needed to be at her side when she explained the accident. Otherwise, they might be treating her, too."

"Frankie!" Ginnie gasped. "You didn't?"

Max shook his head and laughed. "That sounds like our girl." He speared Frankie with a glance. "About Ben's bullet wound, Frances, what cock-and-bull story did you feed the poor doctor at the hospital?"

"We were reenacting an incident from the Civil War. And it wasn't a bullet wound. It was shrapnel. My shield worked. Oh, and I told the doctor to check with you. You can help us, can't you Uncle Max?"

"Go on, put the children out of their misery, Maxwell," Ginnie said with a giggle.

Max straightened his shoulders and smiled at Ben. "On the trip out here from Richmond, Ginnie and I discussed your situation. We're both agreed on the best way to handle your appearance and the fact you'll be inheriting Craig Knoll and Craig Industries."

Max held up his hand. "All this would have been your descendants' if Frankie had saved you but returned to us alone. Therefore, it's only right it should be yours after I'm gone."

"Mr. Craig--"

"Call me Dad," Max interrupted. "Frankie is the child we never had. Her happiness is paramount. You, Ben, are the man she loves and wants to marry.

"According to Ginnie, she knows all about the story of your death and ghostly hauntings, you were twenty-nine when the deserters attacked your home. Which works out perfectly. Ginnie and I've been married for twenty-eight years. I plan to claim you as my son from an affair prior to our marriage. To ensure all bases are covered, I'll legally adopt you."

"Uncle Max!"

Max patted Frankie's hand. "Trust me, Frankie. I'll take care of everything."

"I cannot allow you to shame your wife in this manner. Because of this Bandbury tale, she would be forever the subject of gossip and no longer invited into the homes of those in society," Ben objected.

Frankie, Ginnie and Max stared at Ben in wide-eyed and open-mouthed surprise, then started laughing.

"How can you find this humorous?"

"Easily." Max squeezed Ben's good shoulder. "No one, not even the president of the United States, would snub me or any member of my family. Hell, son, we're so rich we could buy and sell most countries." He chuckled. "Money does have its advantages. Such as getting the necessary documents to prove who you are by tomorrow without an eyebrow lifted."

Max studied Frankie's and Ben's expressions of relief and gratitude. He reached out and grasped Ben's hand. "Welcome to the Craig family and the twentieth-first century, son."

Still smiling, he withdrew a third letter from inside his jacket. "We received yours and William Craig's letters, Frankie, just as y'all planned." He slid the unopened envelope to them. "This one's addressed to you two."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Craig Knoll, December 24, Five Years Later

Smiling, Frankie ran a hand through her gamin locks. Once home, she'd kept her hair short. The cut suited her. Ben agreed and called her his wood sprite. She'd often wondered if her determination to have long hair hadn't been the result of conditioning by Ben's ghost.

She turned toward the Christmas tree in the foyer. She loved Craig Knoll, but never more so than during this season. She blew Ben a kiss as she crossed into the living room. "Connie was a breeze."

"Naturally...she's only one year old."

"Well, the twins are only four and I never thought they'd crash."

Ben chuckled. "The boys feed off each other's energy. Then too, it's Christmas Eve."

Frankie sighed. "Your father would've loved Henry and William." She reached his side and slipped an arm around his waist. "I hope they grow up to be as good and strong as their namesakes."

"They shall. With us as their parents, how can they not."

She shook her head and laughed. His ego and self-assurance had grown to where it rivaled Uncle Max's.

It still amazed her how well he'd adjusted to her time period. He loved all the modern conveniences, including driving. She shook her head. He even belonged to a racing club. Yet where she was concerned, he'd never adjusted to how fast she drove.

Thus, true to the autocratic nineteenth-century male he was, only he got to be behind the wheel when they were together. Worse, the moment she'd become pregnant with the twins was the second she'd lost her right to drive. He'd claimed he'd be dead from fear long before the boys were born.

Thus, he bought her a limo and Jerry was hired as her chauffer. Of course, she'd never admit how much she loved having Jerry do all the driving. It gave her time to prepare for the day ahead and unwind on the way home from the hectic pace at work.

Of course, she couldn't allow Ben to win every time. He'd have been impossible to live with. Nor was she willing to give up her love of speed. A month after he had joined the racing club, much to his consternation, she'd joined it, too.

Ben's hand caressed the soft fabric of the emerald green velvet ball gown. "I love your wearing this gown every Christmas Eve." He leaned down and nipped at her neck. "And to think, after twins and Connie you can still wear it without a corset."

Frankie jabbed his waist with her elbow. She walked over to the piano. She stood next to the Craig family photos and slipped her hand into one of the dress's deep pockets.

Her fingers brushed the folded edges of the third letter. Not the original, it was too fragile and precious to handle, but a photocopy. After having undergone a museum-style preservation, the original letter stayed in a safety deposit box.

She stroked the smooth paper. Tonight, as on every Christmas Eve since their arrival back, once the house was quiet they would sit before the Christmas fire and reread William's love-filled letter. This year, it was her turn. Not that she needed to see the words. They were engraved on her heart.

With a soft smile, she removed the letter:

December 25, 1866

My Dearest Children,

Henry assures me you are well, so my heart rests easy. For a while I believed your mother would mourn herself to death. There was the added worry of Constance. She became extremely emotional. She insisted that Frances knew she was going to leave. Thus, fearing for the babe she carried and your mother's health, I have told the family the truth.

At first there was disbelief, then great happiness when I produced the quilt from its hiding place.

Frances, you were right. Constance had a healthy baby boy. I have my grandson. I also have a new granddaughter. Her name is Jacquelyn Frances.

I am sure you have learned that I took the advice you offered that day by the river and again just before your departure, Frances. I used my Confederate money to purchase gold jewelry and fine gems and buried them along with all of our other valuables under the magnolia tree in front.

Because of this, I have had the needed resources to pay the taxes levied after the war's end. There seems no end to them and they rise with each year. I have expanded the family business into lumber mills, railroads, a shipping line and the importing of goods from Europe. This has eased the tax burden.

Henry has told me of your education, Frances. I must admit I could use your keen mind at my side. It is reassuring to know that the Craig future is in the capable hands of the two of you.

Isaiah's wife has given birth to a little girl. They call her Lena. Henry remembered your mentioning the name during one of your many talks.

Always know that you are in our hearts and much loved.

Your loving father, William

Frankie sighed and slipped the letter back into the dress pocket. "I wish I could see your family again. And barring that, Uncle Henry. Can't you just see him teaching a college course about slavery?"

Ben drew Frankie into his arms. "What an imagination. You should be the one writing." He caressed her cheek. "We have each other," he kissed her forehead, "and our children." He placed a hand on Frankie's abdomen. "With another due in seven months."

She covered his hand. "Yes."

He lifted a tear from Frankie's cheek and licked it off his finger. "No more crying. These are happy days. You're a wife, mother and, according to Barron's, this century's greatest financial genius." He flashed her a grin. "Who, I might add, has the good fortune to be married to me, a celebrated author."

Frankie laughed. "And who's so very humble, too." She walked over to the coffee table and picked up a copy of his latest book review from The New York Times. "I love how you leave these things around for me to see. Not that I need to read it, since I know it by heart." She read the review back to him. "'Benjamin Craig once again makes the Civil War come alive. His characters and setting are so well drawn and vivid, you would swear he has a time machine and is writing from first-hand experience. You become part of the story he weaves and from the moment you pick up this classic, you'll swear it is truth, not fiction.' Yep, nothing like a little time travel to help the plotline."

Beaming, Ben took her back in his arms, leaned down and brushed his lips against hers. "There's a downside to this. I leave January tenth for a three week book promotion tour."

"Three weeks?"

"Um-hum," he murmured as he kissed her temple.

"Then you'll come home, to us and Craig Knoll?"

"Always." After one more kiss, he walked over to the Christmas tree and retrieved a large gold-wrapped package. Grinning, he sauntered back to her. "I have something here to keep you company while I'm gone."

Long ago, Frankie had learned not to trust Ben's lopsided, little boy grin. Especially when his eyes were filled with laughter and mischief.

"Here. And open it."

Frankie took it from him, then shook the lightweight box. It didn't rattle. In fact, it was silent. "This better not be another one of those crotchless teddies you love."

At his chuckle, Frankie ripped off the paper, tossed it on the floor and with a flourish removed the lid.

"Truffles!" Rows of gold, foil-wrapped chocolates filled the box, standing at attention like attentive soldiers. After setting the box on the table, Frankie lifted one from the box.

Ben swept her up in his arms. Moments later, he sat on the sofa with Frankie snuggled against his chest.

She unwrapped one of the candies and offered him a bite before popping the rest of it in her mouth. Frankie moaned as the sweet, thick liquid coated and caressed her throat. "Oh God, it's better than sex."

He nuzzled the base of her neck. "Really?"

"Almost." She flashed him a grin. "Nah, you're better."

"For such a keen business mind, you do have this uncontrollable tendency toward the romantic."

Her fingers slowly unbuttoned his shirt. "And there's a lot more to come."

Excerpt from Beaudry's Ghost

by Carolan Ivey

ISBN 1-55316-059-2

PROLOGUE

Help me.

The lock-picking tool fell with a metallic clatter to the concrete floor, and Taylor Brannon froze in her kneeling position by the old trunk.

Turning only her eyes at first, then her head, then at last her shoulders, she looked around the museum's storeroom to assure herself she was alone.

On a ragged sigh, she sat back on her heels, jammed her fists between her knees, closed her eyes and willfully refused to acknowledge the familiar tingling vibrations running through her body.

She didn't like this feeling, like a door opening and cold air rushing in. The feeling of...exposure.

Opening her eyes, she rubbed her arms, retrieved the tool and once again bent over the ancient trunk's rusty lock. The trunk was a donation, a leftover from some estate auction. It was so scarred and battered that no one, not even the most avid antique hunter, had bid on it.

But you never knew what treasures lurked inside drab packages. And that knowledge had kept Taylor working at the lock through her lunch hour.

Tucking her hair behind her ears, she again guided the pick into the keyhole.

"One last try, my friend, and then it's Mr. Crowbar for you..." And, like magic, the lock fell open into her hands.

Her heart beat a little faster in anticipation, yet she steeled herself for disappointment. Taylor set the heels of her hands on the front lip of the lid and pushed. The hinges creaked a loud protest and the trunk coughed up a gray puff of dust that set her to sneezing and waving her hands in front of her face.

As the cloud cleared, Taylor pulled on a pair of white cotton gloves. After a moment's hesitation, she pulled on another pair, on top of the first. She told herself that she needed the gloves to protect the artifacts she might find inside-not because she needed protection herself.

Carefully, her tongue catching at her upper lip in concentration, she peeled back layers of white tissue paper. The scents of cedar, lavender and years wafted up to her nose.

A Civil War-era, Union-blue uniform coat lay on top, neatly folded. Sergeant, from the insignia on the sleeve, with several carefully mended rips in the cloth. Eagerly she slid her hands under the folded garment and looked underneath, hoping to find the rest of the uniform intact. She found more fabric, mostly baby clothes and embroidered linens, but no more uniform pieces. No trousers, hat, or sword.

Nothing. Just the coat.

She frowned in disappointment and wondered why someone had taken such great pains to repair and store that one piece, but not the rest. She chose, for the moment, not to think about what kind of injuries could have destroyed the remaining pieces of the soldier's uniform.

Taylor unfolded the coat and spread it out on the clean, hard floor. Telltale signs told her someone had altered it to fit unusually broad shoulders and a trim waist. She smoothed her gloved hands over the fabric and smiled as she imagined this soldier's mother doing much the same while fitting the coat to her son's body. For a moment, voices echoed in her imagination.

"Stand still, boy, or I'll never get this done in time."

"Aw, Ma, nobody's gonna care how I look when we're routing those Rebs."

"No son of mine is going off to war wearing something that fits like a potato sack. Now hold still."

The imagined voices in her head faded as she turned the garment over to examine the back. Her breath caught. A large, jagged hole told her how the man had died-from a gunshot wound fired at close range. A dishonorable wound, it was. No soldier wanted to die facing away from battle, it would look like he'd been running away, a coward. Dark stains embedded in the blue cloth could have been powder burns or blood, had she cared to look that close. Other faint stains on one sleeve and around the collar bore the marks of a sincere effort to remove them.

Taylor shuddered, quickly flipped the coat back over and refolded it, but as she worked something within the garment crinkled. Not finding any outside pockets, she slid the front buttons free and found one inside. A corner of yellowed paper protruded an inch, showing the edge of a postmark.

The unwanted tuning-fork sensation rippled up her spine again as she unfolded the paper, but Taylor firmly quelled it. She's couldn't remember when she'd had impressions this strong from touching an object, and the fact that they zinged right through two layers of thick cotton gloves struck a note of concern.

She couldn't stop now, though, not when there could me more treasures to find in this trunk. Shutting out the warning bells in her head, she focused instead on the letter, and smiled at the writer's clumsy attempts at decorum and spelling.

June 15, 1871

Mrs. Elizabeth B. Garrison

Little Hocking, Ohio

Dear Mrs. Garrison,

I pray I have found the right person to send this parcel to. It took some doing to find you, seeing as you have remarryed since the war.

I believe this uniform belonged to your son. With shame I admit I relieved him of it after his death. I, along with many of my companions, often collected such trophys during our service under Jefferson Davis. The posession of this prize, however, has become a weight on my soul through the years, and I am compelled to relieve my conscience of the burden.

Your son was captured in February 1862, during the Roanoke Island skirmish. He was taken on Bodie Island while scouting a rebel camp, and was killed many miles south on Cape Hatteras.

It was I, through sheer accident, who came upon him and brought him with some cheer to my commanding officer. Had I known what awaited him, I would have been more inclined to let him go without a word to anyone, and gladly have taken whatever punishment I earned.

The events between his capture and murder I will not repeat, as I have no wish to cause anyone more distress. I will tell you that he suffered mightily at the hands of my commanding oficer. Do not be fooled by the wherabouts of the bullet hole. Be assured that your son died bravely and well.

With deep regret I cannot say where his remains lie. Hard storms have changed the lay of the island, making it impossible to find landmarks or any markers we might have left behind.

Perhaps knowing he is at peace will bring you some small comfort. I have not sent his boots, as I wore them to keep my feet warm during that winter. They served me well and lasted nigh a year.

I must close here, as I have many days journey home after posting this parcel to you. I beg you do not attempt to find me, as there is little more I can tell you and it is my wish to lay the whole sorry event to rest.

But I will never forget your son's courage. For you see, it is the curse of those of us who have no courage, to spend our lives haunted by men such as him.

The letter was postmarked Richmond, Virginia. The handwriting was round and childlike, as if the writer was unaccustomed to laboring over so many words and so many memories.

She turned the page over, hoping for some clue to the writer's identity, but it was blank.

Murder. Murder? She shook her head. Some people might think him a victim of murder, others just a casualty of war.

Refolding the letter, she reached for the garment. Her gloved fingers accidentally touched the hole in the uniform. An odd sensation shot up her arm, raised the hairs on the back, then settled in a hollow ball in the pit of her stomach.

Help me.

She didn't hear a voice. Not exactly. Just an incredibly strong impression of crushing fatigue, confusion and...and...she touched the hole again in spite of herself, for once leaving her inner door slightly ajar.

Pain, in blinding quick succession-right hand, left arm, throat, upper back. Terror.

Taylor gasped, dropped the coat and scrambled backward, her frantic breathing echoing in the cavernous room. Her eyes stayed glued to the untidy pile of blue cloth as she shakily regained her feet, fighting the childish notion that it might jump up and come after her. Then, leaving the coat untouched, she backed away and ran.

CHAPTER ONE

One year later.

Jared Beaudry limped around the campfire, his mind racing with questions.

A group of Confederate soldiers lounged around a fire, smoking or drinking coffee. Their quiet conversation, ribald laughter and occasional mournful song of home were so familiar, so beloved, that Jared ached in the place where his heart had once beat.

Friends. Comrades in arms. Brothers. He remembered well the bond among soldiers. How many years had it been since he'd sat by a campfire of his own? He'd lost count, but enough time had passed that these men should be long dead.

Jared stepped closer, guarding where he placed his good foot and the sheathed sword that supported his other side. Then he laughed bitterly at himself. Old habits truly died hard. He knew he could clatter about like a traveling tinker, or lean down to the closest ear and shout the rudest epithet, and no one would notice.

Only the gifted few could see a ghost.

Confusion swirled in his mind, momentarily blocking out the pain and the sickening sensation of his own blood draining from his wounds. Blood that flowed from a wellspring of rage that never ran dry.

Who were these men? Why, after all these years, were they back here on this island? Had war broken out again? Had he somehow been thrown back in time? Or had a piece of the past torn free and landed here in his own horrible reality?

Before he could sort it all out, the sound of his own name brought him up short. A sing-song voice drew his attention back to the campfire. The men fell silent as they listened to one of their own, apparently the resident storyteller.

"...And they say the ghost of Union soldier Jared Beaudry rides the coast of the Outer Banks to this very day, looking for his lost arm, leg, head. Looking for revenge against Bloody Zachariah Harris, the Confederate lieutenant who took them and his honor, by shooting him in the back."

A moment of rapt silence followed. The large, red-bearded man who had been speaking settled back and sent a long stream of tobacco juice hissing into the fire, signaling the story finished.

As one, the rest of the men released the breath they'd been holding, then broke into hearty laughter. Jared's mind reeled. These men knew him! They remembered his name! They spoke of his death as if they'd seen it! How...?

"Hell's fire, Leon. That tale just gets better every time you tell it. You almost had me believin' it this time!"

"Yeah, you shoulda been a politician, Leon. Nobody tells a lie bettern' you."

Jared moved closer to the one named Leon as the huge bear of a man stiffened in mock offense.

"Fisher, you can insult my truck, my dog, or my wife, but don't never call me a liar."

The men guffawed and various insults flew among them, save one. For the first time, Jared noticed a figure a few feet away from Leon. A skinny youth, huddled on the sand just outside the circle, with knees drawn to chest and arms clasped tight around them. Jared could swear that beneath the oversized gray uniform, the youth was trembling.

Something about the boy drew Jared nearer. Yes, the boy was trembling. Shaking, as a matter of fact. Without thought, Jared reached out, then drew back in self-disgust when he realized he was reaching with his handless left arm.

The boy inhaled sharply and looked up directly at Jared.

He fell back a step, startled by the depth of terror in the boy's green eyes. Yet he sensed something in this youth that was different from the other men. He could almost feel the boy mentally reaching out to search the darkness, looking for something that his eyes could not see.

Hope surged through Jared. For so long, he had pleaded with God. For an end to the pain, the loneliness of his prison on earth. For a chance to somehow live those last days over again, this time keeping his honor and making Zachariah Harris pay.

And at last, when God hadn't heard, Jared had screamed out for help to anyone who might be listening. Anyone.

Could this boy be his answer? Jared reclaimed the step he'd taken back, and extended his good hand toward the boy's shoulder.

"Beaudry." A voice, sharp with warning.

Jared pivoted on his good leg and nearly fell flat. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" his mind shouted, unaccustomed as he was to being directly addressed.

A tall blond man dressed entirely in black stood a few yards away, holding the reins of the horse Jared had left ground-tied among the dunes. The horse-rather, the ghost of it-had been the only other creature to share Jared's nightmare. Until now. The man, relaxed now that Jared's attention was off the boy, looked Jared up and down. Then his mouth quirked.

"Not even close. My name's Troy." He patted the horse's neck.

Jared knew instantly that the figure before him was another creature like himself. The ghost of a man who had once walked the earth. The reason he no longer did so became apparent when Troy dropped the horse's reins and stepped closer. A fist-sized hole gaped in the center of his chest, the lack of blood showing that he had died instantly, painlessly.

A luxury that Jared himself had not enjoyed.

That Troy was also a ghost explained why he could communicate with Jared, even though Jared had no mouth.

Something about Troy's black clothing, though unfamiliar, and the way he carried himself told Jared something else. Troy was also a soldier. A young one, taken down in his prime. As were we all, thought Jared bitterly.

"How...how do you know me?" He was actually communicating with someone. Until now, he'd had only his horse for company. Emotion choked him, and he stifled the urge to grab the man's shoulders and shake him to make sure he was real.

Troy laughed. "Leon's been telling that story since I was a six-year-old drummer boy in that reenacting unit." He sent a sad, affectionate glance toward the men around the campfire. "We never got tired of it."

"Reen..." The term was unfamiliar to him. He'd known units of sharpshooters, horsemen, infantry and artillery, but he'd never heard of a reenacting unit.

Troy jerked his chin toward the men. "These men are living history-acting out eighteen- sixties army life and battles that took place more than a hundred years ago. They're called reenactors."

Living history? Who the hell would want to...A hundred years!

The hope that had flared in Jared's chest died a little. "So this is still the present time, and I haven't somehow gone back..."

Troy shook his head. "No."

If he'd had tears, Jared would have shed them in rage and frustration. For years-more than a century, he now knew-he had been trapped on Earth, a spirit who searched among the faces of living people for the one who had taken him prisoner and dishonored him by shooting him in the back, forever branding him a coward who'd run from battle. For a moment he had thought his chance for redemption had come, but now Troy's revelation dashed those hopes.

Yet he gathered himself, a part of his remaining self still refusing to believe all was lost. "You seem to know why I'm here. What brings you to this little strip of paradise?"

Troy regarded him with a steady eye. "The only reason you're here, Jared Beaudry, is because you choose it."

Jared laughed, hard and long, the noise gurgling from his open throat causing his own stomach to roll. "I have a choice?" What did Troy think, that he enjoyed his hopeless existence? "Come, tell me. What choice do I need to make in order to leave this place?"

"That depends on where you're going after you choose, I suppose," said Troy, a blond eyebrow arched. Then he shrugged. "It's simple, Beaudry. All you have to do is let go of your rage and your lust for revenge. That's all that's holding you here. Can't take baggage like that through the gates of heaven."

Let go! Jared swung away from his newfound companion, instantly dismissing the notion. He gazed with lonely hunger at the soldiers-reenactors-some of whom were drifting toward their tents and sleep.

Troy's voice, sounding oddly fainter, came to him from behind. "You had a choice, Beaudry, and still do. As do I. I'm here because of her."

Her? Jared saw no women among the reenactors, only men clad in gray. One of them, the boy, stared wide-eyed in Jared's direction. No, past him and toward Troy. As if there was something he desperately wanted to see, yet afraid to look too closely at what he might find.

Abruptly the boy rose to his feet and snatched an Enfield rifle from the nearby stack. At the campfire, all conversation halted. Jared sensed an odd combination of sympathy and resentment rushing out of the men to envelop the boy, who hunched his shoulders and turned away.

"I'm going out to relieve Jimmy on the picket line."

The soft, husky quality of the voice made the boy sound even younger than he looked.

"It's not your time yet, Taylor," said Leon, keeping his gaze locked on the campfire, as if he couldn't bring himself to look at the youth.

The boy shrugged. "I won't be able to sleep anyway, thanks to you, Leon Gulley."

Now Leon did look up. "Taylor."

The boy paused, but didn't turn around.

"Troy's gone, honey. There's no need for you to..." Gulley sighed when he saw Taylor's back straighten, as if someone had pushed a steel rod down her spine. "Stubborn," he muttered as he resettled himself.

Without another word, the boy walked out of the circle of light and into the dark, stiff wind of the Outer Banks night.

"Her," said Troy quietly, nodding after the retreating figure. "My sister."

Jared didn't want to know what a woman was doing in battle uniform. His inner voice dropped needlessly to a whisper. "Can she see us?"

Troy shook his head. "Not if I don't allow it. And don't," Troy pointed a warning finger at Jared, "even think about it. You leave her alone. One look at you and she'd never sleep, ever again."

Jared frowned mentally at the woman who headed toward the dunes. "I'm not shielding myself from anyone," he said, confused.

Troy smiled sadly. "She has the ability, but she isn't looking for you. She's looking for me."

Jared thought about how the woman had turned toward him in the firelight, and disagreed. She might not have been looking for him, but she damn well had sensed him, somehow.

As if on cue the woman, in shadow now, stopped in her tracks, and her green gaze swung in their direction. Troy paled.

"In fact," he said lightly, "this shielding business is hard work." Troy retreated to the horse and leaned wearily on the saddle. His shape wavered like a reflection disturbed by ripples in a pool.

"Wait...wait!" cried Jared, stumbling toward Troy's fading figure. Troy, though dead for a far shorter time, knew things that Jared had never bothered to learn about being a ghost. "Can you tell me...is there some way, any way I can get through to these men? Speak with them? Maybe even...walk among them?"

"Why? These men are reenacting a battle that, for you, were the worst days of your life. Why would you want to relive them?"

Why, indeed, Jared thought wildly. The pain still rode with him every hour, every minute. Only one reason would make him even consider it. He squared his shoulders.

"To reclaim my honor."

Troy tipped his head to one side, amused. But then the expression faded as he thoughtfully took Jared's measure. "What you're considering is dangerous. And besides...does it really matter any more?"

Jared bristled. "You of all people should understand, Troy. Would you want your children, your grandchildren, to know you were branded a coward? Besides, what is the worst that could happen? I'm already dead."

Troy lifted a hand to stop Jared's runaway train of thought. "Dangerous not only to you, but also to whoever-" Troy's voice trailed off as he stared out into the darkness, away from the circle of soldiers. "-takes you in."

Jared turned to follow Troy's gaze. Like Troy, though he was a bit slower, Jared sensed another presence out among the dunes. Someone else who watched the circle of Confederate soldiers. A man's dark head showed briefly above a sand dune overlooking the camp.

The firelight caught a corner of the man's uniform. A Union-blue uniform.

The man ducked back into hiding.

Troy took a long, silent look at Jared. Then he said, "It helps if you have full cooperation. But, failing that, it can be done."

Once again, Jared's mind raced with possibilities, with plans. Eagerly, hope surging through him for the first time in a century, Jared turned back to Troy. To his horror, the man in black had almost completely faded from sight.

"Wait! You have to tell me what to do!"

"Don't worry, my friend. I'll be back," said Troy's disembodied voice. "God knows how you've stood the pain this long, Beaudry. Hate must be a powerful thing..."

Shaken, Jared stood in the spot where Troy had disappeared.

Fine. He would figure this out on his own. The horse snorted, pawed the ground and pushed its nose against Jared's shoulder. Jared ran his good hand over the creature's satiny neck, the moon and tide pulling on his soul. Within an hour the tide would be slack, the signal for them make their tortuous ride south to Cape Hatteras. The same ride they had endured every full moon for more a hundred years.

Time was short. Very short. He had to act fast. If only he knew how!

He could no more ignore the tide's call than he could ignore the ever-present pain of his wounds, the ever-present lust for revenge in his heart.

Swinging into the saddle, Jared cast one more glance at the players in his rapidly forming plan. The Confederate soldiers. The man in Union blue who spied on an enemy position. And the woman in gray, who now assumed a picket post atop a sand dune several tens of yards to the south.

"Don't even think about it, Beaudry. You leave her alone." Troy's words echoed back to him. He set his jaw and ignored them.

Jared turned his horse into the wind and lifted the reins. The horse sprang away at a full gallop.

Hunkered down against the relentless offshore wind, Taylor watched from the dubious cover of beach grass, hands tight around her Enfield musket.

The electricity had gone out again, a frequent occurrence on these sparsely populated barrier islands of North Carolina. Without the reassuring lights of the development a quarter mile to the south, Taylor had no problem staying awake at her post. Darkness was for bats. Taylor preferred light. The only reason she had fled the comforting glow of the campfire was Leon Gulley's ghost stories.

She hated them.

She hated them even more now that Troy was dead. Taylor tucked in her chin and fought to keep it from quivering. Troy. Had it been only a year since she had collapsed to the floor of her office, a crushing pain in her chest, knowing the worst even before she received official word two days later? Only a year of days since her last stinging words to him came back to slash her heart? Go ahead, big man. Go on and get yourself killed. Have a great time!

She had told him over and over again a man like him had no business joining the Navy SEALs. SEAL teams were for those with no ties, no one who waited for them at home. Troy hadn't listened. Craving adventure outside their little hometown, he had set his sights on SEAL training even before graduating from Annapolis.

Taylor rested her Enfield across her lap and pressed her fingertips to her eyelids. She fought two days' worth of exhaustion, having decided at the last minute to join the event wearing Troy's Confederate uniform. Disagreements they'd certainly had, but she and Troy had shared a love of history and Civil War reenacting. Taylor rested her chin on her arm, breathing in the damp-wool smell of the uniform. The others thought she wore it as a tribute to Troy, or as part of her grieving process, and said nothing when she had shown up early that morning. She chose to let them believe that, rather than try to explain the truth.

She knew better than to fall asleep while on guard duty, but the emotional day she had endured gradually took its final toll. Her rear end settled onto the sand. The butt of her musket joined it, but she was too tired to care.

Moments later, hoof beats drummed her awake. Taylor found herself standing on the dune, watching a horse and rider approach at full gallop.

Wherever that horse had come from, it had been running a long time. Steam trailed off the animal's body, and the low-riding moon set it to silver fire. That horse was flying. Its rider leaned low and listed slightly to one side, as if favoring an injured limb.

The messenger? He was early. And if he didn't turn aside very soon, he would run his horse right into the giant oak ribs of a shipwreck beached on the shore.

Taylor absently fingered the back her her newly shorn hair and frowned. The messenger was coming down the beach from the north.

"But...he's coming from the wrong direction..."

She realized she'd spoken aloud when the approaching rider's body jerked. With a low moan, he pulled the horse to a rearing stop directly opposite her on the beach. The horse, clearly not happy about being made to stand, pranced in the ankle-deep tidal pool.

Taylor strained to see if the rider wore a uniform. She observed the slumped posture of the rider and thought maybe he and the horse weren't part of this reenactment of the Civil War's Battle of Roanoke.

"Hey! Are you hurt? Do you need help?"

With a Herculean effort, the rider straightened, turned the trembling, sweaty horse in her direction and approached at a walk. As they closed in on her, she heard the horse's labored snorts and something else...

With each breath, the rider emitted a gurgling, inarticulate grunt. The sound carried with it the weight of a weariness she could sense but not fathom.

The offshore wind grew louder in her ears, and Taylor reached up to grab her hat before it flew off. At that moment she realized the physical wind remained steady.

But a rising force pushed at the door to her soul.

Taylor's fingers alternately tightened and loosened on the musket she held, a faintly caressing gesture as if she rubbed a magic lamp. Conjuring up someone. Or something. Like courage.

The horse caught her scent. It reared and spun, and in the wavering moonlight, Taylor finally caught a clear glimpse of the rider.

He wore a Union uniform. And he was...

"Dear God."

Her chest muscles spasmed, leaving no space for her to draw air. Sheer reflex brought her musket to her shoulder and she aimed...at what? A figure whose bound stump of a left arm oozed blood. He held it tightly to his side while he fought for control of the horse with his right. Soaked rags acted as a tourniquet to what was left of his right leg, but his every effort to stay in the saddle forced out more and more blood.

And the man...she guessed it was a man...had no head.

She was aiming at a dead man, her musket loaded with a useless blank. Fired, it would make a grand noise, and that was about all.

And they say Beaudry's ghost roams the Outer Banks to this day, headless, legless, armless, looking for his lost body parts...and for revenge...

That gurgling noise she'd heard was the sound of a man whose throat had been cut. Clear through.

Taylor gritted her teeth. Those ghost stories were coming back to haunt her in a big way. Her rational mind objected and rejected as fast as her eyes fed it the irrational sight. Her soul's door, the one she had fought all her life to hold closed, blew wide open and the wind screamed through. An answering scream clawed for space in her throat along with the hardtack and beans she'd eaten hours ago.

Trembling, she braced herself as if leaning against that invisible door. A dream. Of course. She was dreaming this whole thing. She'd expected to have a few nightmares-even visions-before this event was over, but nothing like this. She'd only fallen asleep at her post and...

Oh, God, it's moving toward me!

The man reined in the horse and pointed it directly at her, keeping it at a prancing, tip-toe walk. Clouds of steam streaked from the horse's nostrils, and as it moved closer she saw the white rings around its black eyes. Taylor closed hers.

"You aren't real. You...aren't...real!" she muttered through clenched teeth. Then a cold breath of air whisked right through her body, in a distinctive front-to-back direction. Taylor went perfectly still and gulped. Somebody tell me this thing just didn't pass right through me!

"Aw, the hell with this!" Facing cannon and musket fire was one thing. Facing this ghastly evidence that a dark otherworld indeed existed on another plane, and that the two planes sometimes crossed, was quite another.

Taylor dropped her Tennessee pride in the sand behind her as she fled down the steep slope of the dune. Gasping, sliding, stumbling, she hit bottom and headed for camp and help.

Stupid! Stupid! I should have fired...Troy would have at least fired...

Risking a quick glance to the rear, she abruptly tripped over a heaving lump on the sand.

The scream she finally released was muffled by a face full of the gritty stuff. Flipping instantly to her back, she scrambled backwards, spitting, flinging sand in every direction as she went. She came to rest on her knees with her rifle upraised yet again.

Still spitting, she looked up at the top of the dune she'd just vacated, blinked and did a double- take.

The apparition was gone.

More likely, she'd simply tumbled down the dune in her sleep and woke up. Still trembling, her breathing shallow and uneven, she focused on the object she'd tripped on. In the shadows, it was hard to make out at first. But as it slowly uncurled from its fetal position, it became clear it was human.

She sighted down the barrel of the musket and watched as he rolled soundlessly to his knees, placed his palms flat on the ground and slowly pushed his head and shoulders up.

With a soft groan, he shoved backward and rolled to a sitting position. That simple act mystified him, until he held up his hands and stared at them. His blank expression gave way to a slow- spreading grin that shone so sweet and bright in the dim light it made Taylor's throat catch.

For several seconds he simply gazed his hands, then plunged them into the soft sand between his knees. Scooping great handfuls, he laughed softly as he watched it trickle between his fingers. Taylor's rifle sagged. The man acted exactly like a baby his first foray into a new sandbox.

And, like an infant, the man's attention was suddenly drawn to his feet. Dropping the sand, he clenched a fist and pounded once on his right calf. Twice. The smile, impossibly, widened even more into a painful emotional grimace as he lifted his trembling hands to his face. Touched. Again.

The act broke something loose inside him, and Taylor thought he sobbed once before throwing himself backward to writhe like some child in the throes of making snow angels.

Unwilling to lower her weapon completely, yet somehow unwilling to intrude, Taylor stilled her shaking jaw and cleared her throat. The man froze.

"Um...are you okay, mister?"

He propped himself onto his elbows and stared at her.

Calm, Taylor. Stay calm. Now think...

Impulsively, she swung the muzzle of the Enfield aside to rest in the crook of her arm as she reached into her pocket for the matches she knew Troy always kept there. Lacking a flashlight, she needed to see her prisoner better.

Because, as she had already figured out, this guy was part of the reenactment, judging from his Union uniform. And he was foolishly sneaking around, apparently alone and unarmed. So, as a good soldier, she was going to capture him.

The match flared, and for an instant Taylor was treated to absolutely the bluest set of eyes she'd ever seen. She held the match far out in front to get a better look.

Blue and changing as the sea. Entirely capable of changing color to suit his mood. Entirely capable of changing a woman's mind. His eyes held her mesmerized far longer than she'd intended.

Taylor cursed and dropped the match as it burned her fingers The man made a quick, floundering move for his boot, and she grabbed the Enfield and rose quickly to her feet, stumbling only once on the toes of her oversize shoes.

"Well, well. Lookee here," she grinned as he apparently didn't find what he was looking for. "Lose something, Billy?"

Frowning, the man checked his other boot. Then he let go a breath of frustration and pushed a hand through his thick hair, lifting the dark locks off his collar.

He looked like he had just awakened from a long night of barhopping on the mainland. He twisted this way and that as if looking for something, and in the process made himself dizzy. Opening his eyelids as wide as they would go, then squinching them shut, he leaned his weight on one elbow and, using his free hand, carefully checked his skull for dents.

Taylor decided the guy had definitely been sampling a bit too much of the local muscadine wine. Taking a quick swipe at her eyes-damn, she must have been crying in her sleep again-Taylor gestured pointedly with the Enfield.

The Yankee finally levered himself to his feet. Cavalry, she thought, eyeing his uniform. It fit his lean, broad-shouldered body much better than her brother's fit her own. Troy's trousers were saved from sagging at her own ankles by several rolls at the waist and a tightly cinched belt.

"Where's your horse, Billy?" she asked cheerfully, mostly because she was relieved the nightmare was over, and now the fun could begin. She pitched her voice as low as she could, even though similar efforts to sound more masculine had fooled no one in her company when she'd shown up earlier that day. She'd known no one would greet her like the old friend she was, showing up in her brother's place wearing his Confederate uniform. But she hadn't expected the uncomfortable silence. The hurt still stung, but she hadn't backed down. They wouldn't understand, and she couldn't explain.

The Yankee rubbed his closely trimmed dark beard and looked around as if he'd dearly love to know the answer to her question himself.

"Don't know. Run off, I guess." His voice was rough, as if long unused. He swallowed audibly and coughed.

Taylor allowed herself to laugh, relaxing now that the stranger seemed as ready to play her part as she. "Decide he liked life as a plow horse better than getting his ears cut off by a farm boy?"

Jared scowled and opened his mouth. He could handle his saber just fine, thank you, and had never once lopped off a horse's ear. He shut his mouth when he remembered he wasn't armed, and exactly why he wasn't armed. And just because the soldier before him was a woman, that didn't mean she couldn't pop a squirrel at a hundred yards with that musket.

His head buzzed, and nausea rolled his stomach. Troy had warned him it wouldn't be easy, and he'd been right. Getting inside and taking over another man's physical body hadn't been as simple as slipping in and making himself comfortable in the other man's skin. The man had fought him, fought hard. Forcing a camel through the eye of the proverbial needle would have been easier. Even now, Jared felt the spirit of the man struggling to break free. Jared's takeover had been swift and not gentle. Perhaps there would be time later to explain to this man what was happening and why Jared had needed him so quickly. Yes, he'd reason with him, get the man's full cooperation. Of that he was certain.

Jared rubbed his face hard and looked again at the woman. He could take her, if he was just a couple steps closer. But he was pinned where he stood by the musket's unwavering muzzle. Too far to grab for it, too close for her to miss. Then again, he'd be better off if he just let himself be taken without a fight. He had a better chance to reach his goal alive if he went quietly.

The Reb's green eyes sparkled with merriment or triumph-hard to tell in this light. Or, were those tears?

"Whoever got you in the shape you're in, I hope she was worth it, Billy."

Jared grinned, tried to resist, and failed miserably. "She must have been, but I'll be damned if I remember her name."

That got her. He suppressed a grin as she scowled in obvious disapproval and gestured to the left. "Start walkin'. That way."

He walked, managing to do so in a reasonably straight line. His mind also functioned in a more orderly fashion. "How do you know there aren't more like me just over that rise?" he tossed over his shoulder.

She cut loose with a high-pitched yell. Jared's reflexes forced him to whirl and face her.

"Hey, Yanks! I'm over here!" She grinned, and for a second he forgot his own name. He did, however, rather enjoy the way this new body reacted to her smile.

"See, Yank? Ain't no one coming. It's Andersonville for you." She grinned wider and Jared reminded himself to close his mouth and turn around. Underneath the floppy hat, badly cut hair and wire spectacles, was quite possibly the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Damn, he must have been dead a long, long time.

"If you live that long," she added cheerfully.

Jared swallowed and walked on. She had no idea how close to the truth she was. And Andersonville would be the least of his problems if he failed.

Just outside the camp, the dizziness again threatened to overtake him. He rubbed at his sandpapery eyelids thought that this must be how it felt to lose a hundred years' worth of sleep. He furtively looked around for his horse, but it was clear Raven hadn't made it through the needle's eye along with him.

He looked ahead at the Rebel camp and swallowed against his chronically dry throat. The dryness, he figured, was from not having a mouth-or a head-to drink with for a hundred-odd years.

She prodded him closer to the central fire, between two neat rows of canvas tents. Snores and other low- and high-pitched sleeping noises emerged from several of them. Jared automatically counted the tents and estimated there were about 40 men encamped here.

The fire was tended by a lone sentry, the same huge, red-bearded man who had earlier been the storyteller. Leon Gulley spewed a mouthful of coffee at the sight of the blue-clad soldier walking right into his camp, then moved his large frame with amazing speed to the front flap of his commanding officer's tent.

"Lieutenant Harris! Suh!" Gulley fairly danced on his wide, flat feet as he scratched on the tent flap. "Get up, suh, T...the, uh, boy's caught a whopper!"

Harry Powell emerged from his tent, thumbing his suspenders into place and looking ready to bite the claws off a sand crab.

Taylor instantly pulled her hat brim lower over her face. Harry, in the role of the company's leader, Lieutenant Zachariah Harris, was the only one who hadn't yet noticed her presence. In all the excitement and confusion of setting up camp, she'd managed to escape his notice until now.

Even Harry, gentle Harry who'd been her brother's best friend, wouldn't understand why she had suddenly switched roles, from company vivandière to combat soldier.

"Is Wise's messenger here already? Ahhh..." Harry's light gray eyes widened and he offered a slightly mad smile.

"You!" the Yankee whispered so hoarsely Taylor wanted to kick herself for forgetting to offer him water earlier.

Harry rounded the fire pit, his expression inordinately pleased. Taylor wondered how far he would go in portraying the notorious Rebel lieutenant. Harry, ever the ham, had played many different reenacting roles over the years, but this was the first time he'd had the chance to play a bona fide bad guy. She remembered his excitement a few weeks before when he'd first found out he was to play Harris. He'd shown up at her place and talked about it for hours until she'd affectionately kicked him out at midnight.

Harry would probably go just far enough to have some fun and to be convincing in the role, but he'd never actually hurt anyone, Taylor decided. Dr. Harry Powell would parole the flea that bit him.

Harry halted in front of the Yankee, crossed his arms and planted his feet slightly apart, faint smile in place the whole while. "So, my reputation precedes me, then? That's too bad. Then you already know what's in store for you."

Taylor saw the Yankee stiffen and the muscles in his legs bunch. With a quick move, she shoved the muzzle of the musket between his shoulder blades to remind him he had nowhere to run. And kept her finger off the trigger, for even if the gun was loaded with blank cartridge, it still had the potential to do damage.

Hiding behind the Yankee's broad shoulders, she told herself it wasn't soldierly to notice how nicely shaped his back was, and how it tapered down to lean hips in closely-fit cavalry trousers. And the solidly muscled legs-a horseman's legs-encased in high black boots.

Jared held very still, every muscle tensed against the urge to lunge forward and wrap his hands around the throat of the advancing Confederate officer. The hard metal muzzle in his back reminded him to bide his time. These men were reenactors, but the man before him bore more than a passing resemblance to the real Zachariah Harris. He broke out in a cold sweat as the reality of what he had done sank in. The Rebel lieutenant's eyes locked with his, and Jared's left wrist began a slow, insistent throb.

God, help me. I can't do this again...

Reenactor or not, he knew this man in front of him. And a Minie` ball in the back was preferable to a tangle with Zachariah Harris.

Bloody Zach Harris.

The estimated forty men emerged from their tents, bringing with them their odd assortment of muskets, squirrel guns, pistols and sabers.

The circle of gray closed around him, and his insides went hollow with the premonition that this scene could become more than a mere recreation of what had gone a hundred years before. Very soon, there could be no way out, save death.

For a black instant, he considered it.

Then he remembered the man whose body he inhabited. "It could be dangerous for you...and whoever takes you in."

Harry leaned slightly to one side to glance at Taylor. She pulled at her hat brim to it dipped over her eyes, and held the musket steady despite the weight of it wearing on her arms.

"Any more out there, Private?"

Taylor shook her head. "He was alone, sir." Begrudging every word, for Harry would recognize her voice anywhere.

Harry studied the Yankee thoughtfully. "Unusual for a scout to travel alone. Though I'm sure he won't be for long." A mirthless smile crossed Harry's face, then faded. "Norfolk." He now stood nose-to-nose with the Yankee. "McClellan's taken Norfolk, hasn't he?" The Yankee held his ground and his silence.

Taylor jumped at the sound of Harry's voice, now directed over the Yankee's shoulder at her. "Where was he coming from, Private?"

Taylor froze. "I'm...I'm not sure, sir."

Harry glared. Taylor withered.

"Not sure, Private? What did he do, dig straight up from China?"

She wasn't about to tell her commanding officer she'd been in full-scale retreat when she'd tripped over the man. Not to mention she'd been sound asleep at her post-a court-martial offense in 1862, punishable by firing squad. She looked to the Yankee for prompting, who now looked over his shoulder and contemplated her with a raised eyebrow. He looked happy to set aside his own problems for a moment and enjoy watching her squirm.

She frowned, set her shoulders and met Harry's eyes briefly, careful not to look at the Yankee as she spoke.

"It was dark, sir. I, uh, caught him trying to sneak by my post. I didn't have time to notice which direction he came from. Sir."

She glanced quickly at the Yankee reenactor to see if he was going to call her on it. She was surprised to see his sea-blue eyes twinkle. He pulled a face and gave an infinitesimal shrug, as if to say that explanation was a good as any.

She stifled her own silly urge to smile back, then looked and found Harry staring at her hard. She stiffened and waited for the worst. He knew. How he handled it in front of the rest of the men would determine whether she stayed or was sent packing.

Harry drew out the tense moment to breaking-point perfection.

"Careless. Very careless," he said finally. "You could have gotten us all killed. And Roanoke Island lost."

Taylor almost dropped her musket in relief. He knew, but said nothing. Dear Harry. "Yes, sir," she croaked.

Harry's gaze swung from Taylor to the Yankee and back. Then with a last, tilted look at Taylor that told her he wanted answers later, he commenced pacing back and forth, pumping himself up to play his role to the hilt.

"I should have you horsewhipped, boy," he said as if he meant it, "but there's no time. And besides," he flashed her a grin, "you might like it too much and then I'll have to do it all the time."

Taylor erupted with a very unladylike snort, then quickly clapped a hand over her mouth. Gulley found something very interesting about his shoelaces, his cheeks turning as red as his beard. Several of the men hooted outright. The tension that had followed her around all day eased a little.

A few civilians from the nearby campground, Taylor noted, now gathered quietly at the outer edges of the camp to watch, and gasped at Harry's off-color remark. One of them, a woman with a video camera, tugged on the sleeve of the nearest soldier to ask a question. He ignored her.

How odd and uncharacteristically rude for anyone in her unit not to interpret for a tourist, Taylor thought.

"I knew Burnside was going to make his move soon," Harry continued, still pacing. "Pray God General Wise made it back from Richmond in time!" He looked at Taylor with a gleam in his eyes that made her blink, and jerked his head at the Yankee. "Tie him up. General Wise will want to speak with this gentleman."

Someone tossed her a length of rope, and Taylor obliged, wondering briefly what the procedure was for restraining a prisoner. Should she tie his hands in front or behind? Deciding that undue discomfort wasn't called for, since this was only a reenactment, she tied them in front. She glanced around at the men, her friends, all in various stages of dress, all either muttering among themselves or staring wordlessly at the Yankee. Even the horses were unusually quiet. The woman with the camera moved on to ask her question of another soldier, and met with a similar lack of response.

Harry slid to a halt in front of the Yankee, planted his feet and set his fists on his hips.

"First thing's first. Before you tell me what Burnside's got up his sleeve, you're going to tell me your name, boy."

Still fumbling with the rope, Taylor saw the Yankee's throat knot up. If she had looked up at him, she could almost look him in the eye. That made him just under six feet tall in his boots.

Her fingers brushed his and stilled. She looked up at his eyes at last, and what she saw there froze her to her soul.

This man wasn't acting.

His lips, under the dark brown mustache, worked soundlessly for several seconds.

Harry was losing patience. "Well? What is it, boy? What's your name?"

"J..."

The Yankee drew his brows together in concentration, and sweat dripped off his face onto Taylor's hands. She watched, fascinated, as the Yankee reenactor struggled to remember his own name.

"J..." If possible, his face grew paler, some inner battle leaving its mark.

Taylor wondered if she should tell Harry to back off. One look at Harry, who appeared too deep in character to reach, scuttled that idea. Frowning, she watched Harry blink once. Twice. He shook his head slightly, then refocused on the Yankee with eyes that suddenly glowed with a greenish light. Odd. Harry's eyes were gray, not green.

Harry motioned to Gulley, who had let tobacco juice run into his bushy red-brown beard, having forgotten to spit during all the commotion.

"Bring me a brand from the fire, Gulley."

Taylor whirled around. "Harry, no!"

"First Sergeant..."

She turned back to the Yankee, who'd unstuck his vocal chords.

Harry continued to hold his hand out for the firebrand, a silent threat.

"Yes? First Sergeant..." Harry prompted as a teacher would a recalcitrant child.

"...Jared..."

Taylor's heart flopped down to her stomach. A wave of heat, then icy cold swept through her body, leaving her weak and dizzy.

"...Beaudry...First...Ohio Cavalry."

Taylor swayed on her feet, then caught her balance. Disoriented, she looked around at the other men in her unit and wondered why she saw two of everyone. Something must be wrong with her eyes, she reasoned. Every man had a twin shadow standing right next to him; even Harry. In the next instant, the shadows merged with their more solid companions and all was right again. Yet somehow not right, though she couldn't put her finger on just why.

Taylor blinked and breathed slowly. First Gulley's awful ghost story about the fictional Jared Beaudry, then her dreamed close encounter with the headless horseman, and now this man who claimed he was Jared Beaudry.

She had dreamed that ghost on the beach, hadn't she? Taylor gathered a handful of Troy's uniform in her fist and for once wished her unwanted ability to touch objects and see the owner's departed spirit would work on demand.

Nothing. No sensations, no visions. Only the scene before her, growing terrifyingly real.

Harry's hand dropped to his side.

"Well, First Sergeant Jared Beaudry, First Ohio Cavalry," he said, his smile growing more terrible by the instant. "Welcome to hell."

CHAPTER TWO

Before she could begin to sort out what it all meant, a hard hand on Taylor's shoulder spun her around. Taylor gasped, the hand on her shoulder sending impressions so strong, yet so conflicting, that she staggered under the impact.

Her "gift" had never before manifested itself in this way-at the touch of another human being. Always before, it had been only with inanimate objects. Never people. Until now. She had only a quicksilver feeling of pure evil, overlaying a faint cry of protest. One word cracked through her mind-hostage!-before Harry pulled his hand away and spoke.

"And in the future, Private," Harry hissed, "you will refer to me as 'Lieutenant Harris' or 'sir.' Do you understand, Private...Private..." He looked her up and down as if he'd never seen her before. His eyes, back to their natural gray color, narrowed in suspicion.

Taylor didn't like that look. She also didn't like his breath, smelling slightly of whiskey. Harry? Drinking? When had this started?

"It's Taylor, H...uh, sir." She swallowed nervously at the cruel twist his mouth had taken under his light brown mustache, and wondered fleetingly if he really didn't know who she was. No, that was impossible. They'd been friends for years, since high school.

"You seem to be new here, Private Taylor, so you get one warning." A stiff finger jabbed an inch from her left eye, and she forced herself not to flinch. "One."

Taylor let herself take a breath only when Harry was several yards away, delivering orders to break camp at once. Harry had never acted like this before. Or was he deliberately being cruel because she wore Troy's uniform instead of her usual hoopskirt? No, no, that couldn't be. Hostage...the word echoed as she watched Harry walk away. Dread settled heavily in her chest as a possible explanation dawned. Could Zachariah Harris really be here, now, in the body of her friend?

No! She quickly tried to shake off the notion, but it wouldn't be shook. She remembered the double images she had seen minutes ago by the fire, and shuddered. Could they all be here? Harris and his men? In the bodies of her friends? There was one way to find out, and the prospect made her hands shake. She would have to find a way to unobtrusively touch each and every one of her friends, and open herself willingly to whatever her psychometric powers found.

"No!" she said aloud, causing a few men nearby to glance in her direction. No, no, no. There was a logical explanation for all of this. There were no spirits here, no one was possessed by anything other than the love of reenacting. Things were just a little more...realistic than usual, that was all. Someone was taking the fun a big step further.

The rope she held gave a sudden tug, and she turned to find the Yankee swaying on his feet, and blinking as he stared at his hands. Again, as if he'd never seen them before.

"Sir!" she called at Harry's retreating back, trying to sound strong. "What do I...do with him?" She pointed at her charge.

Harry impatiently threw up a hand, not even bothering to look back as he strode away.

"Don't let him get away, Private, if you know what's good for you. I've got plans for him later." And with that, Harry-or rather, Lieutenant Zachariah Harris-disappeared into his tent.

Eyes stinging, face flaming, and not quite sure what to do with the prisoner now in her charge, she finally headed for her own small tent, the Yankee in tow.

"Sit," was the one word she could manage when they reached the front of the tent, and the Yankee sank straight down as if his legs couldn't carry him another step. She briefly considered tying his feet, too, but he looked pretty harmless. Besides, it wasn't as if he was going to try anything for real. Because this whole thing wasn't for real. It couldn't be real, she scolded herself. Someone was playing one big fat practical joke. That was why everyone was playing along with this "Beaudry" character, the subject of one of Leon's legendary ghost stories. Leon. Of course, Leon would be the one to think this one up!

She caught Beaudry watching her as she drew a shaky breath and made a quick swipe at her eyes.

"Sand. Just sand." Her scowl brought forth a tired smile before his gaze dropped to the canteen she carried on a strap over her shoulder. Remembering his dry voice a few moments ago, she yanked it free and plunked it, sloshing, between his knees. She turned away and hauled her few belongings out of her small tent, pitched separate from the four-man versions.

Her movements slowed as she realized what she was doing. Breaking camp? Now? At one o'clock in the morning? The unit wasn't supposed to move until late tomorrow. She looked around to see if any other members of the unit displayed any signs of confusion, but the only people who looked that way were the few sleepy tourists still hanging around the outer edges of the camp. The reenactors were pitching in and breaking camp as if it were normal to do so in the dead of night. If this whole "Beaudry" thing was a joke, Leon and the rest of the boys were carrying it a bit far.

Taylor reached for her knapsack with trembling hands, pulled out her copy of the reenactment schedule and scanned it. Yes, she'd been right. They were supposed to stay here a day, demonstrating living history to visitors and reenact the scavenging of a shipwreck for weapons and supplies. They were supposed to interact with tourists, demonstrating muzzle- loading rifles, cooking and camp life, all before moving down to Roanoke Island just in time to be "captured" by Union troops overrunning the Confederate forts.

But only after a short, intense skirmish, one of the main reasons Taylor had driven several hundred miles to be here. She had let the others believe she had come simply as a memorial to Troy, but she knew the truth. Just this once, she was going to try to make her psychometric ability work on demand.

This so-called "gift" of hers-the ability to touch objects and divine facts about the deceased owner's life, or worse, actually see said departed spirit-was something she had never asked for, and something she had always heartily wished would go away and let her live a normal life. Since her eighth year, she had to be on guard as to what she laid her bare hands on. Her gift had an annoying, indeed terrifying, habit of popping up on her when least expected. There were only two people in the world whom she had told about this curse of hers-and one of them was dead.

But this time...this time, by touching Troy's belongings, wearing his uniform, firing his musket, she hoped she could see his image one last time. If only to set things right between them and say goodbye.

She scanned page two of the schedule. A similar group of Union troops was encamped farther south in an effort to spread the events over a wider area. The crush of tourists would have overrun the fragile environment of these long, thin barrier islands, which stuck out like the continent's elbow 40 miles into the Atlantic Ocean. The islands served to fend off the wild, pounding waters where the southbound North Atlantic current clashed with the north-flowing Gulf Stream.

Taylor tucked the paper back inside her knapsack-Troy's, actually-her fingers brushing against a plastic bag of trail mix, toothbrush, clean underwear and other bits of paper she hadn't bothered to examine before packing. Why was Harry deviating so drastically from the carefully planned course of events? He was usually meticulous. The previous year at the Gettysburg reenactment, Harry had even volunteered to have this very unit change into Union uniforms to make sure there were the correct number of soldiers on each side.

Straightening slowly, she looked down the double row of a dozen tents and frowned. Her friends, normally a friendly, vocal group, moved around as if sleepwalking. Sure, it was late, but these were the same guys who could stay up all night singing, talking war stories and arguing the merits of one general's tactics over another, then march off at dawn for the battle lines as fresh as the dew wetting their trouser legs.

Come to think of it, Taylor couldn't quite get the feel of her feet touching the ground. She felt hollow inside, as if the sea-borne wind blew through every pore of her body, making her shiver with something other than cold.

In the feeble light of the nearby fire, she glanced at her prisoner and considered talking to Harry privately. This joke was going too far. Way too far.

The man who called himself Jared Beaudry had drained the contents of the canteen in one long gulp, and now let his head sag forward to rest on the heels of his bound hands.

He was plainly very tired. Or maybe ill. She'd decided her first impression was wrong, since she'd smelled no alcohol on him. But what was he doing here if he was sick? Concerned, Taylor approached and squatted on her heels in front of him, reclaiming the empty canteen that had fallen forgotten to the ground at his side.

Without her usual caution, she reached to touch his left hand, where the skin was drawn tightly over his clenched knuckles. It was ice cold.

Instantly a strong impression crashed through her brain-an impression of helpless rage, and caged, barely restrained violence. A stinging sensation ran up her arm, as if she'd laid her hand on a hunk of dry ice. With a soft gasp she jerked her hand away, her heart pounding. This was only the second time in her life she'd ever received an impression by touching a person. Dear God, had she finally opened herself to her ability, only to have it take a new turn? Yet another facet she would have to learn to shut off? She suddenly pictured herself a hermit living on a mountain, swathed in rags and rubber suits to keep from touching anything, anything at all.

Rubbing her tingling elbow, she frowned as a similar jolt tugged at the corners of her memory, just out of reach.

Jared lifted his head and stared at the woman in front of him. If he had doubted Troy's sincerity before, there was no doubt now this was a woman. Men and boys didn't have hands that soft. Infantry soldiers didn't smell the way she smelled, even under the damp wool she wore. She was so close to him now that if he wanted, he could reach out, grab her by the throat and use her as a shield to get the hell out of here.

Good sense told him that's just what he should do, honor be damned. He should take his borrowed body far out of sight of the camp, and release it back to its original owner. His body tensed, but his legs refused his brain's order to launch himself off his rear end. The last thing he wanted to do was run. He was exactly where he needed to be. He was here to relive the last few days of his life, and this time he intended to hang on to his honor, and perhaps exact a little revenge for more than a century of suffering. Jared relaxed his muscles and stayed where was.

Well, he'd made it. He was here. Now what? Jared stared down at his hands.

Hands. Two, he thought. A number he had taken for granted, back when he had carried around a pair of his own. The skin on the left one was still warm where her palm had touched it, right before she'd pulled away. The dull throb in his left wrist had increased to a razor-thin slicing pain, but in the brief instant she'd touched him, the pain had eased. Now it was back, growing steadily worse as the minutes ticked by. He stared at the skin, then up at the moon. Of course. The time was fast approaching when, a century before, Bloody Zach Harris had taken his hand. He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the notion that no matter what he did or didn't do, he was doomed to repeat past mistakes.

He focused on the woman working silently to collapse her tent in the wind. A woman in Rebel uniform. He'd heard rumors of such females, but had never believed them. He and his friends had joked about how the Rebels, running short on able-bodied men, were turning to their women to fight their battles for them. His best friend, Sam Adams Grady, had pondered whether to shoot them or ask them to dance.

God, he was so damned tired. And shivery as if with fever. He'd expended an enormous amount of energy just to take over this body, and he was nearly played out. On top of that, he desperately craved the sleep he'd been denied for the past hundred years. But still, deep within, a tiny surge of energy, a bright spark of hope, kept his eyes open.

For a moment during his confrontation with Harris by the fire, Jared had been struck by the oddest feeling. At the precise instant Jared had tried to say his own name, another man's voice shouted, from deep inside the spiritual prison Jared had shoved him, and insisted his name was John, damn it. John. It had taken all Jared's concentration to shut out the voice.

An involuntary tremor ran down his back as the moist ocean wind chilled through damp clothes to his skin.

Not his skin, he reminded himself. Another man's. But it was so damned good to at least pretend it was his own. And to savor the sensation of having another human being actually touch him. Jared glanced at Private Taylor's slim back, and was shocked by his own imagination picturing what her body must look like under that baggy uniform. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. Was it his imagination, or that of the man he held prisoner deep inside, leaking through?

Jared suddenly had the distinct impression he was sitting on top of a rumbling volcano. The man he held prisoner inside this body was fighting like hell to get out, pushing, testing for weaknesses. One wrong move, one moment of inattention, and Jared knew he'd be thrown out and be right back where he'd started.

Jared closed his eyes and swallowed. Good Lord. As if he didn't have enough to deal with. Not only his own hundred-years-dormant carnal urges, but the added burden of someone else's. Jared suppressed a grin. Then again...

"Excuse me..."

Jared jerked back to awareness as Taylor twisted around, balancing herself with one palm on the ground. A woman stood uncertainly by the tent, dressed some kind of rumpled suit that looked made from potato sacks. Her curly hair lay flattened on one side of her head from sleeping on it. On the woman's shoulder rested a black box with a blinking red light. Jared stared at the machine in fascination.

"Yes, ma'am?" Taylor rose to her feet and whacked the canteen against her leg to knock the sand off.

"Is all this planned?" The woman gestured to the camp, where canvas tents bellied in the wind as their supports were taken away. "Wasn't this unit supposed to stay here until tomorrow?"

Taylor opened her mouth, and closed it again, apparently undecided about something. "Ma'am," she said in a low-pitched voice, pointing toward Harris as he emerged from his tent, fully dressed. "That there's Bloody Zachariah Harris, Second North Carolina. Ever heard of him?"

The woman blinked. "Why, yes, I read about him before I..."

"Then I don't need to tell you, ma'am, when he gives an order, it ain't no request." Taylor smiled a genuine smile of amusement as the woman wandered away, little red light on her contraption still blinking, muttering something about this being the most poorly planned reenactment she'd ever...

Jared went still as he recalled Taylor's choice of words. Bloody Zachariah Harris. She'd spoken the name as if it were a joke. His stomach lurched and he felt a chilly sweat break out on his skin. He wondered if he'd made some sort of noise, for Taylor turned to look at him, frowned, then quickly moved to kneel before him again.

"Are you sure you're all right?"

Jared raised his eyes to meet hers "That woman. With the black box on her shoulder. Wearing those...potato sacks."

Taylor glanced over her shoulder in confusion. "What, the tourist?" she gestured with her thumb. "They're all over the place. We'll be tripping over them before...haven't you...?" Realization dawned in her face, then intense relief. "Ah, this must be your first time." She leaned forward conspiratorially, her green eyes sparkling. "And you really aren't Jared Beaudry, are you? You're a newbie who just got lost and decided to pull a prank, right? Well, that's okay, Beaudry. I'll play along."

Jared gazed in wonder as a fresh well of tears brightened her eyes. She laughed softly and dashed them away before he could reach out and do it for her.

"No wonder you're stumbling around in the wrong place," she said happily, turning to pull tent stakes out of the ground. "This unit is the Thrity-Fifth Tennessee, Company H, temporarily attached to the Second North Carolina for this reenactment. You took a wrong turn at Kitty Hawk. You're supposed to be with the group at Cape Hatteras. Didn't you get directions with your registration materials?"

Jared wanted very much to laugh, but feared if he gave in to the urge, he might not be able to stop.

Weak relief flooded Taylor's limbs. She wasn't going insane, after all. The ghost on the beach had been a dream; Jared Beaudry was not sitting in front on her tent in the sand, bound by the hands. Harry Powell was only doing an exceptional job of portraying Lieutenant Harris, even if it meant breaking the schedule of events to do it. Trust Harry to keep things interesting.

"So," she said companionably as she worked. "This is your first reenactment?"

A long pause. "Not...exactly."

Something about his tone of voice caused Taylor to glance at him.

The pasty look was gone, and he smiled that smile again. Dangerously curved. The smile of a man accustomed to pushing things right to the edge. A funny sensation curled low in her abdomen, and Taylor forced herself to look away. Heaven knew she hadn't been attracted to anyone for quite a while. This was not the time for her hormones to decide to kick back in. She had things to do, places to go.

Someone to see.

Besides, she had touched this guy's hand and experienced some very strange, conflicting impressions. She shook her head and touched a loose button on Troy's uniform and waited for the vibrations, the visions, that this time just wouldn't seem to come. Oh sure, she thought sarcastically. They came for "Beaudry," whom she had no interest in, but refused to come for Troy, the one spirit she wanted to see. She silently resolved never to touch this guy again and concentrate all her energy on Troy.

A flash of light caught the corner of her eye, and she turned her head along with Jared toward the source. Glaring lights, mounted on tall poles, shone down on a cluster of white, boxy houses on stilts. Taylor had never liked that kind of modern design. She preferred the older homes; grayed clapboard, low-roofed and hunkered down against the buffeting winds.

She looked at Jared again as the smile disappeared. He muttered an oath and brought his hands up to press against his forehead.

Taylor looked again at the streetlights, newly relit by returning power, and back at Jared Beaudry, frowning. "You need a doctor," she decided. This was getting weirder by the minute. She made to turn away to look for her commanding officer.

Jared reached out blindly and grasped the front of her uniform, his fingers closing in a desperate grip.

"Listen to me," he said hoarsely. "There's something I have to do."

A current, emanating from Jared's clutching hands, spread through her torso and down her limbs, leaving her too stunned to speak. She forgot to pull away as the current grew stronger and took her breath. She couldn't shut herself off. Her power to do so fled the second he locked eyes with hers.

His face was angular and undeniably attractive. But his eyes...his eyes reflected bottomless age. An old soul, Taylor found herself thinking.

"Do?" she whispered.

He shook her once, hard. Then his fingers, trembling, awkward in their bindings, released her uniform long enough to touch the soft curve of her jaw. A light touch, barely there. But electrifying. She trembled under his caress and fought the notion that something was terribly out of place about this man.

He appeared to be willing himself to think clearly. "I know you don't believe who I am, but just remember one thing. Whatever happens, stay out of the way. Don't try to help."

"Private Taylor!" The roared imperative nearly knocked Taylor off her feet. Wrenching away from the Yankee, she stumbled to a semblance of attention and faced Lieutenant Zach Harris, backed up by Leon Gulley's imposing bulk.

The raw fury on Harris's face reminded her that she'd stopped thinking of him as Harry some time ago. Apparently Harry had stopped thinking of himself as Harry, too.

Harry wouldn't have his Colt revolver drawn, cocked and pointed directly at someone's head, even if loaded only with blanks.

But Zachariah Harris would. Taylor's stomach went sickly with deepening terror. Her nightmare appeared to be coming true, after all.

"Sir, the prisoner is ill," she managed, moving without thought to try to block the lieutenant's view of him. Illness was as close as she could come to describing the Yankee's state of health. Or mind.

Harris's eyes slid from the Yankee to her. "Ill, is he? Ill? Have you no sense, Private? The bastard was an inch away from disarming you!"

And how, she thought, belatedly noting her musket lay several feet beyond her reach. Harry, after recovering from a bout of helpless laughter, would have given her a good dressing down for this. Lieutenant Harris might have her shot where she stood. Taylor's stomach clenched.

"Load your gear on the wagon, boy, while I have a talk with our guest."

Jared took his eyes off Harris just long enough to note Taylor's face as she retreated toward the wagons, grabbing her gear and lugging it behind her.

She's frightened. But that's all right, Miss Taylor. I'm feeling none too courageous myself at the moment. Pray God you listen to me and stay out of the way.

Then Harris blocked his view as he crouched down to eye level, waving the muzzle of his pistol in lazy, calculated figureeights.

The pain in Jared's left wrist spiked, then backed off, like a cat testing its prey with one claw before gathering itself to pounce.

"Mr. Beaudry," said Harris with a cheerful silkiness that crawled down Jared's spine, "what you say in the next few minutes will have a grave impact upon your life span." The muzzle drifted lower. "And upon your unborn offspring."

Jared's left hand, the one Harris had removed a hundred years ago, warmed as if held too close to a fire. His brain, he realized, might not remember the exact time he'd lost the limb. But the flesh remembered. Breathing slowly, he ignored the sensation and met Harris's smile with a polite one of his own.

Don't do it, Beaudry. Don't do it...warned his better sense.

"If God be at all merciful, Lieutenant, my seed is already planted and the vines being trained to twine around Rebel throats," he said with equal friendliness, expecting and getting the flicker of reaction in Harris's face.

The lieutenant's smile faded.

"Any vines that come sniffing around me, Sergeant, will be pruned. Therefore, I advise you to cooperate, should you wish to return to your Ohio roots. Now." Harris settled himself more comfortably on his heels. "About this cavalry unit of yours which has, by some miracle, penetrated undetected this deep into Confederate lands..." The sentence trailed off and Harris lifted an expectant eyebrow.

Jared instantly placed a bland expression on his face, though his fists tightened in their bonds. There were no troops. But Harris didn't have to know that. Harris still thought it was 1862.

As the silence lengthened, the expression on Harris's face changed to a mixture of impatience and glee. His pistol, with knife-edged precision, rose to aim dead center between Jared's eyes.

Jared's hand burned, and he clenched it. The wind, already strong from an offshore storm system, picked up another notch, whipping up a gust of sand.

"Your unit, Sergeant Beaudry. Who commands it? How many horses, guns and men? What are its intentions, or is it part of a larger scheme? Because it won't work, you know. We've known for months now that General Burnside has been planning something. You can't possibly tell me anything I haven't already guessed."

Grady, I know you aren't alive, but if by the grace of God your spirit is wandering around here somewhere, I could sure as hell use that cavalry right about now...

"Then where," said Beaudry softly, tilting his head in genuine curiosity, "is your commission, Lieutenant? Surely a brilliant tactician such as yourself would have caught the eye of ol' Joe Johnston himself, by now." Then, brightening, "Ah, but those West Point boys are too busy promoting each other up the ranks to notice someone who wasn't fit to set foot inside the front gates."

Jared bit his wayward tongue. Hadn't he learned his lesson? The last thing he ought to do- again-was antagonize someone like Harris. But then, Jared never had been able to resist yanking any overblown officer's chain. And Harris was a balloon on a string just begging to be jerked.

This unfortunate little character flaw had gotten Jared into trouble more times than he could count.

Still, that didn't prevent him from smiling and adding, "Am I right, Lieutenant?"

From her spot by the wagon, where she refilled her canteen from the water barrel, Taylor admired the sparkle that lit Beaudry's eyes and the smile that lifted the corners of his mouth to disappear under his dark moustache. The wind blotted out their conversation, but she relaxed when she saw that the two men appeared to be exchanging pleasantries.

She sighed and leaned against the wagon, the roller coaster of suspicion and relief taking its toll. Thank God, she thought, everyone was just acting after all. The two of them were probably planning how to make the most of "Beaudry's" unexpected appearance. She turned her back and tapped her foot impatiently as the water trickled into her canteen, trying to shrug off a nagging uneasiness.

Finished, she capped the container and walked over to retrieve her knapsack and fiddle case, pausing once to tighten her shoelaces in a fruitless attempt to keep the sand out of Troy's oversize shoes. She arrived just in time to see Harry rise slowly to his feet, his cheeks turning scarlet and his body shaking in rage as he brought the pistol to bear on Beaudry's defiant, upturned face. Taylor dropped the canteen.

This had gone far enough.

"Harry! Stop it!" she cried, taking three long steps and closing one hand around his outstretched wrist.

Stars exploded behind her eyes and pain shot through the side of her head as a heavy blow knocked her sideways and down. The next few seconds were a blur of motion as the Yankee lunged, knocked Harris's pistol aside and used his head as a battering ram to the man's gut.

Cursing, screaming, Harris went down on his back. Jared twisted around, trying to use his legs to entangle those of Private Gulley.

A stone wall would have been easier to bring down, for Gulley outweighed Jared by a good seventy pounds. Any hope that he might make it as far as the maze of dunes died as a shouting wall of uniformed men descended upon him.

By the time Taylor pushed herself to a sitting position, holding the side of her head tenderly with one hand while groping for her lost glasses and slouch hat with the other, three Rebel soldiers had the Yankee pinned from neck to ankles. Gulley pressed a musket intimately against his ear, and Harris, still cursing, slapped at the sand ground into the seat of his pants. The rest of the unit, seeing the situation now under control, sheathed their weapons and trudged back to the business of breaking camp.

Immobilized, Jared fought for air and strained against the weight of the men sitting on his back and legs. His hands, still tied, stretched uselessly out in front of him. Sand crunched between his teeth, mixing with the coppery taste of blood from a split lip, thanks to a glancing blow from Gulley's boot.

He struggled to turn his head to find Private Taylor. He had seen her go down under Gulley's blow, and a surprising shaft of white-hot rage had exploded within him, fueling his futile attempt to escape. He couldn't see her, but somewhere nearby he caught one very soft, very succinct swear word. He closed his eyes in relief. She was all right. Not happy, but all right.

A blinking red light nibbled at the edge of his peripheral vision, and he didn't need to look to recognize the lady with the black box. She called her companions to come back, because they were missing the best part of the show.

All efforts to breathe halted when he heard the metallic ring of a sword being drawn from its scabbard.

No!

He summoned all the power in his muscles to try to throw off the weight his captors, but an elbow planted on the back of his neck forced his face into the sand.

Taylor took her hand away from the side of her head and stared at the blood on it. Looking up, she saw a matching patch of red on the butt of Leon Gulley's musket.

"Leon?" Her voice came high, wavering with shock and disbelief. "Leon? What have you done?"

Gulley appeared not to hear her. Taylor rose unsteadily to her feet and took a few wobbly steps in his direction, holding out her hand for him to see. "Gulley!" she said, anger lending strength to her voice, "Look at this!"

The raisin-dark eyes that met hers were black with indifference. She took a step back.

"That'll teach you to lay a hand on a superior officer, boy," he grunted.

"Let his head up," Harris bit off the words as he used his sword as a balancing point to lower himself within the Yankee's limited line of vision.

"Superb effort, Sergeant Beaudry, superb. Were I in your boots I would have attempted the same. However," Harris took the hilt of the sword in both hands and abruptly drove the point into the sand, dangerously close to Jared's wrists, "this will cost you dearly, son."

Jared's eyes focused on the blade planted barely a foot from his face, its shiny surface colored blood-red from the dying fire. Here we go, he thought. His journey to reclaim his honor had begun. Too bad he was about to lose his hand. Again.

"Oh, don't worry, Beaudry," said Harris soothingly. "You aren't going to die. Not just yet. You're much too valuable to me alive."

Jared managed to turn his head just enough to see Harris's face. Where he found the grin he could feel on his lips, he didn't know and didn't care..

"Death doesn't frighten me, Lieutenant. We've met once already." Jared heard Taylor's quick intake of breath, but she was outside his limited field of vision.

Harris canted his head with interest. "Have you now? Then your death must not have been thorough enough for you not to fear it. This time, Beaudry, this time your death will be memorable. A hundred years from now, you will remember how you died, and still it will make you scream from the depths of the hell to which I'm sending you."

Cold sweat broke out on Jared's body, and he stared at his hands, bidding his left one a silent good-bye. Again. Losing body parts didn't matter to him now. All that mattered...

NO!

That voice again, screaming from within. Jared's breath halted. How could he have forgotten? This hand didn't belong to him! He had no right...

An indulgent giggle sounded from somewhere off to Jared's right. Harris didn't react, but Jared turned his eyes toward the lady with the black box. That box reminded him vaguely of the tintype equipment used to take his picture a year a hundred years ago.

"Isn't this great, Bob? Even the blood looks real!" The woman moved a step closer, poking her box in between two Rebel soldiers, who treated her as if she were air.

In spite of the situation, he couldn't help himself. Jared smiled for the camera.

Then the burning in his hand increased to full-fledged scalding, and the reality of his situation reasserted itself. Somehow he had to hang onto not only his honor, but this time to his body parts, as well.

Trouble was, it looked like it was already too late to save one of them.

Leaning closer to Jared's face, Harris continued. "Did your colonel think to surprise us and spring a trap, and thus hope to capture Roanoke Island with his pitiful little regiment? I think not, Beaudry. All we have to do," Harris withdrew the sword from the sand, taking the hilt in both hands, "is perform a little operation to make sure he follows as we lead him into our own trap."

Jared's breath came in hard, painful grunts as the weight on his back increased and Harris laid the edge of the blade on Jared's left wrist.

"An invitation, if you will," finished Harris. "Hold him!"

Jared held his breath and silently begged forgiveness of the man whose body he possessed.

Shock numbed Taylor's skin as Harris planted his boot on Jared's outstretched hands and brought his sword up in preparation to strike. Taylor knew exactly how sharp that sword was. Harry had used it that morning to slice a hunk of partially frozen bacon. Zach Harris, with a little more effort, could easily lop off a man's hand.

The men on Jared's back exchanged uneasy glances, not at all sure they wanted a ringside seat to this impromptu amputation. Still, they said nothing, a mark of respect for-or fear of-their commanding officer.

Taylor took a step forward, and another, then halted, her insides cramping in terror at what she had to do. A quick look at Gulley confirmed her decision. Leon Gulley's face was an encouraging blend of uncertainty and outrage.

He doesn't like this any better than I do, she thought. Determination carried her the last few steps.

"Sir! I must ask you stop!" she cried, mustering from her bones all the power she didn't really feel. She held her breath, her face only inches from the blade Harris held poised, her foot planted between Jared's outstretched arms.

Astonishment, anger, then supreme patience chased across Harris's face before he lowered the sword-to the side of her neck.

"Stop?" Harris glanced at the night sky and smiled slightly, shaking his head. "But why, General Taylor? Quickly now, before I decide your head will serve my purpose just as nicely."

Taylor swallowed. If she'd had any doubt before, she was now absolutely certain. Harry Powell was gone. Zachariah Harris now occupied this particular piece of human real estate.

Ghosts. Possession. The very things that frightened her to the point she had spent her life denying they existed. Or that, if they did, they couldn't touch someone who refused to acknowledge them.

How foolish.

To gain thinking time, Taylor quickly fished in her pocket for an ancient red bandanna, and pressed it to the cut above her ear.

"General Wise," she said slowly, then gained speed as she gained courage, "will be mighty displeased if you bring him only half a Yankee."

"Oh? Yes, do go on, Private."

"Sir, General Wise happens to be a relative of mine," Taylor went on, spurred by Jared's hot, ragged breath on her ankle. "He prefers prisoners be treated humanely. Makes them more valuable to trade for our brothers being held in Old Capitol. Wouldn't you agree? Sir." The first part was actually true. Her Uncle Hugh, wild white hair and all, camped on Roanoke portraying the aging general, and her cousin played the role of Wise's son Jennings.

Harris considered. "So you're saying trading a partial Bluebelly will net us, say, only a partial Reb in return?" He laughed softly and renewed his grip on the sword, shifting its angle again toward Beaudry's hand.

The wind picked up even more and Taylor hunched her shoulder against the blowing sand, not daring to take her eyes from Lieutenant Harris and his sword.

She was reasonably sure this wouldn't work. She leaned her weight backward in preparation to get the hell out of the way, for she was quite sure Harris would take her foot off along with Jared's hand.

"Suh." Gulley's rumbling voice cut through the wind, and everyone turned their heads in his direction. "The boy's ri-"

Every horse in the camp shifted and stamped, a few setting up a whinny that the others echoed. Harris's attention turned to the black night to the north, and his eyes narrowed as he attempted to pick out any sign of movement.

For a split second Taylor's senses caught a faint, familiar presence among the horses, but it was gone so quickly she couldn't be sure. She shook her head, deciding not to trust this newly- released gift of hers. She'd never learned to use it, only suppress it. She had no idea if half the impressions she picked up now were real ones.

After a long moment, Harris sheathed his sword.

Glancing down, Taylor saw Beaudry's eyes flutter shut and his head fall forward to rest face- first in the sand. Her vision blurred and she heartily wished she could also give in to relief, and collapse.

"Let him up," growled Harris. "We'll have to continue this at a later time. Sergeant Howard! Is the camp ready to move?"

"Suh, the camp is ready," came a voice from over by the wagons. Taylor knew that voice. It didn't belong to anyone named Howard. Good heavens, was everyone she knew possessed? She put her hand to her chest as an enclosing sensation tightened, like a bubble forming around her heart.

"Douse the fire, Gulley," Harris directed as the men hauled Jared to his feet, his uniform more butternut than blue with all the sand clinging into it.

Taylor, only a step away, met Jared's eyes. His moved to the red rag she still held to the side of her head, then back to her face.

Thank you.

Taylor hadn't seen his lips move, but the emotion washed through her, touching her as surely as words would have, leaving her feeling weak and vulnerable to the fire in his blue eyes.

She wasn't even in contact with the guy this time!

Panic threatened. Her truck sat parked only a hundred yards away. She could pick up her knapsack, collect the packhorse she'd brought, find her keys and be on her way home in a matter of minutes.

She could run away from whatever dark forces were taking over this innocent event. Ghosts haunted this windswept island. Too many ghosts. One, she could deal with. Maybe. But forty? Her friends were possessed. At the very least, they were so caught up in their own time bubbles, they had no idea who they really were or what year this was. She'd heard of this happening to other reenactors, and it wasn't always a pretty sight.

She wanted no part of it.

Forget the horse. Someone, when they came to their senses, could haul the mare home for her. Or set it free to roam with the other wild horses out here on the islands.

Right now, she just wanted out.

Jared Beaudry's heart twinged as he watched Taylor's face go absolutely blank. She turned and stumbled a few paces to retrieve her knapsack and musket. Without a backward glance, she walked away.

Away! Jared struggled against the hands that held him, eyes locked on her retreating back, and willed her to turn around. Somehow, without knowing exactly why, he knew if this woman left, he would be a dead man.

And another innocent man would die right along with him. Another link in the chain of mistakes he would drag around with him in Hell. She would be dead, too, if someone noticed her "jumping the creek."

The words to call her name were in his throat when the pain that had been slowly building in his left hand exploded. It took his breath and doubled him over with a sound that rose from a low-pitched groan to an unmanly yelp. He collapsed to the ground, taking two of his captors to their knees with him.

Quite without her consent, Taylor's feet halted. Walk, she commanded them. They didn't obey. A strong inner urge begged her to go back to the camp.

No. I can't. I won't.

Then at least look, damn you! Turn around and look!

Help me!

A chord of recognition sounded inside her, but she didn't wait around to examine it. She broke and ran.

"Wait! Wait a minute! Where are you going?"

Taylor slowed her flight just long enough to look around and see the sweat-suit-clad woman running after her, camcorder light still blinking blood-red in the dark.

Oh, man.

Taylor halted, uncertain what to do. Here she stood with one foot somehow in 1862, the other in the current century, and pride warred with fear. In spite of her desperate urge to flee, she couldn't bring herself to let a civilian observer see a 35th Tennessean in full-scale retreat.

"I'm just..." Think fast, Taylor. "...going out to..." An idea presented itself, and Taylor pounced. "...set a spell."

"Oh," said the woman uncertainly. Then, "Oh!" as realization dawned. She stepped closer, and Taylor shifted from foot to foot. Past to present. Past to present. The urge to keep running raced strong along her nerve endings.

"But won't the others leave you behind?" the woman asked, her voice disembodied in the darkness.

That's the general idea..."I'll, uh, catch up."

"Oh. But why do you need your knapsack and gun for...that?"

The heavy musket in Taylor's left hand threatened to pull her off balance, as if some unseen hand had given it a downward yank. Troy's musket. Shame flooded her face, and she was glad of the dark that hid it. She drew in a deep breath.

"Actually," Taylor said finally, "I was leaving."

"Leaving?"

"Yeah. I'm not...feeling well."

The woman took another step closer and lowered her camcorder. "Oh, your head. Is that blood real? Can I help?"

Taylor shook her head and backed up a step, her feet again taking up their restless shifting. "No, I'll be fine. It's nothing."

The woman laughed. "Well, the soldiers back then didn't have it like we do today, did they? They couldn't just take off and go to a doctor for every little scrape and cut. That's probably why so many of them died, right?"

Taylor's eyes watered and heat rushed to her face. "Yes, that's right."

"Like that poor fellow back there," the woman gestured back toward the camp. "He sure could have used a doctor back then."

The back of Taylor's neck prickled. "Who?" In spite of herself, she looked.

And she ran. This time, toward camp. Toward 1862.

Excerpt from Feather on the Wind

by Catherine Snodgrass

ISBN 1-55316-116-5

Prologue

750 A.D.--City of the Sun

Al-Mon stood as rigid as the statues that surrounded his bathing pool. Let the servants attend; he would offer no assistance to this ceremony. It was his way of showing objection without actually doing so. How could he refuse when this was for his benefit and the perpetuation of his royal line?

His manservant tied the jaguar sash around Al-Mon's waist, overlapping the matching loincloth. Al-Mon rejected the seashell collar, opting for a red feathered cape. His gods would accept him unbejeweled, without pretense, a humble subject seeking divine intervention. How could they refuse such a request? He had spent his life appeasing those omnipresent beings and had asked for nothing in return--until now.

"Your headdress, my lord."

Al-Mon combed his raven hair to the crown of his head and secured the long strands with a narrow strip of leather. He sat upon one of the stone benches to enable the smaller man to seat this crowning symbol of authority.

The plumage of red and yellow was heavy and awkward. Only with years of practice could one wear the towering mass without having it slip or, worse yet, throw its wearer off balance. Such a thing was not a problem for Al-Mon; his tutelage had begun at the cradle. Now the headdress was merely an extension of himself. With it, his subjects rarely noticed the unfortunate condition which set him apart from others. Without it he stood out.

It was a cruel fate that his birth and that of his twin occurred on a desolate road with only his father and the high priest attending the premature event. He lived; his twin brother did not. A midwife would have found something, anything to press the surviving newborn prince's head into the slope that Mayans longed for--but the men did not. As a consequence, Al-Mon was forced to give sacrifice to the gods at the tender age of three days. He was grateful that incident was not part of his memories.

And yet he could not label all these circumstances as a curse. A lesser man would have let the difference destroy him, make him bitter. Al-Mon refused to let it rule his life, not when there were so many other more important things that should. The physical aspect was a minor annoyance. Dealing with it and the reaction of others helped him build the strength he needed to one day be a good ruler.

Al-Mon adjusted the headdress and pulled his hair through the opening at the top. "I believe that should do."

"A grander prince I have never attended," Tor-sa said.

Al-Mon chuckled. "Tor-sa, I am the only prince you have ever served."

The little man smiled back. "Yes, my lord, that is true. I wish you good fortune tonight. I shall be watching from the portico. All three ladies are worthy. The gods cannot help but choose well."

Al-Mon's humor faded. "How sad that the ladies in question do not feel that way."

From outside the conch shells called the city to the ceremony. There was no postponing the inevitable. Resigned to his fate, Al-Mon strode through winding corridors of stone to the entry hall. He was late. His parents waited, dressed in full regalia. The prospective brides hovered nearby, dour-faced.

Standing watch was the elderly high priest, Caan-tu. From the time of Al-Mon's birth, Caan-tu had been a part of his life. No decision was made without him. It was said his powers went far beyond those required of ordinary priests. Al-Mon did not know if that were true, but he did know Caan-tu was one of the wisest, most learned men he had ever met. This ceremony tonight was his doing.

With Caan-tu leading the way, they stepped into the night.

A hush fell over the crowd as the royal procession appeared. No breeze stirred. Smoke from the torches hugged the ground like fog. The path to the temple was clear, but as the royals passed, the crowd closed in behind them. Drumbeats echoed their footsteps down the flight of stairs, across the courtyard, then up the steep temple steps. Silence descended when the entourage reached the top, and Caan-tu raised his scrawny arms.

"Tonight, on this holy night, a bride will be chosen."

The crowd roared with approval, and Al-Mon looked over the candidates. By the ladies' show of enthusiasm one would think they were to be sacrificed instead of honored. Al-Mon looked away and to the sea of faces below. That, too, was a bad choice, for one face stood out-- that of Ka-la.

Her dark eyes blazed with fury over the ceremony and the fact that she had not been chosen to participate. She would have been willing, so willing that this selection would not have been necessary. But had she been included, Al-Mon would have steadfastly refused to accept her.

"We shall choose!" Caan-tu said, then led the king and queen into the bowels of the temple.

Al-Mon let his gaze focus on his home, hoping to clear his mind and let the gods work their will. The royal dwelling-house was set at a right angle to the temple, and was the longest structure in the city. A rippling succession of eight archways marked the front; torches lit each one. Above the center arch, the main entrance, a bird was carved; its feathers spread in flight with a wingspan that reached past the arches on either side of it. To visitors and people of the city the bird represented the freedom and power of the ruling clan. But Al-Mon knew of the invisible tether that bound the bird. For a Mayan prince and future king there was no freedom. He existed for the sole purpose of serving his people and producing heirs, even if that meant with a mate who was less than willing.

Al-Mon shifted his gaze to the black horizon. Why must it be this way? Somewhere there must be a woman, a love for me. He closed his eyes and prayed the gods' selection would be wise.

Chapter 1

1970 A.D.--Mayan archaeological site

Sweat pooled between Raina Cotterell's breasts, then trickled down to the waistband of her faded jeans. The heat was a minor annoyance compared to the swarms of mosquitoes regrouping for yet another attack. By that time she hoped to be safely tucked beneath the netting in her tent, letting the night sounds of the Yucatan sing her to sleep.

In an effort to get some relief from the humidity, she leaned back on her heels and tied the edges of her shirt beneath her breasts. One spear from the insect devils would force her to pull it back in place--until then, she opted for the slight coolness provided.

With a flick of her fingers she released a cascade of gold hair from the confines of a barrette. She fluffed it to cool her head then gathered the mass once more to secure it atop her head. It was a foolish vanity considering her profession, but she couldn't make herself cut it. Just because she had spent half a year researching Mayan ruins didn't mean she had to look the part the remainder of the year. No concessions; she wanted the best of both worlds.

She inhaled the scent of the jungle--sharp, pungent, heavy. The perfect blend of vegetation, soil and moisture. The smell of life.

Stretching the kinks from her back, she looked up the towering ceiba trees to the azure sky above. A sky that matched her eyes...or so she had been told. A sky that had seen those who walked here centuries before. Who were these Mayans who had lived over a thousand years before? What had they thought and felt? If she closed her eyes and let her mind wander, she could actually put herself in their footsteps.

Contact with pockets of Mayan descendants only whetted her appetite. Through these small remnants of the ancient civilization her archaeological team learned of customs. And when they were lucky enough to find an elder, they could tap into the language used long ago and passed from one to another. Like Grandpa Chapa who had joined the expedition again this season. The man was a wealth of knowledge, even if his stories of visits from the ancients was a little farfetched.

Raina longed for a discovery that would answer her questions. True, she had made quite a few minor finds, but nothing major. Nothing that would rock the archaeological world and make her peers take notice. Little discoveries only made her hunger for more tangible ones.

She picked up her brush and returned to her task. Something was beneath the pile of debris--she was certain of it and was determined to prove it. She needed this unlikely find to bolster her confidence and reaffirm her decision to enter the field of archaeology. The inconvenience of living in the jungle was insignificant compared to the reward of piecing together history. Who cared that water was at a premium? That the mosquitoes threatened to carry you away or eat you alive? That the heat smothered both day and night? She was reaching across time, touching objects that had once belonged to a mysterious people. Nothing could spoil that soul-hugging satisfaction. Nothing, that is, except...

"Are you still working on that stupid pile of dirt? Leave it be and come look at a real find."

Before she could protest, Burke O'Neill grabbed her upper arm and hauled her to her feet. To look at him one would have thought he was on the wrong end of this archaeological puzzle. With his dark features, he could have easily passed as one of the people he researched. If any doubted his skill as a scientist, though, Burke was quick to set them straight. He was as good- looking as a man could be, but his ego destroyed any attraction gleaned from that asset. At the blink of an eye he would rattle off the tombs he had unearthed, the artifacts recovered and the awards he expected to receive as a result. He'd been everywhere, done everything, and done it better than anyone else. If anyone doubted, all they had to do was ask him. Sadly, his obnoxious behavior overrode any notoriety his discoveries might receive. And Burke was too self-absorbed to see that.

Raina pulled away from his grasp to dust off her jeans. "Not now. I'm nearly finished. Only a few more hours and I'll have it uncovered. I won't sleep unless it's done."

Burke shooed his hands toward her project. "Aw, leave it. It's nothing. I have much more experience in this business than you. Why won't you listen to me?"

She held his gaze with an icy stare until he broke the contact. "I have a right to my own accolades and failures, Burke. Please allow me that much."

He shrugged off her words as he would a pesky insect. "Have it your way. But first, come see this. You just might get a kick out of it." He took a step backward and jerked his head toward the courtyard. "Come on, it's..." A sneeze swallowed his sentence, followed in quick succession by six more.

Raina yanked the packet of tissues from her roomy back pocket and slapped it into his open palm. "Why don't you take something for that? It'll take less than a minute for me to prepare a tea."

"Forget it. You're not pouring that hippie garbage down me."

"Herbal medicines have been used for centuries. They are totally natural and very healthful."

"I said forget it."

"Then see the site doctor. You're sick more than anyone I know. You may be coming down with the Asian flu. You should have seen to it before we left the States."

"It's just a cold, and as I recall, I was too busy bailing you out of jail. I swear, Raina, the people you associate with."

"As I recall, I didn't ask for your help. Anyway, it was a peaceful sit-in. We did nothing wrong."

"When are you going to realize that demonstrating against the war will do nothing? War is war." He shook a finger at her. "That's what's been around for centuries. It's the nature of man. Why, I'd be willing to bet your gentle Mayans were as warlike as they come."

She crossed her arms and cocked out a hip, ready to defend a people even history could not unravel. "I'll never believe that."

"Suit yourself." He shoved the used tissues into his shirt pocket and tossed the packet back to her.

Raina caught it with one hand. "If war is the nature of man, why aren't you in Vietnam?"

A gleaming smile cut his bronzed face. "I told you, baby." He splayed his fingers across his chest. "I'm it. The last of the O'Neills. It's up to me to carry on the family line."

"You're going to have a hard time doing that all by yourself."

He chucked her chin. "Don't be that way. You can't keep saying no to me forever. Now, are you coming or not?"

There was no use refusing. He would badger her until she gave in. This way she'd get back to her work faster. "Lead the way."

Burke was childlike in his exuberance--another discovery to his credit. Raina was certain this one would be as noteworthy as everything else Burke O'Neill unearthed. She supposed he had earned the right to be smug, but it made his ego impossible to live with--a trait she was glad she saw before she made the fatal mistake of getting involved with him. If only he would understand there was no future for them. What magic words would it take?

After this trip, she told herself. A confrontation now would only interfere with their work. Burke would not take rejection without a fight. His ego wouldn't allow it. Seeing him everyday, having him hound her, would only make her life hell. No, she'd deal with it back home where the haven of her apartment would shelter her, and her father was near should Burke become too persistent.

Raina saw the new stone carving before Burke could point it out. It was hard not to notice, large as it was. Twice as tall as a man, square in proportion, the glyph was emblazoned on the stone temple for all to see. On either side other images begged to be released from centuries of foliage and dirt. Farther along, the surface bore a tremendous carving of an eagle. Under it stood Burke, his head positioned where the rendering of the long-dead Mayan began.

She glanced from one to the other. Burke affected a regal pose to match the one above. Her breath caught. Mirror images: one twentieth-century male in all his self-important glory; the other, eighth-century Mayan with all the regal splendor he deserved.

Their fellow scientists chuckled and shook their heads while native workers eyed Burke warily.

Only Roy Osborne was annoyed with the display. "Move out of the way." He shooed him aside. "I can't photograph and draw this thing with you standing there."

Burke tossed back a laugh and sauntered up to Raina. "Well, what do you think?"

"Uncanny." It was small consolation to a man who wanted praise, but it was all Raina could manage, for the glyph commanded all other conscious thought.

"That's all you can say?"

When her reply was nothing more than an absentminded nod, Burke snorted and strode off to share the news with others in the field lab.

Raina remained transfixed by the image. It was a coincidence at best. With Burke gone she could tell herself the similarities were minuscule. She glanced at Roy, his red head bent in concentration as he captured stone on paper. Here the likeness was undeniable, but he captured a quality the stone couldn't provide. With each stroke of his pencil Roy brought out the ruler's soul.

His jaw was as squared as the stone upon which he was carved. Powerful, determined, handsome. No sloping forehead here as other glyphs displayed--a characteristic that gave her pause to wonder how he was fortunate enough to escape the horrid ritual of having his head pressed between boards at birth. His family must have been powerful.

He bore the feathered headdress with a confidence that earned him authority. His gaze did not look down that aquiline nose, but to the distant horizon. In his eyes Raina would swear she saw a hint of humor.

She looked at the stone image. Those same eyes seemed to stare at her. She hugged herself to ward off the chill that vision gave her, but the feeling didn't dissipate. She moved to the left, then to the right, then paced to and fro, all the while watching the ruler while the ruler kept watch on her. At any minute she expected the thing to sprout arms and drag her closer, and she couldn't say she would have fought it had that unlikely event occurred.

There was a touch on her arm. Raina squealed and spun around. A blush crept to her cheeks over her foolishness.

Cynthia Osborne, pixie if ever there was one, smiled up at her. "I didn't mean to startle you. Quite impressive, isn't he?"

Raina glanced back over her shoulder. Whatever had obsessed her before was gone. A shaky breath calmed her.

"Are you all right? You look a little pale. I hope you're not catching Burke's nasty cold."

"No. I'm fine. I just..." She looked beyond the smaller woman to the site she had abandoned. "I need to get back." I have to get back.

It was all she could do to keep from breaking into a run as she hurried back to work. Something was here, she felt it, calling to her, nagging at her to hurry. She urged herself against haste, yet her brush had a will of its own.

"Obsessed, huh?"

Raina glanced up as Cynthia knelt across from her.

"I know that feeling," she said. "Mind if I help? It could be a tomb. I might find some interesting bones." Without waiting for an answer, she started work on the opposite side of the rectangle.

Raina offered a quick smile with her thank you. Pixie she might be, but the anthropologist was as hard working as the strongest man and as determined a scientist as Raina, even if her overactive imagination often carried her away. She and Roy were the perfect couple.

They worked in silence, scrapping and brushing, careful not to damage anything that might be beneath the layers they stripped away. After several hours had passed, Roy wandered their way. He watched them for a few minutes before putting his own tools to work. His unsolicited assistance bolstered Raina's confidence. Roy wouldn't help unless he felt the discovery of some note. Idle pursuits weren't worth his time.

Shadows lengthened as the day waned. The sunset brought the mosquitoes and Burke. Raina let her hair fall in a protective cape about her shoulders. There was little she could do to fend off the human annoyance.

Burke hovered over them, hands braced on hips, more an overseer than a scientific partner. The trio ignored him.

"Looks like a capstone," he said.

"We know," they replied in unison.

"It's nearly uncovered," Raina added.

"Well, leave it 'til tomorrow. We're going to celebrate the autumnal equinox tonight."

"Go on. I have to see what's in here," Raina told him.

Burke drew breath to protest; Roy stopped him. "Be a good boy and fetch us some rope, flashlights and a crowbar. Then you can go play with your friends."

"Very funny." Nevertheless, he stomped away to retrieve the items.

"I don't mean to pry, but this is stupid," Cynthia softly told her. "Why don't you have it out with him. You're a professional woman and should be treated like one. His attitude is..."

Roy groaned and rolled his eyes heavenward. "Please don't say chauvinistic. I am sick and tired of hearing that word."

Raina smiled at the couple. "Don't worry. I'll handle Burke after this trip."

She leaned back to survey her work, and, when her stomach rumbled a protest, realized she had not eaten all day. It was a minor annoyance she didn't have the inclination to appease. Whatever was beneath this stone, she hoped it matched the anticipation of her heartbeat.

Across a courtyard dotted with trees, torches lit the clearing before the partially unearthed temple. The flickering light cast shadows among the stone carvings. Those eyes held her again, calling to her from across time. This time the spell couldn't be broken, not even by Burke's noisy return.

"Let's get this over with. I don't want to miss the celebration," he said.

Raina took a crowbar from him. "Then go. We can manage without you."

He snatched it back. "Just move."

She did so only enough to give him elbow room.

The men pierced the seal at the corner, then wedged the steel beneath it. The earth sighed. Together Roy and Burke levered the stone. The sigh turned to a hiss, then a puff like a tiny explosion.

The sweet-sick smell hit Raina first, nearly choking her. On its heels came a vaporous blue-green cloud. It enveloped the four, swirling from toe to head before melding with the treetops towering above.

Cynthia fanned the air. "God, it smells like incense...bad incense."

Roy scratched his head. "I'd like to say that this is a common phenomenon in unsealed tombs, but...well...I've heard of gases before, but nothing like this."

"It is almost as if the mist were caressing us." Raina sighed.

Burke scoffed at Raina's reverent tone. "Please spare me the mysticism. Leave the thing to air out and we'll check it out in the morning."

"I can't rest 'til I see what's inside. I'm going in...with or without the rest of you," Raina said.

Roy slipped on his backpack, nestled his camera straps over his shoulders and flicked on his flashlight. "Lead the way."

The three lifted questioning eyebrows at Burke who tossed up his hands in defeat. "Go on. I'm right behind you."

At the entrance a short stairwell led to a white corridor. Red symbols grouped at intervals of five feet defied transcription. Despite Burke's apparent lack of interest, Raina knew he'd be down here at the first opportunity to break the language code. It was his personal goal--to become a premier epigraphist. By morning he'd be down here with Grandpa Chapa.

They inched along, taking note of all. Other than the glyphs, they found nothing remarkable. On occasion, Roy photographed a particular section of wall that caught his interest.

"I smell incense again," Cynthia whispered.

Before they could confirm her impression, another cloud oozed around them. It was stronger than the first, overwhelming in its sweetness, strangling. When Raina was certain they could bear no more, the air cleared.

"As much as I hate to admit it, Burke's right. We should let this place air out," she told the others.

Her acquiescence gave Burke the chance to do what he most enjoyed--take charge. "There's light up ahead. Probably the way out. I wouldn't be surprised if we haven't circled the plaza. We'll probably come out at the temple."

Raina lagged behind the others. It was a nice discovery, but nothing of great worth, a fact Burke wouldn't hesitate to remind her of, ad nauseum. He'd flaunt his Harvard education, his superior intellect, the two years field experience he had over her and anything else he could come up with. Before he was through, her personal views on life would come under attack.

She wanted to fall to this stone floor and cry out her frustration. She'd been so certain that something lay in this corridor waiting for her discovery. What she found was her own inadequacies staring back at her.

She was so deep in thought, she failed to notice the others had stopped until she smacked into them. Burke caught her around the waist to steady her and brought his finger to his lips for silence. When Raina cocked her head in puzzlement, he drew her forward yet kept her in the shadows.

"I don't think we're in Kansas anymore, Dorothy," he whispered against her ear.

Raina's reply was wide-eyed wonder. Candles in niches along the wall lit a perfectly preserved room. In the center stood three people in the traditional garb of the Classic Mayan-- two men and a woman. The men were draped only in a loincloths--the old one wore white; the other, younger man, jaguar. The woman was swathed in a gauzy caftan of red. All wore feathered headdresses. Necklaces of beads and seashells draped their necks in ever-increasing lengths until the chest was fully adorned.

The woman filled a stone bowl with strips of fig-bark paper then knelt on a grass mat before the man in the jaguar cloth. He removed a stingray spine from a leather pouch at his side. Keeping his eyes focused on the woman, he parted his loincloth and pierced his foreskin.

The woman chanted. It took Raina a few seconds to catch the rhythm. Then she recognized the dialect--the ancient language Grandpa Chapa had taught them.

Raina felt Burke tense as the man's blood dripped into the bowl. That done, the man lifted the bowl with blood-soaked hands and the trio filed out in slow procession through an archway. The sounds of a cheering crowd followed.

Raina spun around. "Let's get the hell out of here. The last thing I want is to be sacrificed by some fanatic cult."

"I don't think it's a cult," Cynthia replied. "Did you notice their heads? Sloped. Just as they were before the Spanish Conquest."

The size of Cynthia's eyes, coupled with her hushed tones quickened Raina's heart. She caught herself before being drawn in. "What are you trying to suggest?"

"That she's nuts," Burke said. "Let's see what they're up to before we go. I want to make sure I can identify them again."

Roy nodded his agreement, and they crept forward.

The smell of incense reached them, not sweet this time, more of cedar and sandalwood with a hint of vanilla. Smoke curled up from the fire in the bowl while those standing at the altar followed its ascent to the heavens. In the silence of that worshipful moment, Burke sneezed.

Heads whipped around at the intruders. Raina thought she'd surely die from fright. The old man came forward to escort them out. A scowl deepened his wrinkled forehead. Behind him two guards, spears at their sides, stood ready to defend him.

"We don't have much choice," Roy whispered. "Go with them, but try to stay close."

Raina gave a nod and stepped forward. A collective gasp, followed by a rippling murmur came from the crowd below as Raina entered the circle of torchlight. There was another intake of breath from the Osbornes behind her.

"Good God, look!" Cynthia exclaimed.

From those gathered before the temple, another young man stepped forward. He wasn't like the others. No deformity sloped his forehead. His dark eyes sparkled with the light. Raina's breath caught. The stone image come to life!

He stood before her, taking her limp hands with his long fingers. She looked up, her mouth agape with the impossibility of what was happening.

"I have prayed long to the gods for you, and now you have arrived. You are most beautiful."

With a reverence given to a treasured work of art, he caressed her long blonde hair.

"Soft. Beautiful. I shall look upon you always and bless the gods that sent you."

His smile pierced her heart.

"I have been waiting for you an eternity and now you are here, my wife."

He stepped to one side and drew her forward for the crowd to see. A sea of people bowed to her. It was the last thing Raina saw before slipping into unconsciousness.

Chapter 2

Al-Mon caught the girl against the wall of his body. She was a fragile creature, this gift from the gods--a package of angles and points. No meat padded her bones--a fall to the stone would surely cause her harm. What would the gods say if he allowed her to be hurt within minutes of being blessed with her? She would be taken back, of course. That could not be--it would not be.

True, she was not perfect, but neither was he--a fact of which he was all too aware. Had he not been nobly born, his ostracization would have been total instead of merely whispered comments behind his back.

Al-Mon swooped the girl into his arms and cast his gaze toward the three young women from whom a bride was to be chosen. They could rest easy now--none would be forced to wed such a deformity as he. Relief softened their faces. No matter how prestigious the title of queen, none wanted to be shackled to him. Now they need no longer worry. Womankind was safe. The decision had been placed in the hands of the gods, and they had granted his fervent wish by delivering a golden bride.

He stared down at the woman in his arms. Yes, to him she was beautiful. Even without the sloped forehead. Even without the crossed eyes. Even though she and her companions wore strange clothing. All the oddities and abnormalities were insignificant--she was for him. Made from the corn as the first woman had been, and blessed by the sky.

The trio who had accompanied her now garnered his attention--a mix as strange as she. A jungle nymph, the man with hair of flame whose many eyes dangled from multi-colored straps around his neck, and Al-Mon's twin. How could any doubt she was for him, when his brother had been called from the land of the dead to escort her?

"You will come with me," he told them, and turned to the steps.

He could take that steep descent at a run and not be winded. This time he would not--the life in his arms demanded he take care. The crowd gathered there parted in reverential awe to let the entourage pass. Al-Mon hiked his chin up a notch to keep from smiling as he made his way to his dwelling-house. This was a holy moment and he must treat it so.

Torchbearers ran ahead to light the way. Gone was the heavy air and the strangling layer of smoke. With the woman's arrival, a cooling breeze had lifted the solemn atmosphere. A million stars lit the night and blessed his good fortune.

She stirred, and he looked into her azure eyes. They were wide with fright, reminding him of a wild animal cornered by the hunt.

She craned her neck for sight of her companions. The man, his twin, motioned her to remain still, and she settled back into Al-Mon's arms. It had not occurred to him until that instant that she might not understand what was happening. True, she would know her journey would culminate in becoming his wife. But, in his joy over her arrival, he had rushed her. He had not given her any benefit of formal introduction that, as a lady, was her right. His mother would surely counsel him over this breach of protocol at the first opportunity.

A glance her way told him nothing. She was poised, unruffled as always. Not once in all his years had he seen her regal composure fail. Tonight might be the exception.

A gasp from the small woman brought his lady's head up.

"Oh my g--" She clamped her lips closed and stared at the dwelling-house ahead as did her companions.

Al-Mon offered her a reassuring smile. "Do not be afraid. This is my home."

"Your...home? Not the temple?" his twin asked.

"We have just left the temple," he replied, and motioned in that direction with his head.

When the other man opened his mouth to speak again, a nudge from the little woman kept him quiet.

At the base of the stairs to the house, Al-Mon's mother scurried ahead. By the time the entourage reached the forward hall, she had already dispatched servants to prepare rooms. With a sigh of satisfaction, she turned to his father. "Shall we gather in the assembly hall while we wait?"

His father scanned the crowd gathering around them. "Some place more private, I think. The meeting rooms in our quarters will do."

He pointed to the girl in Al-Mon's arms. "I believe you may set her on her feet. She appears sufficiently revived. If not, I am sure you will be close by to catch her should she faint again."

The smirk that played upon his father's lips set Al-Mon's defenses on alert. Whether to tease or suggest he was being too courteous, Al-Mon had little patience to deal with parental discussion. Still, he could see the sense in putting her back on her feet since she appeared somewhat recovered.

Reluctantly, he set her down and wondered how much time would pass before he could hold her again. She teetered, and he grabbed her arm to help steady her.

"Sorry." Her voice was as soft as the season's first rain. "I haven't eaten in awhile. I guess I'm a little dizzy."

Al-Mon smiled. "We too have fasted. Come. Food and drink await us in my parents' rooms."

A sweeping gesture of his arm showed her the way, and they followed behind the older couple. Only Caan-tu accompanied them.

Rounding the corner, Al-Mon caught sight of Tor-sa monitoring their retreat. A darted glance his way sent the servant ducking back to the shadows, but not before his bright smile fell upon his lord. It was an extension of Al-Mon's euphoria, a joy that manners dictated Al-Mon repress for the moment. A rapturous feeling that even Ka-la's brief but sudden appearance from the wings could not dampen. She was furious with this turn of events, and her rage made Al-Mon want to burst out with laughter.

A door of ceiba branches was all that separated his parents' rooms from the corridor, but that thin barrier was sacred. None could enter without the permission of those inside.

The inner rooms were for sleeping and bathing; the outer for informal entertainment. Here his mother worked on her loom while his father carved jade. Capes and headdresses were normally set aside and lighthearted banter donned. This was where he and his sisters had grown until they were of an age to seek quarters of their own. They continued to gather here despite their independence, but now, with his sisters off and wed, it was often a lonely place.

Because of their new arrivals, Al-Mon and his parents did not set aside their formal attire. Had only the young woman been there, that would have not been so; after all, she was to be family. The rites of nobility were for the benefit of the other three.

"Please sit." His father motioned them to the woven grass mats around the low table where food and drink waited. The strangers did not move until all four had exchanged glances. It was a trait Al-Mon noticed each time they were offered something as if they were seeking guidance from a leader that did not exist. Whatever their oddities, all were aware of the proper protocol--none ate or drank before the king and queen. Their manners seemed impeccable.

"Please...feel free to help yourselves to food and drink," his father told them.

Al-Mon twisted the lid off a serving jar and held it out to the golden woman. "Would you like some chocolate drink?"

Her gaze darted from his to the jar and back again. "What I'd like to know is who the devil you people are."

Al-Mon chided his rudeness. He had been commending their manners when his own had been sadly lacking. Even his parents fidgeted with the realization of their social error. His twin seemed to feel otherwise. He grabbed the woman's arm and whispered harshly.

"Will you shut up!"

She jerked free. The red finger marks left by the encounter set Al-Mon on edge. Women were not to be maltreated. That his twin would do so did not give him favorable light.

"She has every right to ask," Al-Mon told him. "My king and father, Lord Jaguar Sun. His queen, my mother, Lady Evening Star. And I am Al-Mon."

"And may we know the names by which you are called?" his mother asked.

The reply the woman gave was as foreign as all else about them.

"You have journeyed far," Al-Mon said, but the woman took the statement as a question.

"Since I can't say exactly where we are, I can't say how far the journey was. But I'm sure I speak for my friends when I ask when we may leave."

His father smiled. "You are guests, not captives. You may leave whenever you wish."

"Then we wish to leave now."

"Raina, I don't think it's as easy as all that," Cynthia said.

For the first time Caan-tu spoke. "You should listen to your friend. Do not be hasty. Your journey is longer than you may think. Enjoy your time with us. Stay until the morning. Things will look differently by the light of day. Eat. Drink." With his gnarled fingers he took the pot from Al-Mon and filled their cups with chocolate.

Raina stared at her cup long after the others had lifted theirs. This had to be an elaborate hoax or...No, she didn't wish to entertain any other possibility, no matter how realistic this all seemed. It was a hoax, at least partially. They were a group of people celebrating the equinox in Mayan tradition much in the same way groups were beginning to engage in Renaissance faires. Burke had probably discovered them and was trying to pull one over on her. It was unfortunate that he hadn't let Cynthia in on the joke--Raina was certain her eyes couldn't get any wider. And if Raina knew her, her imagination was stuck in high gear.

Raina studied the men on either side of her. This was too big a coincidence, especially on the heels of Burke's discovery earlier that day. If anything, it cast suspicion on that discovery. She hoped Burke was paying this man good money--he was definitely worth it. He stayed in character without the slightest flaw.

"Why do you not eat and drink, Raina?" Al-Mon liked the way her name fell from his tongue. Slow and smooth like a gentle shower. Spoken in harsh tones it would mimic a thunderstorm, but he could not imagine himself speaking to her in that manner.

"I don't care for any," she said, and pushed away the cup he offered. "What I want is to go back to the camp and the privacy of my tent." She whipped her head around to Burke. "The joke's over, and I'm not amused. I came here to work, not play games. Why can't you respect that?"

He lifted palms in a shrug. "Hey, baby, I swear. It ain't me."

"Have it your way. Play to your heart's content. I'm going back."

Al-Mon slid his fingers over her arm. Raina started from the unexpected touch but didn't pull away. The idea of thrusting his hand aside darted through her mind. She couldn't force herself to do so. Heat rose beneath his hand and tickled its way up. She glanced up at eyes as dark as the chocolate the priest had poured--the eyes of the carving seeking entrance to her soul. She could no more break their hold than she could the one of his hand. A cosmic glue bound them.

"Does the sight of me displease you so that you would flee within moments of our meeting?" he whispered.

The pain in his voice was no act--Raina could feel it. Whatever occasion they may have interrupted, whatever scheme Burke had concocted, there was a definite attraction between her and this man.

"It is the manner of our meeting that displeases me. Perhaps under different circumstances." Raina paused. Why not make her own circumstances? True, he could pass for Burke, but he exuded a different aura--one she thought worth exploring.

"I live in Los Angeles. How 'bout you?"

Al-Mon cocked his head to one side. "I do not understand."

"Where do you live?"

The look he returned implied stupidity on her part. "I live here...always."

Raina jerked free. Another game player. She should have realized. The man couldn't drop his character for a second to have a serious conversation.

"I've had enough of this. I'm going back."

He stood with her, and for a moment Raina thought he would physically bar her way.

"I could not bear to make you unhappy by having you remain where you did not wish to be. The torchbearers have retired for the night. I will guide you myself."

"That won't be necessary. We have flashlights." She reached around to yank hers from where she'd shoved it in her back pocket.

Cynthia caught her wrist. "We would be grateful for your escort."

Al-Mon swept his feathered cape from his broad shoulders. It fell to the grass mat with a sigh. Atop this he placed his headdress. His raven hair was combed up in a ponytail that dangled from the crown of his head. A wide strap of leather held it in place. As he picked up a torch and held it aloft, the obsidian mass reflected the flame.

Raina tried to determine its length as they returned to the temple. Shoulder-length, at least, she decided. The temptation to yank the leather loose made her fingers itch. To control the urge, she hooked her thumbs in her pockets. It made negotiating the stairs awkward. Halfway up the temple steps she lost her balance. Al-Mon kept her from falling.

Without breaking stride, he snapped the steel band of his arm around her waist and bore her effortlessly to the top. There he paused, flame dancing in his eyes, to look at her one more time. He curved her body into his. Softness melded against hardness to make them one. It was, by far, the most intimate embrace Raina had ever experienced. Her breath was suspended in time as a different hardness rose, returning ragged and quick once the full extension was wedged between them. She damned the others' presence, yet longed for that chiseled mouth hovering above hers to swoop down and claim her lips as his eyes had done her soul. Instead, he set her back and seated the torch in a wooden sconce.

"I wish you safe journey." He bowed, then sprinted down the steps.

Raina watched the night swallow his figure. It was all she could do to keep from following. Cynthia called her on.

"We need to leave. We've been here too long as it is."

Reluctantly, she followed the others down the corridor.

* * *

From the foot of the steps Al-Mon watched Raina disappear into the temple, and with her went his heart and his hopes. To be so happy then so miserable in such a short space of time was perhaps the most devastating experience of his life. He could fault no one but himself. He had bungled this chance for a normal life. For once his looks had not hindered him, she had told him that. This time it was his enthusiasm over her arrival that had chased her away. He had rushed upon her without thought of her timidity, backing her into a corner until she had no choice but to snarl like a frightened jaguar. He snatched up a beautiful gift from the gods like a greedy child instead of accepting it with grace and humility. His punishment was to lose that which had been given.

So close to happiness. So near to normality. His one chance. His last chance, for he would take no more. Better to live as a solitary ruler than to suffer this continual rejection. Better to slake his needs in the company of women who did such for a living than to deal with those who turned their heads in shame while they bore the weight of his body. Better to let his heart go with the silken-haired beauty than to risk giving it to another.

He turned away to walk back to his quarters and found Caan-tu standing behind him.

"Your parents wish to see you," the old priest said.

Al-Mon brushed by him. "I have no desire to deal with their pity or recriminations this night."

"But you will go, will you not?"

"Of course," he said with a sigh. "When have I not answered a summons from my king and queen?"

"All is not lost, my young friend, although it may seem so now," Caan-tu told him. "Time will show you that."

Al-Mon gave a humorless chuckle. "All time will do is show our people that their future ruler is destined to rule alone. They will wait until I pass them along the streets then snicker behind my back. Tell me, Caan-tu, how am I to be an effective ruler when I have no respect?"

"Time, my friend. Time is the teller of all things. There is always Ka-la."

"I will not dignify that with an answer." Al-Mon walked on, shaking his head. The old man meant well, but he simply did not understand. Ka-la was not the woman for him. All the ceremonies in the world would not change that.

His mother and father awaited him in their rooms. All ceremonial dress was now gone.

"My son." His mother held out her hands.

Al-Mon took them and knelt before her. "Am I speaking to my mother or my queen?"

"Your mother," his father replied. "And your father."

"We feel your disappointment and understand it well," his mother said. "While the girl Raina was quite lovely, we cannot help but feel relieved she has gone. Their manner of dress is most strange, as is their speech. And I find her male companion most...unsettling."

Al-Mon cursed his insensitivity. He had been so busy brooding over a lost bride that he had failed to realize what the specter of a long-dead twin would do to his parents.

"There is no need to fear, mother. They have gone back to the gods. They will not return."

"I wish I could be certain of that. Caan-tu feels they will return."

He slipped his arm around her quivering shoulders. "He is an old man given to fancy. Do not give his words another thought."

She gave a nod and patted his hand.

"There is still the matter of a bride," he father said.

"Do not think you will foist Ka-la off on me."

His father fanned the air to calm him. "Never. Hear me out. Lord Smoke Monkey has a daughter. He is most anxious to ally our cities. She will do as he commands."

"No. There will be no further discussion." In a voice that rang of his future status, he added, "I have spoken."

His father, his king, met his steady gaze, then bequeathed to him that right of birth he was demanding. "Then so shall it be."

About the Author

Terry Campbell is in actuality two authors: Bobbye Terry and Linda Campbell. Best friends, they decided in 1995 to write together. Both have published nonfiction articles and short stories in local, regional and national publications. They have also published two novels in hard cover.

Both are married to wonderful and tolerant men--given the writing team's screwball sense of humor, they'd have to be. Bobbye's husband is a child of the sixties and retains his peace not war attitude. Her child is a lovable yet playful Labrador named Rosie. Linda's two children are grown: her son is married and has three daughters, and her daughter is a chef. Linda and her husband are not alone, however. They have their thirteen-year-old cat Milo whom Linda rescued from a construction site; although, being a true cat Milo believes he saved her from a lifetime of boredom.

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Stories that stimulate your laughter, Provoke your tears, Evoke your secret fears,
Stories that make you think...The stuff that dreams are made of...LTDBooks