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.
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.