Timeswept Brides

Chapter One

Holly Springs, Mississippi, 1994

“You don't think they'll actually tear down the old house, do you? I'd forgotten it's so beautiful." Amanda Brandon Cresswell paused, gazing around the shadowed entrance hall. Though it had been more than two years since she'd come back to her childhood home for a visit, the house seemed to envelop her in a silent, dusty welcome. "I don't want them to destroy it."

Jessica Griffith stepped inside with a rattle of keys and a muffled exclamation. "But they probably will, Manda. And it's about time. This monstrosity looks as if it should be condemned. Why, the acreage the house sits on is worth more than the house itself."

Amanda stifled a sharp defense, saying instead, "It's been in my family since it was built in 1852. It has historical value, I would think."

"It might have at one time. Now it's too run-down." Tilting her head just as she had when they were both little girls playing dress-up in the third-story attic, Jessica gave her a sympathetic smile. "Look at it this way-it's for the best. With your great-aunt Hannah in the nursing home these past two years before she died, the trust fund ran so low it couldn't take care of her as well as this ol' house."

Amanda sighed. "Poor Aunt Hannah. She never expected to outlive my daddy. When he died, I think she just ignored the fact. I wish someone had told me about the will not being changed. Now it's too late. According to my attorney, there's nothing I can do to keep the house and property from being sold."

"It's your mean cousin Ronald's fault, but I guess that doesn't help any."

"No." Amanda drew in a deep breath. "It doesn't help at all. I wish his granddaddy had gone to California with the rest of the Scotts. Then this wouldn't be happening."

Jessica was silent, not pointing out the obvious truth that if Amanda's grandfather had properly provided for such a contingency in his will, the house would still belong just to the Brandons. But somehow Ronald Scott had found the old deeds and discovered that the limitations had run out. He'd immediately filed a claim. The judgment had been levied at a time when Amanda had been caught up in her own affairs in Memphis and Great-aunt Hannah was already in a Holly Springs nursing home. Without Hannah having appointed a proxy, Scott had been successful in his suit to have the property sold and the proceeds divided between all the remaining heirs on both sides of the family.

"Too bad your cousin wouldn't agree to try to get the house listed on the National Register of Historic Homes," Jessica said after a long moment of silence. "But maybe it's best this way. After all, you'll get a lot of money."

"I'd prefer keeping the house in the family. I even made the Scotts an offer to share ownership of the house as well as the surrounding acreage if they would agree not to sell to developers. They refused."

Amanda's throat tightened. Coming on the heels of other tragedies in her life, this was almost overwhelming. To keep back her tears, she focused on the delicately carved plaster frieze above the parlor door. Figures of knights errant and beautiful heroines had infused her imagination as a child. Now they left her with poignant memories as blurred with time as the plaster figures. Yet the two-story red brick antebellum home held more than just childhood memories of happier times; it was her only legacy.

Jessica turned to look at her, her head tilted to one side and a faint smile on her lips. "You know, you should be living in this house. It fits you better than anyone I can imagine. You were just born in the wrong time."

"What do you mean by that, Jess?"

"Oh, you know-wearing long skirts, little white lace gloves, a big hat and ribbon sash under your chin-like we used to play dress-up when we were little girls, remember?"

She laughed. "I remember. You always wanted to be Rhett Butler."

Jessica grinned. "Why, with your wicked green eyes and blonde hair, you'd have given Scarlett O'Hara a run for her money with Rhett. You even remind me of your aunt Hannah a little bit."

"An eccentric old maid?"

"Oh, you're not an old maid. You've been married. No, I meant… romantic. That's it. You're the romantic type, all dreamy eyes, soft smiles, and long blonde hair. You were just born a hundred years too late. I always thought you fit in here." Jessica shrugged. "I never have understood about that ridiculous family feud between the Scotts and the Brandons," she said frankly. "Not that it matters. Nothing can save the house now. Unless you can change history."

"I only wish I could," Amanda murmured. "But I know that's impossible."

Wandering into the parlor, Jessica wiped a hand over the elegantly carved edge of the heartpine mantel gracing the fireplace, then grimaced at the dust on her fingers. "It's probably just as well. Heartpine is worth a fortune nowadays. Can hardly find it anywhere, and collectors and builders pay a pretty price for it. This house will be worth much more piece by piece."

Amanda winced, and glancing up, Jessica added hurriedly, "You did everything you could, Manda. But once Hannah died and the ghouls demanded their portion of the inheritance in cash, there was nothing you could do but sell."

"I know." Amanda wandered restlessly from the front parlor to the curved staircase leading to the second-floor bedrooms. The handrail was worn smooth and satiny by generations of Brandon hands sliding along its elegant length. Golden wood had darkened with time and use. "You'd think," she murmured, caressing the smooth finish, "that the Scotts would want to keep it intact. After all, it's their inheritance as well as mine."

"Obviously they don't. I hear developers plan to put a mall here." Jessica's keys clattered like a metallic rattlesnake as she lifted her hand to pat a stray strand of hair back into place. "You know how large corporations pay top dollar for prime locations, so I imagine the lure of money would fast overcome any kind of sentiment they might feel. And it's not as if any of them even care about the old house. At least you came back here as often as you could for a while."

Amanda shrugged. "After all, I did spend most of my childhood here before my parents were killed. Lord, what was I-fifteen?-when I went to Memphis to live with Grandma Weaver? I would have been a junior in high school the next year. Everything happened so fast, it seemed; my world turned upside down in the blink of an eye… I could hardly bear to think about this house for a long time. It held so many memories for me, and I was too young to be able to separate the good from the bad. Poor Aunt Hannah. I know she wondered why I didn't come visit her for so long."

"Somehow," Jessica murmured, "I think she understood. She always spoke of you when we chanced to meet, and always said how you would be back soon."

"It was five years before I could make myself return, though, and that wasn't until Aunt Hannah got sick the first time." Amanda sighed. "She was so glad to see me that I felt guilty it had taken me so long. But she just gave me a pat on the cheek and told me that she understood, and it was as if I'd never left. Then I met and married Alan-and things got so bad so quick, it seemed."

Jessica shifted uneasily. “I really was sorry to hear about Alan, Manda. This has been a rough few years for you, hasn't it?"

"Pretty rough. Grandma Weaver died, then Alan's cancer, and now Aunt Hannah's gone-for the first time in eleven years, I'm completely alone. I've no family left."

“Except the Scotts, and all of Holly Springs knows they haven't spoken to the Brandons in years." Jessica reached out and put a hand on Amanda's arm. "Hey, I'm always here for you. Just like when we were little. Remember our secret place?"

Amanda laughed. "Not as secret as we thought-a tree house only twenty yards from the house had to be as obvious as you can get."

"But we thought it was well hidden, and that's what really mattered then. Maybe our tree house is gone, but the tree's still there. And there's always my kitchen. You can always come back to Holly Springs to live, you know."

Shrugging, Amanda said vaguely, "I've still got a job in Memphis, and an apartment in a nice area, and-"

"And ghosts. Alan's dead, Manda. There's nothing in Memphis to keep you anymore. He was sick for so long, and you plumb wore yourself out taking care of him. It's over. You can go anywhere."

Amanda managed to shake her head. "I can't even think of anything like that right now, Jess. Everything's so overwhelming that I just feel tired."

"I understand. Well, I should go. I'll be back in the morning to help you itemize everything for the auction. Sure you'll be all right here by yourself?"

Amanda forced a confident smile. "I'll be fine. You did stock the pantry with a few necessities for me, didn't you?"

"Of course. Tea and sandwich fixin's." Jessica leaned toward her and kissed the air by Amanda's cheek. "See you early, sugar. Get a good night's rest."

Following her as far as the wide front porch, Amanda gazed across the front lawn which was dotted with red and white clover. She drew in a deep breath, relishing the fragrances of honeysuckle and the lemony-sweet tang of magnolia blossoms. Only three of the once numerous magnolia trees were left, the others having fallen to time and weather over the years since they'd first been planted. Somewhere there were old family photographs of smiling people in front of the house in its early days, when the towering oaks that now lined the long driveway were still saplings.

Shadows stretched across the lawn; lightning bugs blinking in the waxy green leaves of the magnolias reminded her of earlier, happier times at Oakleigh. Sitting on the top porch step, Amanda keenly felt the losses in her life: her parents, grandparents, husband, and most recently her last close relative, Great-aunt Hannah. All gone. And now even Oakleigh would be taken from her.

As dusk faded into the deep shrouds of night, Amanda rose from the porch and went into the large, empty house. It seemed to close around her, enfold her with memories and wishes.

Chapter Two

_Morning brought humid temperatures along with bright, hazy sunlight. Dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, Amanda went downstairs to eat breakfast. Jessica arrived a short time later, letting herself in the front door with the key in the mailbox. Even from the kitchen at the back of the house, Amanda could hear the muted echoes of the front door closing behind Jess.

"Mercy," Jessica complained as she came through the pantry into the kitchen, "it's as hot as blazes out there already, and it's only June." She slung her purse and keys to the kitchen table. Wearing a thin organdy blouse and white linen shorts, she looked more like a model than a woman about to help sort through the accumulated dust and belongings of generations. She eyed Amanda with a lifted brow. "Aren't you hot, sugar?"

"Yes. I don't know why they never wired this house for air conditioning." Chair legs scraped loudly against the linoleum floor as Amanda got up from the table and put her empty cereal bowl in the huge white porcelain kitchen sink. She said over her shoulder, "Let's start at the top of the house while it's still fairly cool. We're liable to be baked if we don't."

"A great idea. I'll bring a fan up to the attic. Far as I know, no one's even opened that door for years, so it's bound to be pretty stuffy."

Amanda climbed the steep back stairs to the attic, tucking her hair up into a knot atop her head as she went. It took several moments of fumbling with the glass knob of the attic door before she successfully wrenched it open. The door creaked loudly and a rush of hot, stale air filled the narrow staircase. It smelled like musty old papers and years of dust, and she blinked as she felt for the light switch. A single bare bulb swayed overhead, casting patches of light and shadow over furniture, stacks of crates, and old trunks.

Electricity had been added to the house only about forty years before, and wires could be seen dangling from old eaves and tracing down the outside of walls. Trapped heat made it difficult to breathe.

Stepping gingerly around a precariously leaning stack of wooden crates, Amanda made her way across the crowded floor to the small window that looked out over the front lawn. It took several moments of trying and a broken fingernail to pry the window open. Finally, it slid upward with a screech and rattle of the wooden frame. A breeze filtered into the attic, smelling of fresh-cut grass and honeysuckle.

Amanda leaned her palms on the wide wooden sill and gazed at the magnolia trees. Heavy branches rose above the rooftop of the house and all but obscured a view of the driveway. Memories of happier times returned in a rush. God, she would miss this old house…

"Manda?"

She turned to see Jessica in the doorway, blinking in the dim light and gingerly holding an ancient fan. Once it was plugged into the single outlet in the attic, the old black wire fan stirred the stuffy air and dust, its blades whirring loudly. Amanda sneezed several times.

"I think it was better without it," she muttered as she readjusted the fan to blow in another direction.

"Probably." Jessica stood in the center of the attic, hands on her hips as she gazed at the clutter. "It will take a week to go through all this. You should have hired a professional."

"I can't imagine allowing a stranger to go through these mementos and decide what's valuable and what's not," Amanda murmured as she peered into a wooden crate. "Oh, look-an old album." She blew a layer of dust from the leather cover before opening it. Several metal squares tumbled from between the thick pages, and she barely caught them. "I remember seeing this," she exclaimed. "Aunt Hannah used to show me this album when I was a child. See this man?" She held up one of the tintypes as Jessica peered over her shoulder. "I used to dream about him."

"Which one?" Jessica asked as she lightly brushed away a film of dust from the metal photograph.

"The tall, dark-haired man in the background. I'm not certain why, but he caught my imagination when I was a child. I guess because no one in the family knew who he was, or could remember why he was in a family portrait." Gazing at the lean man with the crooked smile, Amanda felt as if she were seeing the face of an old friend again. There was character in the firm set of his jaw and in his clear gaze, implied strength in his wide shoulders. She wished she had a name to apply to the image, something besides forgotten dreams.

Tapping a finger on another old tin photograph, Jessica said, "Who is that?"

"Let me see…" Amanda peered closely at the photograph, but it wasn't until she turned it over that she saw someone had written on the paper back. The ink was faded, but she could make out the name. "James Brandon-oh, yes. This is my great-great-grandfather. The feud started with him, I think."

“The feud between the Scotts and Brandons?''

Amanda nodded. “I think so. Lord, I was told all this so long ago, and it's hard to remember all the details. I do remember that it was back during the Civil War-or as Aunt Hannah used to say, "The War of Northern Aggression.' James Brandon's half brother-they had the same mother-married a woman who had been promised to James. Apparently this caused a big uproar, but it wasn't the final cause of the feud, according to Aunt Hannah."

"Sounds like a good enough reason to me," Jessica muttered with a lifted brow.

“To me, too. Michael Scott and Grandfather James lived here in the house together for a while after the wedding. The feud started later, if I remember correctly. If you ask me, I'd guess that it had its roots in the fact that Michael wed the woman his brother wanted. Aunt Hannah never did give the real reason. Said it was over and done, and the family scattered to the four winds. Half of them ran off to South America."

"South America? What on earth for?"

"After the war, a lot of the men in our family who'd fought for the Confederacy migrated farther south to escape Reconstruction. I imagine that the dark-haired man I used to dream about was one of them."

Jessica tapped the metal square thoughtfully. "He's quite handsome, isn't he? I suppose that's why he caught your imagination. I wonder who he was?"

Laughing, Amanda teased, "The man of my dreams, of course." She tucked the loose tintypes into the album, then closed it and placed it gently on the floor. "This pile will be the keeper pile. Things to be sold will go on the other side."

"Sounds like a good plan to me." Jessica reached for the notebook and pen she'd brought with her. "Now, what we need to do is start listing things to be auctioned. What's first?"

Amanda held up a crimping iron. "Shall we start with this?"

Scribbling on a clean page, Jessica muttered, "That ought to bring fifty cents."

Three hours later, the stack of items to be auctioned had filled five pages and one side of the attic. Leather-bound trunks, dishes, framed portraits, old furniture, and even mule harnesses cluttered the floor. A cheval mirror tarnished with age and sagging in its frame leaned against one wall.

Jessica raked a hand through her frosted hair, leaving a smudge of dust on her forehead. "Dealing with all this junk is exhausting. And it's unbearably hot up here. Let's stop for a while."

Pulling forward a heavy, dust-covered trunk, Amanda said, "One more thing. I found this trunk behind some loose boards in that alcove. Someone obviously hid it there, and I'm dying to see what's inside."

"Lordy, it's hot enough to fry eggs up here, Manda."

"What if it's hidden treasure?" Amanda coaxed. "I might find enough to save the house. Come on, Jess. Help me. Then we'll go down for lunch and cooler air, I promise."

"All right. But I'm more than ready for some iced tea."

It took a moment to open the trunk's latch, but finally they managed it. The smell of moth crystals stung Amanda's nose as she lifted the top. Frothy layers of tissue paper crackled when she pushed them aside.

"Old clothing," she murmured, carefully lifting the garment beneath the tissue paper. Satin folds slid over her arms in a rustling fall. Then her breath caught. "Oh, my-it's the most beautiful thing…"

"What is?" Jessica peered over her shoulder. Her nose wrinkled at the smell of moth crystals. "Ugh. Those things still stink after all these years. Why, Manda-I've seen that dress before."

"You have?" Amanda gently shook it free, and tiny glimmers of pearls glinted in the musty light. "It's not one we ever used to play dress-up. I'd remember this dress. Are you sure?"

"Yes. Earlier today, I saw that dress in one of the old portraits we found stacked against a wall… let me find it."

While Jessica rummaged through the framed portraits they had leaned up against the wall for later inspection, Amanda unfolded the gown as carefully as possible. A few of the pearls fell to the floor with tiny pings, scattering. Even though time had yellowed the satin, she could see that it had once been ivory. Delicate lace edged the high neck and sleeves, and had been stitched down the bodice in a ruffle that must have once been full. Now it was flattened and limp.

"It looks like a wedding dress," she murmured as she held up the gown.

"Here it is," Jessica called, and Amanda draped the gown over the trunk and joined her. They angled a heavy gilded frame against the wall and stood back to gaze at the painting. "This portrait used to be up here in the attic when we were little girls," Jessica said after a moment. "Don't you remember?"

"Hey-I do remember. Only because Aunt Hannah once told me that this was a portrait of a ghost. She said it was whispered that she'd died unhappy, and her poor spirit still haunted Oakleigh years after her death. It scared me out of my wits as a child, but I never saw or heard any signs of a ghost, so I just forgot about it in time."

"Who was she?"

Frowning, Amanda said, "Aunt Hannah called her Deborah. I can't remember if she was close family, or a distant relative. I'm not certain why we have this portrait of her, except maybe because she's supposed to have haunted the house for a while. Oh, look-this was painted in front of the house. The porch looks almost the same. Look at the trees, how small they were then…"

A shaft of hazy light from the window fell across the portrait of a youthful woman garbed in the gown and seated on a bench in front of the house. A thick line of young magnolia trees provided the background; pale, creamy blossoms framed the woman's rather sad face.

"If this is a wedding portrait," Jessica said, "it must not have been a love match. She looks much too unhappy."

"Not according to family legend. Deborah went ahead with the sitting for this portrait even though her husband had just been killed in some war-Spanish-American, maybe? Anyway, she was pregnant, which made the tale more tragic. She said her husband had wanted the painting done, so now it would be a memorial to him and their love. According to Great-aunt Hannah, she never remarried."

"Just haunted the place. Great." Jessica replaced the portrait against the wall and covered it again. ' 'No wonder this dress has been packed away and lost all these years. It's unlucky. Well," she said, dusting her palms briskly, "shall we have lunch now?"

Afternoon brought heat with it, and the attic was left to be finished the next morning. By dusk, Amanda and Jessica had managed to clear out most of the second-floor bedrooms, itemizing the scanty contents quickly and efficiently.

"My back is aching," Jessica complained as they sat on the front porch sipping iced tea and watching evening shadows creep over the lawn. "All that junk-it's amazing what can be accumulated in so many years."

Amanda sipped her tea, thinking of those who had once lived in this house. Old memories had been sparked with every find, whether a crystal perfume bottle from the twenties or an 1890s' volume of poetry with spidery writing inscribed to a sweetheart on the front page. Bittersweet memories of forgotten times… Her chair creaked loudly as she rocked forward. Crickets hummed in the still, sultry air.

"I wonder," Jessica mused, "what would have happened to this house if not for that feud."

"I imagine it would remain in the family. I wish I knew the real reason for the feud."

"Well, you'll probably never find out. That information is lost to history." Jessica rose, pressing a hand to the small of her back and groaning. ' 'I'm going home to my husband. I'll be back in the morning to help you finish up the attic."

"I appreciate your help," Amanda said softly. "You're a good friend."

Jessica grinned. "Well, somebody has to be nice to you big-city girls who run off and leave us small-town hicks behind. Who would we have to envy if not for you?"

But once Jessica left and the house seemed to enfold her in its embrace again, Amanda felt as if she had come home. Losing this house was painful. But she had the next few days here, and she was determined to wrest all the comfort and memories she could from them. Tomorrow would come soon enough. It always did.

Chapter Three

It was a hot night. Stuffy. Amanda sighed irritably and tried once more to get comfortable. The second-story bedroom windows were open, the black wire fan was on the dresser, and she was wearing only a thin-strapped nightie of ivory silk that reached midthigh, but she was still uncomfortably warm. Maybe she should read. There was a stack of books in the attic, along with decades of old magazines that might prove boring enough to put her to sleep. And if nothing else, it would at least make her insomnia informative. Sighing, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and fumbled for a robe.

The wood floor was surprisingly cool on the bare soles of her feet as she went down the hallway to the back stairs leading to the attic. The bottom step creaked loudly beneath her weight. It was dark on the stairs, and Amanda muttered to herself as she felt her way along.

Perseverance got her up the dark stairs to the attic door. The door was ajar, propped open with a heavy flatiron she'd found in one of the wooden crates. The irons made great doorstops, and she'd wanted the attic to air out before the next morning. She opened the door wider and stepped inside.

Dim patches of moonlight dappled the floor, filtered by the heavy magnolia trees that shaded the house. Fumbling for the switch, she turned on the light. The single bare bulb swung back and forth in a breeze from the open window, casting patches of light and shadow. Amanda scanned the attic floor for the stacks of books she'd placed aside. One of them caught her eye, a leather-bound journal tied with faded ribbon.

Lifting it curiously, she untied the ribbon and flipped open the leather cover. Neatly scrawled on the fly page was the name Deborah Jordan Scott and the date January 1864. She mulled over the name for several minutes, then caught her breath with excitement.

Could this be the same Deborah in the portrait? If so, the unnamed husband was probably Michael Scott-her distant uncle and great-great-grandfather's half-brother. This journal might possibly hold the key to the family feud, she thought as she turned the pages. But to her intense disappointment, moths and rain had apparently destroyed all of the journal entries. Only scattered words were still legible, and those were blurred.

Regretfully, she closed the journal and retied the ribbon. No help there. When she glanced up, she saw the dress she was certain had belonged to Deborah Jordan Scott. It was still where she'd left it, draped gracefully over the open trunk.

Moving around a stack of books, Amanda reached for the dress. The fabric felt cool and satiny, the folds of material rustling slightly in the silence. She held it up to herself and stepped to the old cheval mirror propped against a wall. As a child playing dress-up, long skirts had trailed the floor and tripped her many times. But what would it be like to really wear the gowns of the antebellum period? Scarlett O'Hara had made it look so glamorous, when the reality was probably uncomfortable, inconvenient-and hopelessly romantic.

Amanda yielded to impulse and slipped out of her robe and unfastened the pearl buttons on the dress. She stepped into it rather awkwardly, slid her arms into the sleeves, and pulled it up. Her silk nightgown wadded up around her waist. It took her a moment to wriggle it down before she could adjust the satin folds of the wedding gown. Drat. It would be almost impossible to fasten all the buttons. Women back then must have been very agile. Or employed a maid to help them dress.

When she had most of them done, she turned to peer into the mottled glass of the old mirror. Even in the dim light, she could see that the gown had lost none of its beauty over the years. It fell in simple lines that draped elegantly over her hips down to her ankles. Masses of petticoats would have once swelled the long skirts into a swaying bell shape. Tiny pearls sewn into the material caught the light from the single bulb and shimmered in a misty glow. Intricate bead-work must have once adorned the gown, though now a lot of it was missing. Probably at the bottom of the trunk, along with other long-lost treasures.

Amanda stepped to the trunk and moved aside the tissue that had cradled the gown. Some of the pearls should surely be here, perhaps still nestled in the crinkly folds of tissue paper. She unfolded some of it and heard a faint rattle as if pearls were falling into the bottom of the trunk. Digging deeper, Amanda found several folded sheets of yellowed newsprint below the tissue paper. She pulled it out carefully, in case some of the pearls were caught in the folds. A pen-and-ink drawing of a man with a small beard and plumed hat caught her immediate attention as she unfolded an old copy of the Memphis Appeal. The date of the paper was June 19, 1864.

BATTLE AT BRICE'S CROSS ROADS RESULTS IN FORREST

victory, read the caption above the ink drawing. Intrigued, she read the long article relating the details of Confederate General N. B. Forrest's lengthy fight and ultimate victory over Federal forces at Brice's Cross Roads in northern Mississippi. Why had someone saved this particular article? she wondered.

Then she glanced toward the bottom of the page as bold print seemed to jump out at her: holly springs man killed six months after wedding, it read. Curious, she scanned the article beneath. "Tragedy strikes former Memphian in the wake of General Forrest's great victory over Union forces. After vanquishing the Federals on the Gun-town Road between Holly Springs and Ripley on June 10, the chase continued into the small hours of the next morning. On June 16, in the effort to roust the enemy from northern Mississippi, a former Memphian's husband of only six months was slain. To add insult to this grave injury, Yankee soldiers-who were cowering in the Cold-water swamps in their cowardly flight toward Memphis- then had the effrontery to claim the young man had been slain by his own half brother. Lieutenant James Brandon stoutly denies such grievous charges against him…"

Amanda took a deep breath. The name of the dead man was listed as Lieutenant Michael Scott-leaving behind his widow, Deborah Jordan Scott. So here it was-the real reason behind the feud that still dogged her family. It was enough to divide a family, the suspicion that one brother had killed another, like Cain and Abel. She read further, and learned that the two had been scouts for General Forrest. How tragic. What had really happened? Had her great-great-grandfather killed his own brother?

Carefully folding the paper, she laid it atop the crate and sighed. After all this time, knowing the reason would hardly make any difference now. Things would still be the same, and the family estrangement just as strong.

"Too bad," she murmured as she straightened up, "that I can't change history." The wedding gown rustled softly as she moved to stand in front of the mirror again. Her image was reflected in a rosy halo of light and shadows. The gown hung loosely. On a whim, she reached behind herself to fasten the last three buttons, then turned back to look into the mirror.

Her reflection shimmered, and it seemed that it grew brighter and brighter, the satin folds of the gown taking on a luminous sheen. A sudden gust of wind through the open attic window made the light bulb swing wildly. It dimmed, then burned out, leaving the room in darkness. Amanda suddenly felt weak and dizzy, and reached out blindly to catch herself. There was nothing but empty air, and she sank slowly to the floor, arms flung out in front of her as she dropped to her knees.

Panting, fighting nausea, Amanda's head began to whirl. All her senses grew so muddled she couldn't form a coherent thought. It seemed like forever before her head stopped whirling. Her senses slowly returned to normal, though there was a ringing in her ears that seemed loud enough to be heard fifty miles away in Memphis.

Amanda sat back, groping for support. This was vaguely frightening, for she had never fainted before in her life. It was probably the heat. After all, she was accustomed to air conditioning, not this humid stuffiness.

Getting slowly to her feet, Amanda stood still for a moment to regain her balance and bearings. As her eyes grew used to the dimness, she was able to perceive squares of silvery light coming through the open attic window. It was bright, brighter than she remembered it being earlier. Was there a full moon? She couldn't remember. Everything was still so fuzzy, her mind unable to properly focus. Nothing seemed right. She felt out of place, oddly unsettled. Stifled, as if there weren't enough air.

Still slightly dizzy, Amanda made her way toward the window for some fresh air. She curved her palms over the window sill and leaned out, breathing deeply. The smell of honeysuckle was strong, mixed with the sweet fragrance of clover. It wafted in on a breeze that blew the hair back from her face. The night was cool now, and very dark. No sign of distant lights marked the highway, which was blocked out, she supposed, by the tall trees.

She frowned. There was something different-out of place. Trees… the huge, gnarled magnolia trees in front of the house didn't seem as tall now. And there were so many of them-not just the three, but a half-dozen or more. Instead of soaring higher than the house, they barely reached the top of the porch roof below. She blinked and rubbed her eyes. How very odd. It must be her perception. It was off, askew somehow, and distorted by her fainting spell.

Amanda took a deep breath and briefly closed her eyes. Then she heard a strange rumbling noise that sounded vaguely familiar even while recognition eluded her. Opening her eyes, she leaned out the window again. Flickers of motion could be seen between the tall, slender trunks of the oaks lining the driveway. Odd, but the oak trees looked so much smaller in the moonlight, shorter and not as spreading. The indistinct rumbling evolved into the definite sound of hoof-beats. Horses? To her shock, a band of mounted men thundered up the driveway. What on earth-?

Her fingers dug into the wooden frame as she stared down. Details leaped out at her in the bright moonlight. The gravel driveway was now rutted and muddy. The horsemen wore gray uniforms spattered with mud, and carried rifles and swords. They looked like-soldiers. One of them wore a plumed hat, and he swept it off as he reined in his horse in front of the house. Another horseman dismounted and leaped up onto the steps, moving out of Amanda's view. She heard him pound on the door and call out.

Confused, and assaulted by so many alien images that her mind could not assimilate them all, Amanda froze. Had she locked the front door? She tried to remember. Locking doors was habit in Memphis, but this was a small town with little need for locked doors. When the pounding grew louder, Amanda moved toward the attic door.

Tripping over the dragging hem of the dress, she realized that she could hardly go downstairs wearing a hundred-and-thirty-year-old gown. Quickly, she unbuttoned it, accidentally tearing loose one of the tiny pearl buttons. It fell to the floor and rolled away as she hastily draped the gown over a trunk.

Where was her robe? Hadn't she worn a robe? Where was the open trunk? The attic looked strangely empty, though there were stacks of boxes against one wall, and an old cradle next to two trunks. Her robe must have fallen behind something, and she spent several moments searching for it before deciding to look in one of the trunks. More pounding from below made her hurry, and she grabbed up a white cotton robe from the trunk and threw it around herself, fumbling with the lacy ribbons that tied it together across the front.

This was ridiculous. Why couldn't she find her robe? And who in heaven's name were those uniformed men down there? The National Guard? Were there flash floods? Tornado warnings? Something must be wrong for them to arrive so late at night. And why on horseback?

Amanda found her way down the back stairs in the dark, feeling her way along the wall until she reached the bottom step. The borrowed robe flapped around her ankles as she crossed the dark hall between the stairs and the kitchen. A flickering light glowed in the front parlor and entrance hall. She frowned. Hadn't she turned out all the lights downstairs?

Then she heard a murmur of voices that were muffled and hushed. Apprehension made her voice shaky when she called out, "Who's there? Jess? Is that you?"

No one answered, and she drew in a deep breath as she stepped into the entrance hall. The front door was open. A tall figure in the doorway blocked her view of the porch, and it took a moment to register that it could not be Jessica. As she drew near, she heard a man say that he'd just left Rucker's regiment.

Amanda jerked to a sudden halt, fear making her voice sharp as she demanded, "Who are you?"

As the figure turned, he held up a lantern, and the light revealed strong male features. Amanda choked back a startled cry. It must be the hazy light. Her recent fainting spell had obviously caused a marked visual problem. Or even brain damage.

"Who are you?" the man asked bluntly. His eyes narrowed at her, then widened slightly.

Amanda couldn't utter a sound for what seemed an eternity. It was him-the man of her dreams, the man from the old family photograph that had haunted her childhood fantasies. She couldn't be mistaken. This face had remained embedded in her dreams for too many years for her not to recognize it now.

Only this man was no dream-he was real. Very real. And very close. He was close enough that she could touch him, and she was startled by the impulse to do so. It was obvious he'd been awakened, for his dark hair was rumpled and his shirt was unbuttoned. A large expanse of bare chest gleamed beneath the open edges of his white shirt. With an effort, she dragged her gaze up to his face again.

He was staring at her from beneath the thick bristle of his lashes, a faint smile curving his mouth. Her heart did another flip, and she took a deep breath to clear her head.

Chapter Four

Flushing when the man's gaze drifted down her body to her bare feet, Amanda managed to say, "I asked you first-who are you and what are you doing here?"

He made an impatient motion with his free hand, then turned his back on her and spoke to the man just outside the door. "I just got here. Tell the general he's welcome to come inside, and I'll make my report to-"

"Excuse me," Amanda interrupted sharply, "but no one else comes into this house, mister."

A brief, sizzling silence followed her decree, and she caught a shadowy glimpse of a man out on the porch. The object of her concern, however, seemed irritated that she had interrupted. He gave her a quick glance and snapped, "This is a private discussion."

"Fine," she shot back. "I'll call the sheriff and you can have a private discussion with him."

"Maybe you should come outside, Captain," she heard the man on the porch suggest. "We shouldn't like to frighten the ladies of the house with our news."

To her surprise, the trespasser just inside the door took her by one arm. "Excuse me, ma'am. If you would be kind enough to go back to your room, we can continue our business without your interference."

Shocked as much by his presence as by his tight grip on her arm, Amanda stared at the man in openmouthed silence. A strange chill came over her. The definite resemblance to the man in the old photograph was eerie. He must be a descendant. But what the devil was he doing here in the middle of the night?

Taking a deep breath, she blurted, "I don't know you- what are you doing here?"

He looked at her closely, eyes narrowing in the dim light, and Amanda was gratified to see that she had at least succeeded in gaining his undivided attention. Her chin lifted when he raked her with a deliberately slow stare, his eyes moving from her bare feet up to her disheveled hair. Amanda resisted the temptation to glance down to see if she'd fastened the laces on the front of her robe.

The intruder drew in a deep breath, then his gaze shifted to look behind Amanda. She could hear someone coming down the main staircase, and she turned to confront a slender, fair-haired woman who gazed at her with a perplexed expression.

Amanda stared back. There was a faint quiver of recognition, though she couldn't pinpoint it. "Who are you?" she was about to demand, but it was the man who spoke.

"Deborah. Thank God. She must be one of your guests. Escort her back to her room, will you?"

Smiling uncertainly, the woman he'd called Deborah said in a soft drawl, "I didn't hear you return, Jesse. I'm glad you're safely back. Is all well?"

"I don't know. And I can't find out until this… this young lady is out of here. Will you please do something?"

Deborah's voice was gentle when she suggested to Amanda, "Why don't you come with me? The men will handle-"

"No way. If there's trouble, I should be here." Eluding the man in the doorway with a quick step around him, Amanda stepped out onto the porch.

But even as he uttered an angry comment and followed her onto the porch, Amanda received another shock when the swaying lantern light flickered over the mounted men in her front yard. They were garbed in Civil War costumes. On the heels of that implausible recognition came the more logical thought that this must be one of the frequent reenactments that were so common in the South. Every year, a Civil War reenactment was held to commemorate the battle at Shiloh, about two hours from Memphis up on the Tennessee River. This must be in connection with that.

"Were you men at Shiloh?" she blurted, and the young man still on the front porch gave a grim nod of his head.

"Yes, ma'am, we were. But that was a while back."

Sudden understanding was a relief. Of course. That explained it. Most of the men who participated in the reenactments were very serious about it. They lived in tents like those long-ago soldiers, ate the same kind of food, sang the same songs, and even tried to talk as the Civil War soldiers would have.

"Well," Amanda said with a smile, "you're very believable. I suppose you're on the way to reenact that Brice's Cross Roads battle I read about."

Instead of returning her smile, the young man only looked bewildered as he glanced uncertainly at the man behind Amanda. She felt a heavy hand descend upon her shoulder, and iron fingers dug into her skin.

"It would be much better if you were to go back inside with my sister," a male voice growled in her ear. "She'll fix you a cup of dandelion tea or something."

"Really," she began angrily, "I've had about enough of this nonsense-"

When his hand tightened, she reacted instinctively. Lifting her foot, she slammed her heel hard against his instep, and was rewarded with instant release and a muffled curse. A guffaw burst from one of the mounted men, but was quickly stifled. Amanda was aware of the amused stares in their direction, and her indignation swelled.

" 'Scuse me, miss," a deeply gruff voice rang out, "but what do you know of Brice's Cross Roads?"

Turning, Amanda saw that the man holding a plumed hat had ridden close to the porch. He leaned on the pommel of his saddle, fixing her with an intense gaze. She stared back, bewildered by another shock of recognition. The small dark beard, the deep-set brooding eyes-where had she seen that face before?

"I-I'm sorry?" she mumbled. "I don't know what you mean…"

"I can say the same, miss. And I'll ask you agin-what do you know of Brice's Cross Roads? Was your husband there?"

"My husband has been dead for over a year." Her words came out in a choked whisper that had nothing to do with Alan's death and everything to do with the growing suspicion that she was being confronted by some kind of weird cult

The bearded man with the plumed hat apparently misunderstood. He nodded gravely. "I'm deeply sorry for your loss, Mrs.-"

Clearing her throat, she interrupted. ' 'Look, I was referring to a battle fought there during the Civil War by Forrest and-" She jerked to a halt. Forrest. That's who this man reminded her of-the drawing she'd seen of Nathan Bedford Forrest. Blinking, she asked, "Are you supposed to be General Forrest?"

A faint smile curled the man's mouth. "At last muster, 1 was indeed thought to be named such."

She put a hand to her temple to still the steady, dull throb. "This is all so confusing-is it too much to hope that you're just looking for a place to camp for the night?"

"As a matter of fact, we are," the Forrest imitator replied in a weary tone. "But I would surely like to know how you've already heard of the battle at Brice's Cross Roads, for we're still chasin' those Yanks back toward Memphis."

Amanda ignored the suspicion that was fast becoming conviction and said instead, "There's an empty field behind the house where the barns used to be. You can camp there, but clean up your mess afterward, please."

"Excuse me, dear," the soft-voiced woman said at her elbow, "but I think you're confused. Why don't you allow me to fix you a cup of tea and we'll talk?"

"I don't want tea. I don't want to talk. And I'm not confused." Amanda fought a wave of panic. The woman named Deborah was smiling and murmuring what were obviously meant to be reassurances, and Amanda's tension mounted. Had she somehow managed to travel back in time? No, that was impossible. Time travel involved huge machines and mad scientists, or experiments gone awry, not something as normal and mundane as fainting. It just wasn't possible. Was it?

With a hand at her throat, she asked hoarsely, "What day is this?"

Deborah glanced at the man named Jesse, and he gave a terse nod of his head. Looking back at her, Deborah replied softly, "Why, it's June 12."

"And-and the year?"

Even more softly, "1864."

Amanda's head whirled, and her nausea increased. She reached out blindly for something to support herself, and Deborah took her arm as she swayed.

"Captain Jordan," the man she thought must be Forrest said in an authoritative tone, "it looks like this young lady's been recent witness to the violence of battle. Since she's prob'ly even met up with some of the fleeing Yanks, that'd explain her knowledge of our actions. Best let her rest a while."

"I didn't think of that," Deborah was murmuring as she took Amanda by the arm. "Poor thing-you must have been terrified. Tell us where your home is, and we'll try to get you there when you're rested enough."

Amanda managed to rally slightly. "Since I'm a Brandon, I-I suppose I still belong here."

"You're a Brandon?" Jesse Jordan repeated with a skeptical lift of his brows that was infuriating.

"Yes, but you're obviously not-"

Deborah said quickly, "Jesse's my brother from Memphis and not often a visitor here. I'm sorry no one properly greeted you, my dear, but we didn't know you were coming. Jamie never said anything about a relative arriving anytime soon. But you know how it is these days, with communication by post so slow and often impossible."

"That's true enough." Amanda tried to think of something to say that would make sense of a situation that was too fantastic to credit being real, but nothing came to mind. Shrugging, she said, "This is all so unexpected."

"General Forrest," Jesse growled, "I think this young woman should be questioned at length. It's my opinion she's a Yankee sympathizer."

"Yankee? Wait a minute," Amanda said, suddenly afraid she would end up in a Southern prison. "I was born in Holly Springs, even though I live in Memphis now. I'm every bit as much a Southerner as any of you, but-"

"Just a moment," Forrest interrupted. "You say you live in Memphis?"

"Yes. Why?"

He leaned forward, fixing her with a steady stare. "I'm well aware that Union General Washburn has severely restricted citizens' efforts to leave Memphis, save by his permission. How'd you manage to sneak from the city?"

Realizing she'd somehow blundered, Amanda shook her head. "I didn't sneak out at all. I… I just left."

Forrest's gaze shifted from Amanda. "Captain, your pretty relative has given me an idea. I had my doubts about your success in gaining our objective, but now I think there's a way we can do it. Join me for a discussion, while we let the ladies adjourn to the kitchen and fix us anything that resembles coffee."

The captain looked toward Deborah, who nodded and smiled. "I'll see to our guest, Jesse."

"I'm not sure I want to leave you alone with her," he said bluntly.

Amanda started to retort, but Deborah was shaking her head and saying, "If she's a Brandon, she's no threat to any of us, I assure you. I'd stake my life on that."

Jesse's wary blue gaze moved back to Amanda. "It may come down to that. I don't trust her. Holler if you need me."

"Chauvinist," Amanda muttered as Jesse grabbed a lantern and stepped off the porch. She turned to Deborah. ' 'I have no idea what to do next. This is all new to me, and I'm still trying to figure it out, so you'll have to help."

Deborah gave her a rather startled glance and did not reply as she led the way back down the candlelit hallway toward the kitchen. Or toward where the kitchen had once been. A breezeway now connected the kitchen to the main house, not the pantry she was used to.

Amanda stood still for a moment, looking around her. An oil lamp in the middle of a small table shed a rosy pool of light. A cast-iron stove stood in place of the more familiar gas stove, and there was no porcelain sink with or even without its ancient plumbing. Some sort of pump was attached to a deep metal tub that apparently served as the sink. A brick fireplace stood at one end of the kitchen; in it a pot was slung over small flames.

Amanda closed her eyes briefly, then opened them again, hoping it would clear her vision and restore things to normal. No such luck.

"Pay no mind to Jesse," Deborah said as she put a copper kettle on the stove. "He's a bit protective since all those Yankees came through here a few days ago. We'd like to keep Oakleigh intact."

"Oakleigh-" Amanda drew in a deep breath. Oakleigh. Of course. There must be some vital information she needed to know. Maybe that was why-incredible as it might seem-she had somehow traveled back in time. She didn't know how, but if she could find out why, maybe this would all make sense and she could do what she'd obviously been sent back to do. "Are you one of the Brandons or the Scotts?" she asked Deborah.

Deborah gave her a shy smile. "Scott. That's why I'm here at Oakleigh."

Amanda nodded. "All right. That's a start-wait. Deborah-Captain Jordan. Are you Deborah Jordan Scott?"

With a perplexed smile, Deborah nodded. "Why, yes. Is your memory coming back?"

Drawing in a deep breath, Amanda murmured, "Let's just say it's coming in bits and pieces. You're from Memphis, too, then."

"Yes, but I've been in Holly Springs since right after Memphis fell to the Federals. I'm sure you understand why I had to leave Memphis."

"Yes, I think I do. If I remember my history correctly, the wives of Confederate officers were held hostages of a sort against the actions of the Rebel army."

"Well, when I left Memphis, it was before I married Michael. The Federals were well aware of my brother's activities, however, so I was often taken before General Grant to be questioned."

"Grant? I thought it was Washburn-"

"Grant was commanding officer when I was still there. As I said, I've been in Holly Springs since Jesse managed to get me past the sentries out on Pigeon Roost Road."

"Pigeon Roost? I remember-Highway 78 used to be called Pigeon Roost Road because of all the pigeons that roosted in the trees there." Aware that Deborah was looking at her curiously, Amanda shrugged and added hastily, "Your brother must be very adroit at sneaking past sentries."

"Jesse?" Deborah smiled. "He's wonderful. That's why they call him the Hawk-because he can get into and out of places that most men can't."

"The Hawk? He sounds dangerous."

"He is. General Forrest has used him many times to- well, I suppose it's common knowledge, and anyway, we need to fix them some coffee. These discussions can go into the late hours, and the general looked exhausted. No, don't try to help. You look tired, too."

Amanda plopped down on a three-legged wooden stool that she had never seen before. Her head was still spinning, and she felt very weak. Plucking at the folds of the borrowed robe, she tried to gather her wits. She retraced her steps of the past hour, from fighting boredom and heat in the bedroom to trying on the gown in the attic. After several moments of silence, she glanced up to find Deborah gazing at her curiously. None of this should be happening. It was too incredible, like something out of a bad movie.

"Are you unwell?" Deborah asked softly, and the question provided Amanda an explanation that sounded plausible.

"Well… I did faint earlier. Perhaps that's why I'm still having trouble making sense of things. Maybe I have a concussion. Or temporary amnesia. That would explain why I don't remember things so well, wouldn't it?" Her voice trailed into hopeful silence.

Deborah took some cups from a cabinet. "Poor thing. It would certainly explain it. Your visit here is quite unexpected, you know. General Washburn evicts ten wives of Confederate officers from Memphis every time our boys fire on one of his men, so I suppose not even widows are safe. Your journey must have been… quite harrowing." She paused delicately, as if waiting for Amanda to elaborate.

Though Amanda knew a response was expected, she had no idea what she could say. After a moment, Deborah continued as if the silence were not at all strained. ' 'Jamie said nothing about your arrival to me before they left to rejoin Forrest, and he is very good about keeping me informed." Deborah gave a slight smile. "If you've been in recent contact with him, you must know that things were rather awkward right after Michael and I were married. I suppose it's only to be expected, as I was betrothed to Jamie at one time, but still, it was a strain. I'm glad it's behind us now."

Amanda could feel her head whirl again. The clue to the reason for her improbable journey had to be hidden in the family feud. But there didn't appear to be a feud. Was she here to prevent one from happening? It took her a moment of silent struggle before she asked hesitantly, "By Jamie, do you mean James?"

Deborah nodded. "Yes. I still call him Jamie, just as I did when we were children. Oh, I shouldn't go on about my own affairs. Not when it's obvious you must have had a dreadful time. I shall give Tangie a proper scold in the morning for not waking me when you arrived. I hope she gave you the guest room, and made certain there are clean linens on the bed. Is everything suitable?"

"Suitable. Yes. Yes, of course." Amanda had no idea what she was saying. She knew a response was expected, but as everything else was so surrealistic, it probably didn't matter what she said. She stood up. "I think I'll go back to bed. Maybe if I go to sleep, when I wake up everything will be normal."

"I hope so. As normal as things can be these days." After a brief silence, Deborah said, "Forgive me, but I'm afraid I never asked your given name. I feel very foolish, for I'm sure that Jamie must have mentioned you at one time or the other, but I fear that I cannot recall it."

"Amanda."

"Oh, my, you must be one of the English Brandons. But you don't sound a bit English…"

"English-oh, yes. I'd forgotten about the English Brandons. From somewhere in Somerset, weren't they?"

Deborah stared at her for a long moment. The sudden piercing shriek of the kettle broke the silence, and Deborah gave a startled jerk. "I'll make the coffee. I think perhaps I should send for Dr. Higdon in the morning."

"Now, wait a minute." Amanda paused. Her head began to throb, and she felt slightly nauseous. Maybe she should see a doctor. She didn't feel at all well. She looked up to see Deborah gazing at her with a worried frown.

"All right," she agreed faintly. "I think you're right. I should see the doctor."

"I'll light the way to your room," Deborah offered in a kind voice as she took the kettle off the fire. "Candles are in rather short supply, I'm afraid. I'll bring you up some tea to help you sleep just as soon as I take General Forrest and his officers some coffee. I imagine they need it greatly, if the little I overheard is true. Poor men. Some of them are still bloodied from the battle."

"The battle? Oh. Yes. I forgot. Brice's Cross Roads." Amanda allowed Deborah to lead the way to the main staircase. The handrail glowed with soft luster curving to the second floor with a gratifying familiarity. It was the same house that she'd always known, though subtly changed. The plaster frieze over the parlor door looked bright, and the wallpaper was no longer faded and dull. The wooden floors were bare and glowed with a rich, deep finish. So this was how the house had looked when it was still fairly new. She was grateful she had this opportunity to see it- and perhaps save it. All she had to do was figure out how.

The bedroom Deborah took her to was not the room she'd occupied earlier, but Amanda remained silent. As Deborah turned down the coverlet and helped her out of the robe and into bed, the story of Alice Through the Looking Glass came to Amanda's mind. That's how she felt. As if she'd stepped through a mirror and into a parallel world where things looked the same but nothing was as it should be. All she needed now was to see a white rabbit. Or a Cheshire cat.

Suddenly yielding to the fuzzy edges of exhaustion that had been hovering at the edges of her consciousness for some time, Amanda slipped beneath the light counterpane on the bed and lay back on a fat feather pillow. She was vaguely aware of Deborah arranging gauzy folds of mosquito netting around the four-poster bed, and murmured her gratitude just before sleep claimed her.

Chapter Five

“Who the devil is that woman?" Jesse asked his sister when he found her in the kitchen. "And where did she come from?"

Deborah shook her head. She looked puzzled. "I'm not certain. Her first name is Amanda. She said she's a Brandon. I think she must be from the English side of the family, for she was mumbling things about the queen and a cat."

"Queen Victoria?"

"No, something about the queen of hearts and a cat from Cheshire." Deborah shrugged wearily. "I think fleeing Memphis must have greatly unsettled her mind. Heaven only knows what must have happened to her along the way, for she's wearing one of the old dressing gowns I put up in the attic a few days ago. I couldn't find any sign of her own garments, but the shift she's wearing looks very new and modern-"

When Deborah broke off with a faintly embarrassed smile, Jesse grinned wickedly. "Tell me about the shift she's wearing, Deborah. That sounds much more interesting than anything about a cat."

"Really, Jesse, you're impossible. The lady's undergarments are hardly any of your business, nor any other gentleman's, I would think."

Unable to resist the temptation to tease his sister, Jesse said, "I hope your new husband is not so ungallant as to ignore all those fine silk shifts from New Orleans that you managed to bring with you."

"Jesse!" Though two splotches of color stained her cheeks, Deborah's mouth quivered with suppressed mirth. "You should be ashamed to speak so boldly to a lady."

"Ah, but I'm your brother and I've known you longer and better than anyone. Well," he amended, "maybe not better than Michael does."

Rather anxiously, Deborah asked, "Has there been any word from Michael and Jamie yet?''

Jesse raked a hand through his hair, wondering just how much he could tell her. Michael and James were assigned as scouts to report on the fleeing enemy. Obviously, something must have happened. How could he tell her that? She'd only worry, when it was probable they were just delayed in their return. From what he'd just been told, the battle at Brice's Cross Roads had been long and drawn out, and in the ensuing chaos of pursuit, it was easy to lose track of time. He should know that well enough. It had taken him an extra day and a half to get back to Oakleigh because of the Yanks fleeing Forrest. The area was thick with them, and they would have been only too glad to capture the Rebel spy they'd named the Hawk. If caught, Jesse would have been hung from the nearest tree without waiting for even the semblance of a fair trial as prisoner of war.

"Jamie and Michael will be back soon, I'm sure," he said evasively, and knew from Deborah's soft sigh that his answer was not the least bit reassuring. "Our more immediate problem," he added, "is what to do with our strange guest. General Forrest gave me orders to use her to get word into Memphis."

"Use her? Whatever for?"

"Forrest said she obviously knows the area, and seems rather bold for such an attractive young woman. He's convinced she must be a spy of sorts. I'd think," Jesse said dryly, "that would be enough to earn her lodging in the nearest locked shed, but Forrest is of a different mind."

Jesse lapsed into silence, thinking of the honey-haired beauty who had stared at him so long. He'd been hard-pressed not to stare back at her just as boldly. Despite her confusion, there was a vibrancy in her that intrigued him. He'd found most young women to be rather pale, insipid creatures, full of flirtatious tricks and little else. Having resisted his parents' efforts to wed him to any of the empty-headed belles they kept pushing at him, he'd been vaguely grateful when the war interrupted their marital plans.

"She isn't going alone?" Deborah was asking, and Jesse looked up at her with a faint smile.

"No, Forrest has requested a volunteer to don a disguise and accompany her into Memphis."

"At least she won't be alone. But what man would be so foolish as to take such a risk?"

Jesse grinned. "Me."

It came to Amanda in the seconds before she was fully awake, how she had arrived in 1864. Her eyes popped open. Sunlight streamed through the windows and was diffused by the mosquito netting around her bed. Of course. The portrait in the attic was the clue. This Deborah was the sad woman in the portrait. The fair hair drawn back from her forehead, the wide, honest eyes-the gown. It had to be the connection, the vehicle that had sent her spiraling back in time.

Nothing had happened until she'd buttoned the final pearl button of Deborah's wedding dress. Then she'd immediately grown faint. There had been a sudden gust of wind, the lights had gone out, and everything had gone black. Was that when it had happened?

Blinking at the gauzy threads of light filtering through the netting and into her eyes, Amanda put a hand over her brow. That must have been it. Somehow, the dress had been the catalyst to bring her back in time-but how could she help? Deborah had already wed Michael, and apparently the dissension between the brothers was not troublesome enough to spark murder. But where were they? Deborah had said Jamie and Michael were gone. The news article- the one in the attic that had related the details-hadn't it said something about Michael being killed by his half brother somewhere in the woods? Maybe by some miracle it was still there, and she could find out the details.

She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed, batting aside the netting. As she slid from the bed, a light tap sounded on the door and she called out, "Come in."

"Good morning," Deborah said as she came into the bedroom with a well-laden tray. "Did you sleep well?"

Amanda managed an answering smile, wondering how much she could ask without being considered a lunatic. Did she dare ask if Deborah had heard from her husband and brother-in-law? Of course. It was a natural enough question to ask…

“I thought you might like to have a bite to eat up here in your room rather than with the others," Deborah was saying as she placed the tray on a small stool. She chatted easily as she puttered with the teacup and saucer, and Amanda managed reasonably intelligent replies.

Finally Deborah stood back, fidgeting with the folds of her dress a moment before looking up with a slightly embarrassed smile. "I hate to seem impolite, but I must ask- is your shift all you have left of your clothing?"

"My shift?" Amanda stared at her blankly, then realized that she was referring to her silk nightie. She nodded. "I suppose so. I… I haven't seen anything else of mine here."

She hadn't meant to say the last, but apparently Deborah misunderstood. "That's all right. I'll find clothes for you. We're just glad you were able to get here. My brother- Captain Jordan-says that Yankees are still all around us and it's dangerous to attempt travel right now. I'm sure Jamie will be pleased to know you made it here safely. Families should stick together in times of crisis, don't you agree?"

Amanda nodded and seized the opening. "Where did you say Jamie and Michael are right now?"

"They're scouts," Deborah replied vaguely. "I never know just where they are. I hope they come back safe and sound, though with all the Yankees that have been coming through Holly Springs, they'll probably have to do like Jesse did and hide in the woods."

"Is Forrest still here?"

"He rode out this morning."

"I see. Well, I'm sure your husband will return soon."

Deborah hesitated, then said softly, "I hope Michael is able to linger a day or two next time. Our hours together are so short."

"I hope so, too," Amanda said. She wished she could recall all the details of the news article. If only her head wasn't still so achy and she didn't feel so strange…

After Deborah left, Amanda went to the window and looked out. This room was at the rear, and the view should have been of empty pastures fenced with barbed wire and a few metal gates. Instead of empty pastures, there were towering wooden structures that looked permanent and weathered. Now there were two barns and a few more outbuildings scattered neatly in the field, with thick woods ranging beyond. Leaning against the window frame, Amanda had the thought that what had happened to her was like something out of The Twilight Zone, or even Quantum Leap.

When a knock sounded on her door again, she called out permission to enter without turning around. She was almost afraid to see Deborah again. What could she say? What could she ask that wouldn't make her sound insane?

"Do you always entertain gentlemen in your shift?" a male voice drawled, and Amanda whirled around.

Jesse Jordan stood just inside her door, arms folded across his broad chest. Inexplicably, her heart leaped. She stared at him; the transition from dream man to reality hit her with all the force of a two-by-four. In daylight, he was even more devastating. What could she say? What should she do? She'd better think of something fast, she decided as his lazy glance drifted from her face down the length of her scantily clad body. Belatedly realizing that she wore nothing other than a thin silk nightie-immodest in mixed company even in 1994-Amanda stepped quickly to the bed and pulled a length of mosquito netting around herself.

"No gentleman," she said pointedly, "would come in once he saw that I was not dressed. But I see you're ignoring that rule."

"I take your point. Here." He strode forward, snatched up a robe, and flung it on the bed. “Put that on. We have to talk."

"I can't think of any-" she began, but put up a hand to stop him when he started around the end of the bed. "All right, all right. Give me a minute. Turn your back, since it's obvious you must be reminded to be a gentleman."

"I wouldn't be so cocky if I were you," he shot back, but turned around. "Hurry up."

Amanda reached for the robe and pulled it around herself; she recognized it as the one she'd worn the night before. "All right," she said when she had the laces fastened. "What's so important?"

He turned, eyeing her for a long moment. His mouth curved into a crooked smile that made her heart leap. It was the same smile she'd seen in the photograph. She remembered it. It was just more potent than she'd thought it would be. Combined with the slight crinkling of eyes that were dark blue instead of brown as she'd always assumed, the smile had a devastating affect on her.

"What do you want?" she heard herself ask in an embarrassingly husky voice.

To her surprise, he reached out to lift a strand of her hair in one hand. Rubbing it between his fingers, he met her gaze steadily. "That's a dangerous question to be asking me right now," he murmured.

Amanda's breath caught in her throat when she saw the glitter in his eyes. When he wound the length of her hair around his hand, bringing her closer to him, her knees suddenly felt weak.

"Captain-"

"Jesse," he corrected softly. His hand was next to her cheek, and his thumb caressed the side of her face in a soft motion. She shivered, and the crooked smile deepened.

Putting her hand over his, she gently but firmly removed it from her face; her hair swung back against her shoulder. "I'm certain you didn't come to my room just to make small talk, Captain. I repeat-what do you want?"

Not seeming at all chastened by her rejection, he gave a shrug of his broad shoulders. "It's not just what I want," he said. "It's what Forrest wants."

"Forrest. Oh, yes. The man in the plumed hat."

"He's a bit more than a man in a plumed hat," Jesse said dryly, "but yes, that's the man I mean. He's come up with an idea. Would you be willing to take a risk to help your country?"

"A risk-my country? How on earth could anything / do help my country?"

"You apparently got out of Memphis, so you'd know how to get back in, right?"

Blinking, she muttered, "Straight up Highway 78 until it turns into Lamar at Shelby Drive sounds like the best way to me. But I guess you wouldn't know about that."

It was Jesse's turn to blink in confusion. Then his eyes narrowed and he shook his head. "You must still be unsettled. I told Forrest it wasn't a good plan, that you were unsuitable. But once he gets an idea-"

Amanda sat down abruptly on the bed, and put her face in her palms. Her words were soft and muffled. "I'm beginning to feel like Dorothy in Oz. Have there been any tornadoes through here lately?"

Jesse was silent, and after a moment she looked up at him. Of course. The Wizard of Oz hadn't been written yet. She sighed and quoted under her breath, "I do believe in spooks, I do, I do…"

"What?"

She shrugged. "Never mind. Let's just say that I had an unconventional upbringing, if it makes it any easier to understand," she murmured. "Will that do?"

"Guess it'll have to do." Jesse raked a hand through his hair. "What's your answer? Will you assist Forrest?"

"Just exactly what is it he wants me to do? I mean, I should hardly agree to something when I don't know what it involves, should I?"

A faint smile curled one side of his mouth. "No, I don't expect you should. Since Memphis is shut off tight by the Yankees and they have sentries stationed on all the roads leading into town, not even the railroads are safe. Remember when our boys had snipers firing on the Memphis and Charleston line of the railroad, so the Yankees put prominent Memphians in the cars as targets? If we'd been able to receive word of what the Yankees had done, no innocent citizens would have been hurt. Forrest is determined nothing like that will happen again."

"I still don't understand-"

"It's simple, really. We pose as a married couple traveling into Memphis. If we make it through the sentries, I'm to deliver a message to a certain gentleman, then return here with a reply."

"Sentries. Oh, God. Do you mean like armed guards?"

"Like armed guards, yes. Are you agreeable?"

"Why do you need me? Can't you get through by yourself?"

"Posing as part of a married couple, I wouldn't be as suspect. Besides, you obviously know the way out, and we can use the same way to get back in."

She studied him for a moment. Beneath the calm veneer, she sensed tension. Her reply was important to him. And who knew-it might help Oakleigh.

Maybe that was the reason she heard herself stalling for time, saying, "Let me think about it."

A faint grin squared his mouth, and his eyes narrowed slightly as he took a step closer and let his gaze rake over her much more boldly than made her comfortable. "Go ahead and think about it. I'll give you until tomorrow morning."

His close proximity was unnerving. She leaned back to distance herself physically and mentally. "Don't wear yourself out waiting," she said coolly.

"Oh, I won't." Reaching out, he lifted a strand of her hair again, as if he couldn't resist touching it. "I can't help but wonder if you're really who and what you say you are."

Her nerves tightened. "Why would I lie?"

Releasing her hair, he said bluntly, "I can think of a hundred reasons you might be lying, and not one for why I should trust you."

"Then don't. It doesn't matter to me what you think. I assure you, if I wasn't a Brandon, I certainly wouldn't be here like this."

He frowned slightly. "Maybe not," he said after a moment. "But only time will tell the whole truth."

"If you're through mouthing platitudes," she said pointedly, getting up and moving to the door, "it's time you leave."

Shrugging, he went to the door, then paused in the opening to say softly, "You'd better be who you say you are, or I'll see to it that you're sorry you were foolish enough to pretend differently."

“Good-bye, Captain Jordan," Amanda snapped, and flung the door closed behind him.

It took several minutes for her anxiety to subside, and by then, Amanda knew what she was going to do next. She stood for a moment, then swung open the door and stepped out into the hall. It was quiet and shadowed. She could hear voices, but they sounded distant.

Slowly, she crept down the hallway. It looked so different and unfamiliar to her. No hall light, no bathroom, no electrical outlets. Oddly familiar, yet so strange.

When she reached the first floor, she paused. The parlor was much the same, except for the arrangement of the furniture and the absence of lamps. Candles stood in tall brass holders. Hesitating, she wondered which way to go. The sound of a voice drawing near prompted her flight toward the door at the rear of the dog-trot, or long hallway with outside doors at each end. In place of the former pantry, the breezeway leading to the kitchen was just out the back door. The attic stairs were outside, and she sped up the narrow steps, half tripping over the long hem of the robe. Why had she ever thought she could manage long skirts?

Once in the attic, she gently closed the door and leaned back against it as her eyes adjusted to the dim, hazy light. The window was open, and weak sunlight filtered over the wooden floor. The attic looked almost deserted, except for a few items she barely remembered. She searched several minutes for the newspaper she'd seen the night before. There was no sign of it. A few copies of Godey's Ladies Book were all she found, and she sighed with frustration. It wasn't here. She hadn't really expected to find that particular news article, but anything pertinent would have been useful. Now what did she do?

She turned toward the attic door in defeat. Then her gaze fell on the satin dress, and she moved toward it slowly. It lay in a crumpled heap over an open trunk. She lifted it, and the satin rustled. In the daylight, it looked new. None of the beautiful beadwork was missing from the intricate patterns. Did the dress have unusual powers? Had it brought her back to 1864? There was only one way to find out.

Taking a deep breath, she slid it over her head again. It fell around her in cool, soft folds. With trembling fingers, she began to fasten the buttons. A sudden wind blew through the open attic window, tugging at the dress and making her shiver. She felt slightly dizzy for a moment, then the wind died. Amanda stood in the shadowed silence of the attic and waited. Minutes passed. Nothing happened. Sliding a hand over the dress, she felt loose threads and looked down. A button was missing.

Whatever force had propelled her into the past, it must require that all the buttons be fastened. She frowned. She didn't know quite what she had expected, and was left feeling deflated. What did she do now? Look for the button? But did she really want to go back to her own time yet? Maybe she should see if she could undo the damage caused by the family feud. If she managed to prevent it, then she could go back home with a clear conscience.

When she heard Deborah's voice on the attic stairs, her head jerked up. She didn't want to be found in the dress, and she removed it hastily. She'd just tied the last lace on the robe when the attic door swung open and Deborah entered.

"Oh. I didn't know you were up here," Deborah said in obvious surprise. "I came to find you something to wear, but I see that you've already been looking in the trunks."

"Yes." Amanda flushed and added lamely, "I couldn't help noticing this beautiful gown."

"That was my wedding dress," Deborah said with a smile as she smoothed the satin folds.

"Your wedding dress?" Amanda echoed. "It's so beautiful. What's it doing up here in the attic?"

"I hid it up here when the Yankees came through last week. Sometimes they take whatever strikes their fancy, and I have a special hiding spot. I suppose Tangie must have taken it out to clean it for me. Michael has already paid for my portrait to be painted in it. An extravagance, I know, but he was quite insistent. The artist is to arrive next week- Are you all right?"

"Yes. No." Amanda managed a smile. "I still feel a bit dizzy; that's all."

"Understandable. You must have had a dreadful time of it. I've sent for Dr. Higdon, and he should be here soon. There have been so many stragglers through here lately, soldiers with wounds from the battle, that he's been very busy. Why don't you go back to bed, and I'll find you something suitable to wear."

"Yes. I think I will. I… I'm feeling very odd." Moving ›lowly, Amanda made her way back to the room she had been given. An ominous echo reverberated in her mind- the wedding portrait had been painted after Michael Scott's death. That meant that sometime in the next week, Deborah's husband would die. Unless she could prevent it.

Chapter Six

Sunlight drifted between magnolia leaves to highlight Amanda's pale hair and the steps of the front porch. Jesse stepped outside, eyeing Amanda where she sat on the top step. She didn't turn around or give any indication that she knew he was there, but remained with her arms clasped loosely in front of her. The simple cotton gown she wore had once belonged to his sister, and was almost too snug. Of course, that was because Amanda refused to wear proper undergarments, Deborah had reported with a scandalized lift of her brows. Even in these times, a corset was considered necessary. He'd always thought corsets foolish and dangerous, but then he much preferred females wearing only scanty garments.

"Are you going to just stand there staring at the back of my head all day?" Amanda demanded in a cross tone. She half turned to glance at him, and Jesse grinned.

'I'm trying to figure out your best angle," he said as he moved to sit beside her on the top step. She didn't offer to move over, and he wedged his frame into the tight space between her right hip and the porch post. He could feel the warmth emanating from her, and found it tantalizing.

She turned to look at him with a wary expression. "Have you figured it out yet?"

"Figured what out?"

"My best angle." She pushed at a loose strand of golden hair, her green eyes narrowing slightly. There was a faint spray of freckles on her nose, and he found that somehow endearing.

"There isn't a best angle," he said when she kept staring at him, and was amused by the indignant way she wrinkled her nose and glared. "If I was going to be chivalrous, this is where I would claim that all of your angles are of matching beauty and perfection, that your fair face has no equal this side of heaven, and that-"

"Rubbish," she said firmly, and some of the indignation in her eyes faded into amusement. “You really are a rogue, aren't you?"

"Among other things. And you?"

"Me? What about me?" She looked wary.

"What did the doctor say about you?"

"That I'm sound as a mule and twice as stubborn."

"My thoughts exactly."

"Liar." She looked down, then slanted him a glance from beneath her lashes. He found it extremely provocative.

"I'm still trying to make up my mind exactly how to classify you, Mrs.-"

She paled. "We were married such a short time, and now he's dead and we had no children… I'd feel more comfortable if you'd call me Miss Brandon."

"All right, Miss Brandon. What do you suggest?"

"Number one: Don't try and classify me."

Jesse grinned. "And number two?"

"Who said there had to be a number two?"

"It's generally required."

Her mouth curved slightly. "I see. I wasn't aware of the proper guidelines here. All right-suggestion number two: Realize that I'm just like everyone else here. I want to survive, to be happy."

"You make that sound impossible. It isn't, you know."

She looked surprised. "I find it rather astonishing that you seem to consider happiness possible, under the circumstances."

Shrugging, Jesse said, "Only a fool or a dog can be completely happy. Happiness inherently carries with it a measuring stick by which to judge other events in your life. In comparison, other incidents can be less happy, more happy, or devastating, depending upon your point of view."

"That's a novel notion. I never looked at it that way."

A slight frown puckered the delicate line of her brows, and Jesse had the overwhelming urge to smooth it away. Instead, he leaned over to rub at imaginary dirt on the scuffed toe of his boot. "It's only my opinion, you know. War makes me too introspective. At night, hiding in the woods and hoping no Yankee stumbles over me, I've got a lot of time to think."

He felt her gaze on him as she murmured, "I imagine you do. What else do you think about?"

Women," he replied promptly, and laughed when she made a rude noise. "Well, you did ask."

“I should have known better. But I suppose men never change through the ages."

"And women do?"

When he glanced up at her, he saw her eyes widen. She stared at him from beneath the dark, lush curve of her lashes, and he was reminded of green woodland pools. Then she glanced away, the frown returning.

"No," she said slowly, "women don't change either. We want the same things now as women wanted a hundred years ago: Love. Security. Maybe even children."

"Do you want children?"

Looking rather startled, she stared at him, blonde wisps of hair clinging to cheeks that were damp with perspiration. He resisted the impulse to stroke them away as she said, "I haven't thought about it in a long time. He-he didn't want any children."

"I'm sorry. If there had been enough time, your husband may not have had a choice about children. Sometimes they come whether you want them or not."

"Oh, no, I take the pill. I mean-" She halted, cheeks flushing pink with confusion as she stammered,' 'I m-mean. I had to take precautions."

There was something here he didn't understand, some plane of the conversation that was on a different level. Jesse studied Amanda's face for a moment, trying to sort through the myriad of impressions he got every time he talked to her. It didn't matter what they discussed, there were always little things that caught his attention, some slight discrepancy that on the surface sounded normal, but studied closely, failed inspection. It was more than just her claim that she was from England; he'd been abroad, and had never met anyone with her eccentricities.

Looking down again, Jesse said mildly, "I see."

Amanda drew in a deep breath and blurted, "I know you think I'm odd-"

"To say the least," he muttered dryly. "But don't think you have to explain."

"I'm not a spy."

He stood up, raking a hand through his hair as he stared down at her upturned face. She looked so earnest, so- pleading, that he found himself wanting to believe her. 'All right. You're not a spy. I believe you."

"Do you?" Amanda stood up, brushing down the rumpled skirts of her gown, staring at him anxiously. "I want to help. I truly do."

His eyes narrowed slightly. "Do you? Then you'll agree to show me how you got out of Memphis?"

"Oh, Lord-all right. If that's what it takes to convince you. But you won't be impressed. I keep telling you, I was just lucky."

"Maybe your luck will hold."

"I don't know," she muttered. "It hasn't been so great lately."

Unable to resist, Jesse reached out to curl a finger under her chin and lift her face to his. He heard her draw in a Jeep breath. As if drawn by invisible threads, he kissed her. half amazed at the strong desire to do so, and half dismayed that she didn't stop him. Instead she leaned into him, closing her eyes and breathing a soft sigh as if she had known he always meant to kiss her. It was a heady, magical moment, and he was reluctant to break the spell.

Summoning a strength he didn't know he had, he pulled away slightly and stared down at her. Her cheeks were flushed with more than summer heat, and her lashes were half lowered and languorous, her eyes a dreamy green. Dragging his thumb over the slightly swollen contour of her lower lip, he murmured, "I have a feeling your luck is about to change, Miss Brandon."

Lifting her hand, she curled her fingers around his wrist and held tightly, whispering, "I hope you're right."

Balanced atop her mount and moving along a narrow dirt path the following morning, Amanda wondered how on earth she was going to get them past sentries when she had no idea where they were. And why on earth had she even agreed to this ridiculous scheme? It was a harebrained notion that only a desperate man-or woman-would concoct. If not for the fact that Jesse had mentioned the possibility of meeting up with Jamie and Michael along the way, she would have changed her mind despite his electric blue eyes and devastating kiss.

"Careful," Jesse cautioned, and she jerked her attention back to her surroundings, pulling a shawl more closely over her head even though the early morning sun was already beating down with a vengeance. Heat shimmered up from the hard-packed dirt ruts of the main street of town. Holly Springs looked nothing like she knew it-no library, no familiar country café across from the courthouse, just brick buildings far apart and recently burned. She breathed a sigh of relief when they passed through the town without incident and were once more in the shaded, cooler environs of the woods.

Turning to look back at her, Jesse grinned. "Now all we have to worry about are Yankee patrols."

And that was another problem-Jesse. The mystery man of her dreams finally had a name. And a completely different personality than she had once envisioned.

Instead of being the strong, silent type, the Jesse of reality had a more forceful nature. And he was so distrustful. If she thought about it, she could hardly blame him for wondering about her. She could only imagine what he must be thinking, in light of the remarks she had been making and the unfamiliar references in her speech.

Smothering the sudden impulse to burst into laughter, Amanda studied Jesse's back. He rode just ahead of her, clad in the rough cotton shirt and tan butternut trousers of a backwoods farmer. He carried a heavy pistol stuck into his belt, an uncomfortable reminder of possible danger. Instead of horses, they rode mules, as more befitting farmers than soldiers. Or spies. She shuddered. If she remembered correctly, spies were usually hung if they were caught. Did that stricture apply to females as well? She wished she'd paid better attention to her local history.

Afternoon shadows deepened as they rode along the track Jesse apparently knew well. Hazy sunlight filtered through tree limbs. It was hot, but grew cooler the deeper they rode into the woods. Jesse said little to her, other than a few directions or a warning of low-hanging limbs, leaving Amanda alone with her tortured thoughts. Was it possible that a lifetime of dreaming and wishing had somehow engineered this phenomenon? If dreaming about a man could transport her to the past, perhaps so. In retrospect, she'd come to the conclusion that she'd somehow started this incredible journey by a combined desperation to save the house, a wish that she could change history, and a decision to put on a wedding dress that had been lost for a hundred and thirty years.

Jesse suddenly jerked his mule to a halt and hissed a command for Amanda to be still, startling her. She swallowed the urge to demand an explanation. Dark shadows stretched in the deep woods on each side of the road. Motionless in the shrouded silence surrounding them, she strained to hear what had made Jesse come to such an abrupt stop. It took several moments, but then she heard it, too-the unmistakable sounds of horses and men.

Silently, Jesse gestured for her to dismount, and Amanda did so with shaking hands. She held tight to her mule, putting a hand over its muzzle as she saw Jesse do to his, and followed him from the road into the woods. Sunlight wavered, revealing little more than hazy shadows. Hiding behind her mule in a thicket, Amanda was waiting nervously for something dreadful to happen when she saw Jesse draw his pistol and stand behind a tree.

Closing her eyes, she shivered with apprehension. When a hand fastened on her arm, she gasped, eyes jerking open. Jesse put a hand over her mouth.

"Hush. A Yankee patrol," he said with his lips against her ear. "Stay still and keep your mule quiet."

Nodding wordlessly, Amanda tried to still her wildly thumping heart. This was insane. What was she doing out here? Would she end up dead long before she'd ever been born? Did it work that way?

As the patrol drew close, Jesse seemed to sense her growing panic. He took her hand, giving it a slight squeeze. She held tightly, as if he were the only link to safety and sanity. Leaves crunched underfoot, and occasionally a small twig or fallen branch would snap as the patrol passed by close enough for her to see individual features on the men. Though garbed in blue uniforms and carrying weapons, the majority looked to her like boys instead of the hardened soldiers she'd always envisioned.

Recent rains had soaked the earth, and in the deep woods the sun had not yet dried the roads, leaving them quagmires that sucked at wagon wheels, men, and beasts. It seemed to take forever for the patrol to pass by, and Amanda fretted that at any moment, they would be discovered.

When at last the Yankees had gone and only the echoes of tramping feet and rattling wagons could be heard in the distance, she breathed easier. "I thought one of them looked directly at me once," she murmured. "I just knew we were goners."

Realizing mat Jesse was still holding her hand, she turned to look at him. He regarded her with a strange intensity as he released her hand.

"You could have called out, you know," he said softly.

"Why would I do that?"

He shrugged and said, "The Yankees would love to get their hands on me. They've been chasing me for two years now, ever since Memphis fell. There's a price on my head."

"I told you-I'm not a Northern spy. I have no intention of betraying you."

Jesse studied her for another moment, then looked away and said, “Not even if I tell you that the Federals call me the Hawk?"

"Really. Then I'm in famous company, I see. Should I be impressed?"

A faint smile tucked in one corner of his mouth, and the suggestion of a dimple creased his cheek. "You should be. Are you?"

"Very. I can truly say I've never before met one of Forrest's raiders."

"Rangers," he corrected with a grin. "And I hate to disappoint you, but I'm a free agent for the South. I work for whoever needs me most. Of course, since I'm pretty familiar with Memphis and northern Mississippi, I'm most effective here. When Forrest conducts his campaigns in Georgia and Alabama, I give whatever services I can to the next Confederate commander in this area."

"Ah. A man of versatility, then."

His eyes narrowed slightly, and she could feel a subtle change in the way he turned to look at her. “I can be very versatile," he murmured.

Amanda caught her breath. The rush of fear she'd felt when danger was near didn't compare with the sparks that vibrated between them now. She didn't quite understand it, but there was electricity in the air, almost as if a bolt of summer lightning had struck nearby. Never before had she felt this way, not even with her late husband. There had been none of the tension, the feeling as if she were a delicate instrument strung too tightly-the feeling that if she didn't somehow gain release, she would explode.

"Jesse," she said tentatively, her voice a whisper, "I can't explain what's happening to me anymore. Everything is so-so strange."

Filtered sunlight flickered through tree limbs to cast shadows on his face as he studied her for a long moment. "Strange?" he repeated. "Or just different?"

"Different, I suppose. No-strange as well. Oh, not just you. It's more than that."

"I don't suppose you could explain that a little bit better," he muttered, but the cynicism she'd half expected was absent from his tone.

"I wish I could. If I told you what has really happened to me, you'd be shocked. You wouldn't believe it. I'm not sure I do."

Reaching out, he curled his hand beneath her chin and lifted her face so that he could look into her eyes. "There are times things happen to people through no fault of their own. I would never condemn someone for what they did not do of their own free will."

Realizing that he thought she meant something else, Amanda opened her mouth to explain, but Jesse leaned forward and kissed her. Her instant reaction to the kiss took her so by surprise, she could not think. His lips were warm and firm on hers, and she couldn't help the surge of response that made her lift her arms and put them around his neck.

Before she quite knew what was happening, she found herself clinging to him in a passionate embrace that left her breathless and aching. Jesse kissed her mouth, then the line of her jaw up to her ear, bunching her hair in his fist to hold it, his breath heated against her skin. Amanda shivered and clung to him as if drowning.

It was like drowning. The tides of overwhelming reaction left her floundering, and she was helpless to do more than curve her hands over his shoulders and hold on when he trailed kisses down the arch of her throat. He was holding her up with one arm behind her back while his other hand tunneled into her hair to hold her head. The neat coils of hair she'd put atop her head that morning loosened, tumbling around her shoulders in a disorderly mass.

"This is crazy," he muttered, lips moving against the pulse at the base of her throat. His arm tightened behind her, pulling her hard against him. "We're likely to be shot if we don't pay better attention to what's going on around us."

Through a foggy haze, Amanda heard herself say, "Yes. You're right."

But neither of them relinquished the other. Her fingers were tangled in the material of his shirt, caressing his muscled back. Heat and humidity only added to the inferno that raged inside her, and she wondered vaguely if she'd truly lost her mind. This was even more unbelievable than finding herself in another century.

When Jesse finally pulled away, his chest was rising and falling rapidly and there was a pinched look on his face. "It will be dark soon," he said thickly. "I know a place where we can camp for the night."

It was crazy and she knew it, but her entire world had careened out of control. Amanda shivered. Sexual tension only added to the physical strain of hours of unaccustomed riding. It felt as if every muscle in her body were protesting, and all her internal organs were in revolt. She briefly closed her eyes.

"Are you all right?"

Amanda glanced up to find Jesse's night-blue eyes resting on her. She managed a smile. "I'm fine. I can keep up."

"I've no doubt of that," he replied in a murmur. "You seem to be full of surprises."

"I'm not nearly as fragile as you may think. I take all the proper vitamins, read all the right magazines-never mind. I'm fine."

Giving her a half smile, Jesse turned his attention to the narrow road a short distance ahead. He seemed to be waiting for something or someone, standing still and silent in the shadow of a huge elm. Finally he motioned for her to remount and follow him. Wagon ruts were the only indication that it was some sort of road, and Amanda could barely see them in places. Apparently, Jesse knew exactly where he was and where he was going. She only wished she did.

Chapter Seven

Night was closing in around them, and Amanda had no idea how far they had gone. Jesse seemed to be taking a circuitous route, weaving in and out of thickets, back onto the road, and then into the woods again. None of which added up to a feeling of security. Or did it? Odd, but she felt safe with him despite the gravity of their mission. Even when she'd seen the Yankees, she'd not felt as threatened as she should have. As a child she'd sensed strength and promise in the handsome man in the photograph. That impression of the man in her dreams was not lessened by the reality of him. Jesse Jordan exuded a strong sensuality and strength of will that could never have been totally captured by mere photographic equipment or even imagination.

"This is where we'll camp for the night," Jesse said finally, dragging his mule to a halt in a small thicket surrounded by well-laden blackberry bushes. He dismounted with an agile leap, apparently suffering no ill effects from their daylong ride.

Amanda dismounted stiffly, silently cursing the uncomfortable, restrictive clothing she was forced to wear. Of all the things in the twentieth century she missed, shorts and trousers were at the top of the list. How had women ever managed to get around in long skirts and these wretched undergarments? The pantalets went to her knees, and Deborah had been so horrified when she'd suggested cutting them off she'd quickly said she was only teasing. Now here she was in the middle of the woods in hot summer weather wearing enough layers of clothing to smother her mule.

Jesse eyed her with a lifted brow, apparently misreading her discontent. "I know this isn't exactly the Gayoso House, but it'll do."

"Gayoso House? Oh, I remember. It's the nineteenth-century equivalent of The Peabody."

As he reached for her reins, Jesse gave her a speculative glance from beneath the thick bristle of his lashes. "I never heard of the Peabody. Is that a Memphis hotel?"

"It will be the South's finest one day," she replied with an amused smile. "Don't look so worried. That's just a prediction."

Resting one arm across the saddle, Jesse studied her in the late light. His face was dark and shadowed, highlighted only by a hazy glow from the setting sun. "A prediction," he repeated slowly. "Are you saying that you can predict the future?"

"Let's just say that there are certain things I may be able to predict correctly. And I don't need a crystal ball or pack of cards." She stretched her arms to ease cramped muscles, well aware of his intent gaze. How much should she say and how much should she let him discover for himself? He probably wouldn't believe her if she said the Southern cause was doomed, and might even consider her a traitor. No, best to allow him to think whatever he wished.

After a moment, Jesse began to silently remove the saddles from both mules, and Amanda took custody of the food sacks Deborah had prepared for them. Along with cornmeal cakes, there were pieces of dried fruit and some kind of salted meat. She arranged the crude meal on the top of a rough wool blanket she spread over a tree stump, looking up when Jesse joined her. "No fire, I presume," she said as he sat down, and he nodded.

"No fire. Can't risk the smoke. It's too hot, anyway."

Jesse ate silently, flashing her an occasional piercing glance that she found extremely unsettling. The light had dimmed, and it was difficult seeing much beyond a few feet in front of her. The black silhouettes of trees and brush slowly blended into an anonymous, blurring line.

"So tell me," she said when the silence threatened to stretch into uncomfortable infinity, "how long have you known the Brandon family?"

"Most of my life." Jesse ate the last of the wild blackberries they had picked, then washed them down with water from a leather flask. "Our fathers attended the same university as young men."

"You know," Amanda said slowly, "I've always been confused by the relationship of Michael Scott and James Brandon. I mean, I know they're half brothers, but I cannot recall who came first."

Jesse shrugged. "It's simple enough. James Senior wed Clare Scott, a widow with a young son named Michael. She gave birth to Jamie the next year. But it was always Jamie who was his father's heir, not Michael."

"And that obviously made no difference to Deborah," Amanda mused.

"Obviously," Jesse said lightly, "my sister married for love."

After a moment, Amanda asked, "If the unthinkable should happen and the South loses this war, what will you do afterward?"

"Do?" He looked startled. "I hadn't thought that far ahead, though I have to admit there are times I wonder just how long the Confederacy can hang on without ammunition factories. Our only hope is to convince England to support our cause. After we win, I'll go back to my studies at the university, then maybe finish my grand tour."

"And if we should lose? What will happen to you?"

"Why the sudden curiosity?" Jesse leaned to one side, propping up his weight on an elbow. "Do you have any suggestions? Or are you predicting that the South will lose?"

She looked down at her clasped hands, then up at him. "Let's just say morbid curiosity prompted the question."

"I see." A patch of pale light shifted, falling across his face and casting it in muted shades of dark and light. A faint smile curled his mouth. "Go to South America, I guess. I've heard it's almost like the South. A man can make his own life down there."

So that was what had happened to him after the war, why he'd disappeared from family history along with most of the Scotts. Amanda drew in a shaky breath, wondering if she was doing the right thing. What if she failed? What if she couldn't prevent the feud from happening?

"All right," Jesse said, "I've answered your questions. Now you answer mine. Who are you really?"

Amanda hesitated. Did she dare tell him the truth when she wasn't even certain what the truth was anymore? "I really am a Brandon," she said vaguely, "but distantly related to Jamie. It's a long, boring story, and it's hard to untangle all the bloodlines."

"All right," Jesse said after a moment, "I guess I believe that. What about your late husband? Was he a Yankee? Is that why you prefer going by your maiden name?''

"No, he was from Memphis. I suppose I've just always considered myself a Brandon. And I've always loved Oakleigh, so I want to see it stay in the family. It's my belief that Grandfather James did leave a portion of the land to Michael as well as to his own son. Is that true?"

"Yes. Of course, once the war started, Michael had to put off his plans to build his own house on his portion. He and Jamie got along well enough until-"

He broke off, and Amanda said softly, "Until Michael wed Deborah. Now there's tension between them. Is that what you didn't say?"

"Yes, damn you. But don't go blaming my sister. It was something planned by our parents, not her. Jamie never did say anything one way or the other. Who knew he'd take it so hard?"

"There have been words between Jamie and Michael?"

"Once or twice." Jesse sat up and ran a hand through his hair. "They'll work it out. There's more to think about now with the war. The Yankees hold Memphis, and if they have their way, they're going to keep Forrest busy protecting the Mississippi grainnelds and supply lines when we really need him to strike Sherman's flanks."

"So Jamie and Michael are both riding with Forrest?"

"Yes," he answered slowly. His eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion. "I thought you knew that."

"I just wondered why neither of them were there when I-I arrived, that's all. I'd certainly like to meet Jamie. Again. Meet him again, of course. It's been a long time since we've seen each other."

After a moment of taut silence, Jesse shrugged and said, "So many Yankees have been coming through Holly Springs lately that it's too risky to spend much time at Oakleigh."

"Deborah said several patrols have stopped at Oakleigh, but at least they left it standing."

"After they'd cleaned out the larder and livestock. Good thing I ran across one of the supply wagons they abandoned when they were running from Forrest."

"You did?" Amanda laughed. "That's sweet revenge."

Jesse grinned. "Very sweet. None of the Yankees were able to get close enough to catch me, and they chased me almost all the way back to the Coldwater Bottoms."

Coldwater Bottoms. Why did that sound important to her? Amanda fell silent, trying to remember. Wait-that was it. The news article in the attic had said Michael Scott was killed in the Coldwater Bottoms. But had it specified when Michael died? Her head jerked up suddenly. ' 'What is today's date?"

"It's June the fourteenth. Why?"

Her heart leaped into her throat. The news article she'd found in the attic flashed in her memory with wrenching clarity: June 16, 1864. Now it was June 14-two days before Michael Scott died exactly one hundred and thirty years ago. She could stop it. She could keep Michael from being killed and prevent the feud between the Scotts and the Brandons. Oakleigh would remain in the family.

Surging to her feet, Amanda said urgently, "We have to find them. We have to find Michael and Jamie before it's too late!"

Chapter Eight

“What the devil are you talking about?" Jesse snapped, rising to his feet and grabbing Amanda by her shoulders. She shrugged free and took a step back. A loose strand of pale hair fell over her forehead and into her eyes, and she shoved it back. Her eyes in the dim light were wide and dark as jade. He recognized the anxiety in her expression. Her words tumbled over one another, and she put out a hand as if to keep him there.

"Jesse, I know you don't understand, and I don't really, either, but I know something terrible is going to happen. We have to find them before it does…"

"For the love of-I was right. You're deranged." Jesse shook his head, wondering what he was going to do with her now. This went beyond simple shock from fear. Now she'd crossed the boundaries into uncharted territory that was far beyond his first suspicions. How could he help a woman who claimed to predict the future, yet knew little about her own past?

"Please believe me," Amanda was begging. "I know it sounds too fantastic to be true, but it is. They're in danger. Michael Scott will be killed if we don't intervene, and James Brandon will be blamed for it."

"Would it be too much to ask just how you know this?" Jesse asked skeptically. "Unless maybe you know a lot more about the Yankees' plans than you've said, I don't know how you'd know Jamie and Michael are in danger when we aren't even certain where they are."

Amanda drew in a deep breath, and the hand she had on his arm tightened. "Look, I told you I could predict certain events. What if I told you that I know Forrest plans to ride directly into Memphis in an attempt to take it back from the Federals?"

Jesse stared at her. Though Forrest had indeed mentioned that aim several times, it was only a distant hope, not an actual plan. He managed a careless shrug.

"Then I'd say you know what just about everyone else in northern Mississippi and western Tennessee can guess," Jesse said grimly. "It would be more of a surprise if he didn't plan to take back Memphis."

"But he will attempt it in August, and his brother will ride his horse straight into the lobby of the Gayoso House," Amanda said with convincing fervor. "A Yankee general will run away in his nightshirt, abandoning his pants and his wife. The legend will live a lot longer than Forrest, I promise you that."

"How do you know all this? You sound very sure of your facts."

"I am sure." Amanda drew in a deep breath, fastening her gaze on him, and he felt a twinge of uncertainty. "I told you I can predict certain future events. You'll just have to trust me, Jesse."

He smiled faintly. "That's asking a lot. Would you trust me under the same circumstances?"

"Probably not," she answered more honestly than he'd thought she would. "But this is very important. I know you have been given a mission, but so have I. If we find Michael and Jamie, we can prevent a family disaster. Think of Deborah's happiness. She's your sister. Will you risk her being made a widow?"

"Amanda-" Jesse paused helplessly. She sounded so damn certain. It was possible that she could actually predict future events, he supposed, but much more probable that she had somehow come across vital information concerning the two Forrest scouts. Could he take a chance that she was giving him the opportunity to save them for whatever reasons?

"Are we near the Coldwater Bottoms yet?" she asked.

Jesse's eyes narrowed. "We're on Hurricane Creek. Why?"

"Because there are Yankee soldiers hiding there, and that is where you'll find Michael and Jamie. We have to get there in time, Jesse. Please."

Her urgency penetrated his resistance, and Jesse heard himself saying, "I guess another detour won't hurt. If you're wrong, we still won't be too far out of our way."

Amanda smiled, and in the fading light of dusk, he recognized a lot more in her eyes than just concern for her family. He took a deep breath and reached for her, and she came into his arms willingly.

For several minutes, he held her to him. He could feel the rapid thud of her heart, and the gentle rhythm of her breathing. Her hair smelled of flowers, tickling his nose as he rested his chin on the top of her head. For the life of him, he couldn't understand how he'd been drawn to this woman so quickly. It was as if the first meeting of their eyes had been the thousandth, and he'd felt a jolt that even her sharp words had done nothing to erase. He'd heard of falling in love at first sight, but until now had never believed it was possible.

Finally releasing her, Jesse said gruffly, "We have to let the mules rest. Get some sleep, and I'll wake you in a little while."

She smiled up at him. "Thank you for believing me."

"I don't suppose," he muttered, "that you have any notion of exactly where in the swamps they'll be? It might help us find them a lot quicker."

"I'm afraid not," she said with obvious regret. "But I do know that if we don't find them in time, we'll all be sorry."

Amanda woke with a sudden jerk, trying to remember where she was. Then her memory returned in a rush, and she peered through the dark shadows toward Jesse. He was rolled up in his blanket a foot away, and she could hear the steady rhythm of his breathing. As her eyes adjusted to the absence of light, she could make out small details.

Jesse's arm was bent beneath his head as a pillow, his body too long for the blanket. The dull gleam of his pistol was barely discernible at his side. He was taking no chance, she saw.

"What are you looking at?" Jesse asked softly, startling her.

When her heartbeat slowed, she said, "I didn't know you were awake."

"Do you think I could sleep knowing there are a few hundred Yankees prowling around?" Jesse sat up, folding his long legs in front of him. "You didn't sleep long. Why are you awake?"

"It could be because I'm rested."

"But it's not."

"No," she said. "It's not."

There was the rustle of damp leaves as he moved closer to her. His hand cupped her cheek, warm and strong and hard. She shuddered at the contact, and he pulled away.

"Scared?" he asked softly, and she nodded.

"Yes. Terrified. I wish I were asleep. At least my dreams aren't quite as scary."

He laughed. "What do you dream about?"

She was tempted to tell him the truth, that as a child she had dreamed about him, but she didn't. "Right now, fried chicken," she replied, and her stomach growled audibly.

Chuckling, Jesse lay down next to her. For a moment he fumbled in his pocket, then drew something out and held it up. She strained to see in the dim light. "Here," he said. "It's not fried chicken, but it may help."

To her surprise, it was a stick of hard candy. "Where did you get this?"

"I've been saving it for an emergency. This qualifies, I guess."

Amanda broke it in two, thrusting a piece into his palm. “My conscience would sting if I hogged it all. I insist we share."

"Sounds fair to me."

For several minutes they lay quietly, then Jesse asked, "Did you eat yours already?"

"Yes."

"I thought I heard you crunching. I like to savor mine for a while, make it last." His voice lowered huskily. "Are you always in such a hurry to enjoy things?"

"Sometimes." She took a deep breath. "And sometimes I like to make things last."

She was expecting it when he rolled to his side and pulled her into his embrace, expecting his kiss. What she wasn't expecting was the depth of her fiery response. Maybe it had been too long, maybe it was the heightened sense of being in danger, or maybe it was just Jesse: but whatever it was, Amanda knew she was lost.

And he seemed to know it too.

Caressing her, hands skimming lightly over her face, arms, and then shifting to her waist, Jesse stroked her quivering body with skillful touches. Amanda wore no stays or corset, and he found that out quickly. His fingers deftly undid the buttons of her shirtwaist and slid inside to stroke her bare skin, and Amanda caught her breath. Still kissing her, Jesse put a hand on her breast.

She arched upward, unable to think clearly, unable to do more than react. Once, he lifted his head to gaze down at her through lowered lashes, his eyes a hot, narrowed blue, but Amanda could barely think by then. Nothing mattered at this moment but Jesse, his touch and kiss and the way he was murmuring soft endearments to her, telling her she was beautiful, that he'd waited for her all his life. She believed him because she wanted to, because she needed to hear it from him.

And when she gave herself to him, it was completely, wholly, body and mind and soul. With Jesse inside her, nothing in the outside world could touch or hurt her. The aching tension grew higher and hotter until the world seemed to explode around her and she was drifting earthward like a feather, twisting and turning and as light as air. Jesse's voice was against her ear, breathless and hoarse, muttering her name as he buried his hands in her hair and collapsed atop her.

Drowsy, holding him in her arms and feeling his warm, damp body next to hers, she thought that no matter what else ever happened to her, she would have this memory to hold close.

Riding through knee-high water that soaked her dress and made her uncomfortably aware that slithery creatures still inhabited the swamps, Amanda kept her gaze fastened on Jesse's tall silhouette. They had ridden part of the night and all day. She'd thought when she woke again that she would feel shy with him, but his easy smile and the light in his blue eyes had quickly eased her fears.

The sense of urgency was on them now, as it was dark again. The mules were weary and plodding. At least the rain that had plagued northern Mississippi in the past weeks had stopped. There was an almost full moon to provide light. Tree stumps and sluggish pools smelling of rotting wood and stagnant water were everywhere. Dry land seemed a thing of the past.

"It hardly seems likely the Yankees would come this way," Amanda ventured to say once, but Jesse pointed out what were to him obvious signs of their recent passage.

"The water here has been stirred up with a lot of mud, which indicates horses and men have passed through within the last few hours. It takes a while for that much mud to sink back to the bottom of the swamp."

"I don't know how you can tell the difference," Amanda said, peering at the cloudy water. Patches of moonlight on the water's surface were distorted and murky.

It was a relief when they finally reached comparatively dry land, and she slid from the mule onto the marshy bank with a sigh. One of the mules shook much as a dog would do, spraying her with foul-smelling swamp water. Looking down at her borrowed dress, Amanda had the rueful hope that it was not one of Deborah's best. It was certainly ruined now. If she'd known that their trip would entail sloshing through swamps, she'd have insisted upon borrowing men's trousers instead of the dress. She was grateful she'd refused the corset and most of the petticoats as being too uncomfortable and cumbersome. Maybe modern clothes didn't have the romantic appeal of the nineteenth century, but they were definitely more practical.

"Here," Jesse said, holding out a hand, and Amanda put her hand in his strong clasp as he helped her up a steep bank. There was something to be said, however, for the definite romantic appeal of the men in the nineteenth century, she decided when he swept her from her feet to lift her over another water-filled gully.

She took advantage of his gallantry by putting her arms around his neck and holding tightly, and he laughed softly. "If I didn't know better, Miss Brandon, I'd think you were a delicate creature."

"What makes you think I'm not? Just because I have endurance doesn't mean I'm not as fragile as the next woman."

"There's nothing fragile about you," Jesse remarked as he stopped and swung her to her feet on solid ground. "You have a determination that would put most men to shame."

"Do I?" She looked up at his shadowed face, and saw that he was smiling. "Why do you say that?"

"If you didn't," he replied softly, placing a finger under her chin and lowering his head to brush his mouth against hers, "I sure wouldn't be traveling through the swamps in the middle of the night on a wild notion."

"Don't you believe me?"

He kissed her again, then said, "Let's just say that I'll reserve my final judgment until later."

"Then you're doing this for me, not because you have any faith in my prediction." When he frowned and started to reply, she put a hand over his lips. "No. It's all right. I find it very gratifying that you have enough regard for me to agree to do this even when you don't really believe it."

Jesse stared at her in the dappled moonlight. "You're an odd little thing," he said after a moment. "You almost make me believe in destiny."

"Almost? Don't you believe in fate?"

"No. I believe man controls his own fate by his actions. Or I did until I met you, that is. Now I wonder if there aren't sometimes inevitable conclusions."

Amanda asked, "Do you mean kismet? Preordained destiny? One man for one woman? That kind of thing?"

"You must admit," he said wryly, "that there could be few other explanations for our ending up in the swamps like this. It's not exactly a rational thing for me to do, and I used to think I was a very rational man."

"This is very rational. You're going to keep your brother-in-law from being killed." She glanced up when a cloud passed over the moon and shadows darkened the night. "We must hurry. I'm not certain exactly when it will happen, but any time after midnight tonight is a risk."

Jesse helped her mount the mud-covered mule and looked up at her. "You know that if you're wrong, Forrest will probably have me shot for disobeying orders."

She smiled. "No, he won't. For one thing, I'm not wrong. For another, Forrest would never be foolish enough to shoot a valuable soldier for such a trivial thing-though he might not mind giving you the very devil for a while."

"If that's intended to be comforting," Jesse muttered, "it's not. I've seen Forrest's brand of chastisement, and it holds no appeal for me."

Amanda laughed, but she couldn't help feeling a twinge of self-doubt. What if she was wrong? Or they didn't find Michael and Jamie in time? All manner of things could go wrong, and she might be risking a lot more than Jesse's pride. As she had been reminded earlier, these were perilous times. Anything could happen. She might even end up being a footnote in history: the death of a mysterious woman in the Cold water River Bottoms at the hands of the Yankees. It was hardly a comforting thought.

Doubts plagued her as they rode along in silence and the moon drifted in and out of clouds, providing fitful light for them to see their way. They'd reached Panther Creek when Jesse jerked his mule to a halt and put up a warning hand. Amanda's heart lurched into her throat.

Through the trees ahead of them, she could see the faint flicker of a fire on the opposite banks of the creek. Shadows grouped around the flames, but she could not discern if the men were Federal or Rebel. Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs when Jesse motioned silently for her to dismount.

He'd drawn his pistol; moonlight gleamed dully along the long, lethal barrel. Amanda reached his side, averting her eyes from the weapon. It was a too vivid reminder of their danger.

"Who are they?" she whispered when the tension grew too heavy for her to bear.

He glanced at her, then turned his attention back to the campfire. "Yankees," he said softly. "No sentries that I can see, but those men sitting right in front of the fire are prisoners that you should recognize."

"I should?" She stared at the fire, slowly able to detect the firelit forms of two men with their hands bound in front of them. It struck her who they must be. "Michael and Jamie," she breathed softly, and Jesse nodded.

"Yes. You were right, it seems. I'll do what I can to get them out of there before the Yankees kill them. I want you to stay here-"

"No." Her quick response made him jerk his head around with a frown, and he glared at her.

"I refuse to allow you to be endangered any more than you already are. For the love of God, don't be stubborn."

"It isn't stubbornness. It's determination, remember?"

Jesse swore softly, then growled, "I suppose we don't have time to argue about this. Can you fire a weapon?"

Startled, she said, "If I have to. I took a course at the shooting range at the penal farm."

"These are not wooden targets, but live ones. If nothing else, I suppose you can at least put the fear of God into them," Jesse muttered as he withdrew another pistol from beneath his shirt. "It's loaded and fires to the left. Try to remember that. Pray the powder has stayed dry and the cartridge isn't jammed."

Gingerly hefting the heavy pistol in her right hand, Amanda took a deep breath. "What's your plan?"

"I don't have a damned plan," he said grimly.

She grabbed his sleeve. "We can't succeed without some kind of plan. Damn-what would MacGyver do?"

"Tsk tsk. Your language-who the devil is MacGyver?"

"Never mind. Wait-I know. Do you have any extra bullets and powder?"

"These pistols would be rather useless if I didn't," Jesse pointed out.

"Good. I have an idea…"

Chapter Nine

Swearing softly to himself, Jesse had to admit as he snaked his way through the underbrush on his belly that Amanda had a pretty good idea. It was a variation of one of Forrest's favorite tricks, and it just might work. And it seemed as if she'd been right in feeling that Michael and Jamie were in danger. From the looks of things, they were in a dire situation.

Seated on the ground with their hands tightly bound in front, the prisoners had ropes looped from their wrists to the bonds around their ankles. Trussed like Christmas geese, Jesse mused as he paused beneath the thorny branches of a blackberry bush. He'd have to be ready and work quickly when Amanda provided the necessary distraction.

Stickers pressed painfully through the material of his shirt, pricking his skin as he reached into the pouch at his belt for the extra bullets. With Amanda's clumsy help, he'd loaded them with extra powder, packing it tightly into the metal cartridges. In crossing the creek, he'd had to hold the powder bag high above his head to keep it dry. Now he hid in the brambles and waited for Amanda to accomplish her goal.

One of the Yankees around the fire rose and stretched, then walked toward the two Rebel captives. He stood for a moment grinning down at them. "Old Forrest gave us hell at Brice's Cross Roads, but you Johnny Rebs will do the payin' for it when we git you back to Washburn in Memphis."

Michael Scott glanced up, and Jesse winced when he saw his brother-in-law's battered face. Through split lips, Michael said, "You Yanks only got what you deserved."

"Is that right? It wasn't us who started this damn war, it was you Southern hotheads."

Michael glared at him. "You're standing on Southern land; what did you expect-a warm reception? Well, I hope we gave you damn Yanks a hot enough welcome at Brice's Cross Roads…"

Crouching down, the soldier glared at his prisoner. "My brother died in that battle, Reb. As far as I'm concerned, I'd just as soon shoot you now as wait till we git you to Memphis."

"Untie me, and we can settle up with pistols at ten paces," Michael shot back. "Or are you too scared?"

Jesse smothered an oath. Young fool. What did he think he was doing, prodding the enemy into retaliation? He could understand preferring death in the swamps to one at the end of a rope, but as long as he was alive, there was hope. Where the devil was Amanda? What was taking so long? If she didn't hurry, that hot-tempered brother-in-law of his was going to talk this Yankee into shooting him before he could be rescued.

Glancing at Jamie, Jesse saw that he was staring at his half brother with narrowed eyes. Finally Jamie said, "Let it go, Michael. Leave the Yank alone before you make him cry."

Furious now, the Yankee soldier stood up and drew his pistol. Jesse tensed. He had to do something quickly. But what? He wasn't near enough to the fire yet, not with the Yankee only a few feet away and too close to risk doing anything.

"Damn Rebs," the soldier was snarling as he thumbed back the hammer on his Navy six, "I'd just as soon see you all in hell…"

Jesse cocked his own pistol and took aim on the Yankee. Sweat beaded his forehead and dripped into his eyes, stinging. Suicide. That's what this was-suicide.

Just when it seemed as if he'd have to shoot, a loud explosion shattered the night. Men shouted and leaped from their blankets, scattering as they fumbled for weapons and prepared to meet an assault.

The soldier about to shoot Michael and Jamie jerked around in surprise, and Jesse squeezed the trigger of his pistol. It bucked in his hand, and he was scrambling to his feet even as he saw the Yankee clutch his chest and fall backward. Michael and Jamie had instinctively hit the ground, falling to one side as best they could. Jesse ran to them in a crouch, praying the Yankees wouldn't see through the ruse until he had them free.

Slicing through the ropes binding them with his sharp knife, Jesse just grinned at their obvious surprise when they recognized him. "Run like hell," was all he said before turning to toss his powder-packed bullets at the campfire. In the confusion, he managed to run back into the thick woods just as the bullets began to explode, adding to the general chaos.

Ahead of him, he could see Michael and Jamie running through the woods toward Panther Creek. When Michael stumbled and fell, Jamie paused to help him up, half dragging him as they fled. Jesse paused to set off a few more bullets, hoping the damp ground wouldn't keep them from exploding.

Reaching the edge of the creek, he paused, breathing hard. Amanda ran to the edge of the opposite bank, her moonlit face anxious as she called across the water, "Where are they? Did you free them?"

Unable to catch his breath, he pointed, and she turned to see the two men approach. Bruised and battered but very much alive, they grinned when they reached Jesse.

"If we had time," Jamie drawled, "I'd kiss you."

"Save it for the ladies," Jesse shot back. "Let's put some miles between us and those Yanks. They're going to be mad as hell when they figure out you're gone and there ain't no more Rebs in sight."

They wasted no time in floundering into the murky water of the creek. Recent rains had swollen it, and the current was swift. Jesse held his pistol up in the air to keep the powder dry, cursing the drag of water against his body. It seemed to take much longer to get back across than it had to cross the first time, but finally he clambered up onto the bank.

Breathing hard and dripping muddy water, he gave a mild protest when Amanda flung her arms around him. "Hey, you'll get wet…"

"I don't care," she said in a half sob. "You did it. You freed them. Now Michael won't die and Jamie won't be accused, and there won't be a family feud and Oakleigh won't be torn down for a McDonald's-"

"Hush, hush," he said, reaching out to hold her against him. "You're hysterical. We don't have time for this. Michael's hurt. We'll have to let him ride one of the mules back to Oakleigh. And we sure can't stand here congratulating ourselves, or the Yankees will have us all. Now come on. You can get reacquainted with Jamie when we get back home."

"Oh-yes," she said softly, and he gave her a sharp look. Moonlight gave her face a pale glow, but her eyes were shadowed.

"What's the matter, Amanda?"

"There's something I must tell you," she began, but was interrupted just then as Jamie and Michael reached them.

Dripping and exhausted, they sank to the muddy banks, and Jesse knew they'd never all be able to make it away with only two mules. He made a swift decision.

"Jamie, you and Michael take the mules. Don't bother to argue. Amanda and I will walk back. The Yanks won't be looking for an old farm couple. They'll be looking for two Rebs. You and Amanda can catch up on family history later."

"Amanda?" Jamie echoed, lifting his head to look up at Jesse with a puzzled frown. "Who's that?"

A chill shivered down his spine, and Jesse turned to look at Amanda. She met his gaze steadily, but offered no explanation or defense. He looked back at Jamie and said, Don't you have a cousin named Amanda?"

"Not that I know about. Why?"

Jesse drew in a deep breath. "It doesn't matter right now. What's important is getting you two safely out of here. The mules are tethered over in that grove of cottonwoods. Take the levee road around. You're less likely to run into any patrols that way, as Morton and Forrest have pretty much got the Yanks on the run."

Rising to his feet with an effort, Jamie reached down to help his brother up, then turned back to Jesse. He gave a wet, weary smile. "See you at Oakleigh."

"Yeah. See you at Oakleigh," Jesse said flatly. He stood watching them disappear into the shadows, unwilling to even look at Amanda. What could she say? What explanation could she give for her lies that would be believable? And what reason would she have for lying in the first place, unless she was the enemy.

Closing his eyes, Jesse had the miserable thought that he would hardly care if she was Lincoln's daughter. He still wanted her, and that inescapable fact was as galling as the knowledge that it went against everything he'd been fighting for these past three years…

Oakleigh was just ahead. Amanda could see the chimneys rising above the tops of the trees. In the uneventful day and a half since they'd liberated Jamie and Michael, Jesse had said very little to her. Beyond an occasional comment or general direction, he'd been remote and aloof. She had tried to explain once, but he'd just looked at her with shadowed blue eyes and said he didn't want to know.

Now they were within sight of the house and she knew she would have to tell him everything or lose it all. She'd thought-hoped? feared?-that like Sam Becket in the Quantum Leap television series, once she had accomplished her mission and saved Michael, she would be transported elsewhere. Or at the very least, wake up in her own bed at home. But it had not happened.

She was still here, and she didn't know quite what to do now except tell Jesse the truth. Then he'd probably have her committed to the nineteenth-century equivalent of an insane asylum, and she'd spend her final days knitting wool caps in a padded cell. If she knew another way, she'd take it. But she didn't.

"Jesse," she said when they reached the edge of the woods bordering the pasture behind the house, "I have to talk to you."

He jerked to a halt, his back stiff and straight. Afternoon sunlight glittered in his black hair, making it glisten. "I told you. I don't want to hear it."

"But-"

He whirled on her, and she was surprised at the fury and pain in his eyes as he snarled, "It doesn't matter, damn it. Do you understand that? It doesn't matter to me who you are."

Grief clogged her throat and brought tears to her eyes. "Why not?" she whispered. "It matters to me who you are."

"God." Jesse closed his eyes for a moment, and she saw his hands clench and unclench at his sides.

Moving to him, she stood on her toes and pressed a kiss on his jawline. His hands flashed up to grab her, and his fingers dug painfully into her upper arms. He looked down at her through the thick brush of his lashes.

"It doesn't matter, Amanda," he rasped. "If you tell me you're in league with the devil or the Yankees, I don't care. God help me-I don't care."

His last words were a groan, and she felt a flash of hope. For the first time since she'd awakened on the attic floor, she caught a glimpse of promise.

"Jesse-are you saying you love me?"

"I don't know if it's love or obsession, but whatever it is, you're all I think about." He looked despairing, and Amanda pulled free of his grasp and put both her palms on each side of his face.

"I love you, Jesse," she said softly. "I think I've loved you since I saw your face in a photograph when I was ten."

His brows knit in a frown and he shook his head. "I've fallen in love with a madwoman. I suppose they'll lock us up together one day."

"They may," she agreed, "especially if I ever tell anyone what I'm about to tell you."

"Amanda, I don't think I want to hear this."

"But you must. We have to be totally honest with one another. And if I don't tell you, you may always think I'm just crazy." She laughed shakily. "Or once I tell you, you may be convinced of it. Please? Let me tell you?"

Jesse gazed down at her for several moments before saying with a sigh, "All right. But I warn you-if you tell me things I think my commander should know about, I'll reveal them."

"No national secrets, I promise," she said. "Although what I intend to tell you may cause you pain, fortunately I don't know enough to influence the war either way."

Leaning back against the broad trunk of a tree, Jesse crossed his arms over his chest and regarded her steadily. "As long as we understand one another, you may say what you like."

"I know this will sound rather silly, but do you mind if we go up to the attic when I tell you? I think perhaps it will be easier there."

"The attic? Oakleigh's attic?"

She nodded. "Yes. I don't know why, but it all started there with your sister's wedding dress and a news clipping. Maybe it will be easier to explain if we go there."

Shaking his head, Jesse muttered, "None of this is going to make any sense, but I guess I've already committed myself to the deed."

She put a hand on his arm. "I want us to be alone when I tell you."

A faint smile curved his mouth. "I wonder just who will be more at risk?''

Chapter Ten

“This is it." Amanda draped the wedding dress over the open trunk and glanced up at Jesse.

He was regarding her with a stunned, disbelieving expression. "So you're saying that one minute you were living in 1994, and then you put on that dress and traveled back in time?" he repeated slowly.

Amanda managed a smile. "Basically. I know it sounds crazy. It would to me, too. But that's the only conclusion that 1 can reach. One minute I was in 1994, and then I fastened that last button, and the wind blew out the light and I got dizzy, and when I regained my senses, I was here. I don't know how else to explain it."

Jesse frowned. "Forgive me, but I find that very hard to believe."

"How do you think I knew about Michael and Jamie? There was an article in the Memphis paper dated June 19, 1864, telling how a Holly Springs man had been killed only six months after his wedding to a Memphis woman. The Yankees claimed Jamie was responsible. That suspicion ended up dividing the Brandon family, and in 1994, Oak-leigh would be sold. By preventing the feud, maybe we prevented the house from eventually being made into a mall."

Rising from the crate where he'd been sitting, Jesse walked over to the wedding dress. He didn't say anything for a long time, but stood looking down at the satin dress as if afraid to touch it.

Amanda watched silently. She wouldn't blame him if he didn't believe her. It was too fantastic for anyone to believe.

Finally, Jesse looked up at her. "So what will happen now? Do you put the dress on again and go back?''

"Go back?" she echoed. She'd already thought of that, of course. If the dress had gotten her here, it would probably take her back. All she would have to do is find the missing button, and she would be back home where she belonged.

Or did she?

Did she really belong there? She'd never felt like it. Jessica had been right when she'd said Amanda had been born in the wrong time. But could she adjust to living a hundred years too soon? The twentieth century was filled with marvels and timesaving conveniences. She remembered enough history to know that times in the South would be much harder before it was all over with. After the inevitable fall of the Confederacy, there would be Reconstruction and carpetbaggers and endless struggle.

But in 1994, there was also war and hunger and poverty. Times didn't really change, only people did. There had always been war, always been hunger and hard times. Until mankind figured out a way to avoid war and the other evils of the world, nothing would really change.

Here, there would be love and hope. And here there was Jesse…

"Amanda?"

She looked up and took a deep breath. "What do you think I should do, Jesse?"

"What do you want to do?" he countered. "It's your decision to make." He rubbed a hand across his face and mumbled, "God, what am I saying? I'm not even sure I believe any of this, and I'm acting as if putting on that wedding dress will whisk you a hundred years into the future." He took a deep breath and said flatly, "Deborah wore the dress to be married in, and she's still here. Why would it only work for you?"

"Maybe because Deborah has found her true love. She's already in the right century." Amanda slid one hand over the satin folds of the gown. ' 'One of the buttons is missing," she murmured. "I think I recall losing it the night I wore the dress. It would have to be found if I wanted to go back…"

When her voice trailed into silence, Jesse asked harshly, "Is that what you want? To go back?"

Throat aching, she looked up at him. ' 'Do you want me to stay?"

"I want you to do what you feel you must," he said shortly. "Whatever it is, I'll understand."

"I think," she said after a moment, "because I spent so many years dreaming of you, fate took pity on me and brought us together."

Hot tears unexpectedly stung her eyes, and Amanda was vaguely surprised to see sudden damp splotches mar the ivory satin of the wedding dress. She dragged her hand over her cheeks to wipe away the tears.

"Amanda," Jesse said gruffly, and reached out to pull her into his arms. "I won't lie and say I don't want you. You know I do. But I want you to be happy. If you truly think we're meant to be together, we will be, even if it's only in my dreams. You must have family that will miss you if you stay here. Maybe you should go."

She looked up at him, shaking her head. "They're all dead. I'm the last Brandon."

"But won't you miss anyone?"

"Maybe Jessica. But we haven't stayed close. She'll think I just couldn't bear losing the house, and left town." Amanda laughed shakily. "Somehow I think she'd approve. She always said I was born in the wrong time."

His arms tightened. "Are you saying you want to stay?"

"Yes. I want to stay."

"Thank God. I don't know what I would have done if you said no…" He kissed her fiercely, and Amanda knew she had made the right decision.

When Jesse finally lifted his head, he was breathing hard. "I see that I'm going to have to ask Forrest for leave to get married, so I can make an honest woman of you."

"Married? You mean-"

"I don't know how they do it in the twentieth century," Jesse said dryly, "but in 1864, people in love get married to each other." He glanced at the dress, then added, "Just please don't decide to wear that particular dress."

Caught between laughter and happy tears, Amanda said, "I won't. I promise. Now that I have found the man of my dreams, after all this time, I have no intention of taking any chance of losing him."

It was a quiet wedding, and due to the urgency of war, a brief one. Jesse wore his best gray uniform, and Amanda wore a simple cotton gown that Deborah said was elegant. in its simplicity.

"But I still don't understand," she said with a sigh, "why you refuse to borrow my dress. Don't you like it?"

"Oh, yes," Amanda said with a smile, and her glance at Jesse was so mischievous he had a hard time not laughing. "I have to say it's my favorite dress. I just wanted something of my very own. I hope you understand."

"I suppose so. It barely fits me now. Why, when I put it on to have my portrait done, I could hardly get all the buttons fastened."

"That," Michael said, "is because of your condition."

Deborah blushed and protested, "No, it's because one of the buttons is missing. I've looked everywhere for it but can't find it. I guess it just popped off somewhere."

"I'm sure that's it," Amanda agreed. "It's a shame Jamie couldn't be here for the wedding, but I understand that General Forrest has taken him with him to Tupelo."

Michael, his face healed now, grinned. "He's not sorry to go. If there's anything Jamie likes better than fighting Yankees, I don't know what it is."

Jesse smiled as his gaze drifted back to Amanda. Maybe it was wrong, but he'd helped her convince Jamie that she was a distant cousin from England. Fortunately, there were enough cousins that Jamie wasn't really certain which side of the Brandons she came from, and they'd been purposely oblique. One day they might tell them all the truth, but not now.

The war occupied their minds these days. The summer of '64 had started out with high hopes, but Jesse suspected that Confederate advantages wouldn't last long. He'd finally completed his mission into Memphis-without risking Amanda. As she had predicted, General Forrest staged a daring raid into Memphis. His brother Bill had ridden into the lobby of the Gayoso House on his horse, and Forrest's other brother Jesse had driven Washburn from his quarters in the wee hours of the morning. All of Memphis had rocked with laughter at the Yankee commander publicly fleeing in his nightshirt.

Even though she offered to tell him, he'd not allowed Amanda to reveal the ultimate end of the war. He believed in his choice, and he wanted to feel free to give it his all.

"Jesse?" Amanda said softly, and he looked down at her and smiled. "I love you," she whispered.

"Then come with me."

"To the attic?" she protested when she saw where he was taking her, and he grinned as he shut the door behind them.

"It's the most private spot in the house right now. Besides, I feel like this is where it all began for us."

Glancing around, Amanda nodded. "I feel the same. There is something special about this place, though I think it was the gown that brought us together-Jesse, look."

"What is it?" he asked when she bent and picked up a small white object and held it up to the light from the open window.

"I think it's the missing button to Deborah's wedding dress."

Jesse took it from her when she held it out. It rested on his palm, pale and luminous and dangerous. Time hovered in his hand, beckoning. Looking up, he met Amanda's steady gaze and saw the question in her eyes. He took a deep breath, then strode to the open attic window and flung the button out into the yard. He turned around, half expecting Amanda to be angry.

She was smiling. "Does this mean you think I might be tempted to leave? Not a chance, Jesse Jordan. You're stuck with me forever."

He grinned. "I can think of worse fates."

Then she was in his arms, and as he bent his head to kiss her, he had the thought that he had to be the luckiest man who had ever lived in any century.