Rain mixed with tears as I fled through the forest

Half-blinded, I failed to see the horse and rider that stepped out of the trees and directly into my path. When I finally registered man and beast, my shrill cry of fear unsettled the horse.

I had one glimpse of a superb rider controlling the magnificent animal before I had to throw myself off the trail and out of the horse’s path. In that one brief glance I saw a man with his face completely hidden by a hat.

I noticed no more before I landed facedown in a leafy azalea. Before I could move from the clutches of the shrub, I felt the cold bite of steel against the back of my neck.

A masculine voice behind me gave me a blood-chilling warning.

“Make another move and you’ll die.”

On a trip to Vicksburg, Mississippi, with writer/history buff Pat Sellers, Caroline Burnes toured several “haunted” plantations and the historic battlefields. That trip, combined with the incredible letter written by a Union soldier to his wife and read during the PBS series on the Civil War, sparked the idea for Flesh and Blood. Caroline believes that the past is alive, and never far behind us.

Flesh and Blood
Caroline Burnes

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For my parents, Roy and Hilda Haines,

and Marjorie Manvel. They live in my heart.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Epilogue

Prologue

The brass bell jangled merrily as Frank Devlin pushed open the heavy glass door at Mason’s Liquor Store and gave a good-natured grin to the store owner, short and plump Robert Mason, who stood behind the counter. Frank’s long strides took him unerringly to the cooler at the rear of the store, where he searched through the cold bottles of champagne and wines, until he found the one bottle he sought and pulled it out.

“Thanks for chilling this for me, Robert. This is Emma’s absolute favorite.”

“Special occasion, eh?” Robert already knew. For the past five years on this date he’d gone through the same routine with Frank. The special champagne, the ritual of having it chilled and ready so that when Frank got home he could pop the cork without delay. The Devlins were two of his favorite customers. They were so much in love, even after five years of marriage.

“Emma claims that you call me up and remind me to do this,” Frank said. He stopped near the selection of red wines. “She says you’re a handsome rascal. She’s also implied that I grew my mustache because she thinks yours is sexy.”

“If Emma Devlin was my wife, I’d give her champagne for breakfast everyday,” Robert answered. “She’s a knockout, and you’re a lucky man.”

“You’re not telling me anything I don’t know.”

The brass bell over the door jangled again. Frank selected a bottle of wine for the special dinner he knew his wife was cooking and turned back toward the cash register with a grin that quickly faded from his face. The wine bottle he held aloft was lowered to his side.

“Hit the floor, mister.” The young man in a black leather jacket pointed a blue-black pistol directly at Frank Devlin’s heart.

“Okay.” Frank lowered his lanky frame to the liquor store floor. He had seen the look of terror on Robert’s face. It was echoed on those of the two other customers caught innocently in what was surely an armed robbery. There were two robbers, both with guns and both wearing dark ski masks pulled over their faces. The second gunman was smaller, in a blue windbreaker.

“Take the money. Just don’t hurt anyone,” Robert Mason said from his prone position. “Take anything you want. Then get out. We don’t want any trouble here.”

“Shut up!” The leather-jacketed robber kicked Robert in the face as he lay on the floor. “When I need your permission, I’ll ask for it.”

The second robber, busy at the cash drawer, laughed. “That’s right, you tell ‘em, Diamond. We don’t need nobody’s permission!”

Frank could feel the grit of the floor against his cheek. He had no weapon. There was nothing he could do except wait for the robbers to take the money and leave. They were both young, and they both sounded unstable. Hopped up on some type of drugs more than likely. The best thing to do was to remain calm. If no one provoked them, they would probably take the money and some liquor and leave. Several stores in the downtown Jackson area had been hit by armed robbers lately. The Mississippi capital had never been a hotbed of crime, but the economic downturn and the high unemployment rate were taking a toll.

The young woman several feet away had begun to whimper in fear. Frank wanted to warn her to stay quiet. These robbers wouldn’t need much to push them to another act of cruelty. They would certainly feed off the young woman’s fear.

“Something wrong, bitch?” The robber called Diamond walked up to the woman’s side. He nudged her in the ribs with the toe of his shoe. “You got a complaint?”

“No,” she managed to gasp. “No problem.”

“That’s good. ’Cause if you had a problem, I’m afraid I’d have to solve it for you.”

There was the sound of a gun cocking.

“You wouldn’t like my solution!” The robber laughed, a high-pitched sound that mixed with his companion’s deeper laugh and the soft sobbing of the woman.

Frank concentrated on their voices. If he ever heard them again, he’d know them. Diamond was obviously a nickname of some type. He carried an antique revolver. Frank looked at their shoes, searching for details that might prove useful when the police arrived. They were running shoes. Expensive. Brand new. He didn’t have to ask where a couple of punks found the money to buy two-hundred-dollar running shoes. They did some running, but not for fitness reasons.

“Hey, this little mama’s sort of pretty.” The robber was still standing over the crying woman. He reached down and pulled her from the floor. She cried aloud with fear. “We got time for a little fun, cousin?”

The robber in the blue windbreaker had sacked up the money. He came out from behind the counter and stood on the other side of the crying woman. “Make it quick, before anyone else stumbles in here.”

Diamond grabbed the woman by her hair. She hid her face in her hands and sobbed.

“Put her down.” Frank rolled onto his side where he could look at the two men. He’d tolerated all he could. They’d gone beyond their original goal of robbery. If he didn’t stop them now, they might kill everyone in the store. “Get the money and go. You don’t want any trouble here.”

“That’s right, and we don’t intend to have any.” Diamond tugged the woman’s hair until she cried out.

“You think you’re gonna stop us?” The windbreakered robber ended his question on a sneer.

Frank held his position on the floor. He didn’t want to challenge them, but someone had to stand up to them. With a bit of luck, they’d decide it wasn’t worth the hassle. “Just take the money and go, before someone gets hurt.”

“You giving orders to us?” Diamond asked. He raised his gun in a fast, practiced motion. His grip on the woman’s hair loosened and she fell to the floor, too scared even to cry.

“You have what you came for. Be smart and go while you can.” To Frank’s relief, the gunmen started to back away, even though they both aimed their guns at him. The bottle of chilled champagne was still at his side, and Frank had a brief image of Emma. She’d be standing at the front window, looking out into the street and wondering why he was late. She wouldn’t be worried about him—not yet—and he’d never tell her of this episode. He’d convince Robert not to mention it to her, either.

The robbers were at the door. The one in the leather jacket paused. “You know, you talk too much.”

Before Frank Devlin could lift a hand in self-defense the bullet penetrated his brain. In a matter of seconds he was dead.

Chapter One

Grief is a peculiar emotion, as slippery as an eel. As deadly as a snake. It comes and goes in the dead of the night, or on the sunniest of days. It visits in the guise of memory, a dream or a too sudden thought of the future.

I know it well.

Before my decision to come to Ravenwood Plantation in Vicksburg, Mississippi, I thought I was beyond the anguish of first loss. There were times when the acuteness of missing Frank would take me unawares. I would suddenly miss him with an ache so deep that I had to stand and pace the floor.

Two years had passed since his murder, and I thought I had accepted his death. He was in a liquor store buying champagne for our fifth anniversary when he was killed in an armed robbery. A senseless act of violence. An act that changed my life forever.

I had adjusted to the grief, but I was completely unprepared for the guilt and desperation that came with Frank’s first “visit” to me—after his death.

In all of our marriage we had respected and trusted each other. When Frank’s ghost stood at the foot of my bed and accused me of betrayal, the terror was even greater than the pain. Not a fear of Frank, but a deep and gnawing concern that I had begun to lose my mind.

Self-doubt is almost as debilitating as guilt. Standing at the locked gate of the old plantation, I was filled with all sorts of loathsome anxieties. I was afraid, alone and confused. Once a proud and strong woman, I had been reduced to a superstitious creature willing to try anything to understand the nocturnal visits of a dead husband. Either I was going stark raving mad, or Frank’s ghost had something important to tell me. Before I gave in to my fears of the former, I was going to make one last-ditch effort to explore the latter. Ravenwood was the place where I might find the key to unlocking Frank’s words of accusation. I was a desperate woman.

I had come to find Mary Quinn, a young girl dead since 1863. But her love for a young man called Charles Weatherton was stronger than death, stronger than war. If my prayers were to be answered, her love would prove stronger even than a hundred years of time. It is said in Mississippi legends that Mary’s ghost returns to earth to intervene in misunderstandings between lovers who’ve been separated by an act of violence.

I haven’t taken on this mission lightly. I know that some people would call it macabre or morbid. Others would say that I am insane. I only know that I’m willing to try anything. Anything. To stop Frank’s accusations of betrayal. I can live with my grief at his death, but I cannot live with his condemnation, especially when I have no idea why he thinks I’ve betrayed him.

Before I’m written off as a crackpot, let me assure you that when I first heard of Mary Quinn’s ghost, I was a complete skeptic. Mary’s legend is well known in Mississippi, part of the lore of the Old South. I’d never put much stock in such stories. They’re rich in local color and emotion but often short on fact. But I was younger then, happily married, and immune to the type of tragedy that might make one consider looking to a spirit for help.

Life, and loss, have softened me. There are fewer blacks and whites and many more shades of gray. I suppose it could be said that now I want to believe. I need to believe in something, or someone.

My friends accuse me of still being in love with Frank. That, I suppose, is the brush with which I’ll be tarred. I do still love him. Intensely. Ours was not a trivial love, not one easily dismissed by even the finality of death. Without being overly dramatic, I can say that I never expect to love anyone but Frank.

So why, then, has Frank begun to visit me in the dark hours of the night, pointing his finger and speaking of betrayal? Five years ago I would have laughed at the idea of a woman so desperate that she would consult a spirit. Today I find myself standing at the gates of Ravenwood Plantation.

Before I’m labeled a maladjusted hysteric, consider that I’ve done everything within reason to resolve my problem, including several trips to a highly acclaimed psychiatrist. He spoke to me of guilt and how it can manifest itself in dreams and visions. He has recommended “stringent rest,” a contradictory term that escapes normal comprehension, but when translated from the shadowy jargon of psychiatry means institutionalization.

In our family, blood is thicker than mental disorders. After an attempt at psychiatry, I went to my mother. She loves me more than life and waits patiently for the grandchildren I will never give her. She said that Frank’s “visits” are the subconscious twistings of my mind trying to tell me to let go, to accept his death, to remarry, to have those grandchildren she waits to spoil. To gain this end she has even enlisted the aid of Frank’s family to convince me to get on with my life. She means well, but she doesn’t understand. The Frank that stood at the foot of my bed and pointed his finger at me, dark eyes ablaze, was not shooing me into another man’s arms. Not by a long shot. His exact words, delivered in a voice of wrath, were, “The past is never dead. I have suffered at the hands of those I loved. I am betrayed.” I can’t forget those words. And I can’t twist them into some type of license to find a new life. I also don’t believe that I’m losing my mind. So ruling out the extremes of psychiatry and motherhood, I’m left with few choices.

Now that reasonable steps have failed me, I’m taking the unreasonable. I have the key to Ravenwood—and two weeks to live in the old plantation without interruption. The house is generally open to the public for tours and is very popular, due to the legend of Mary’s ghost. But each year, for two weeks in April, Ravenwood is closed in honor of the anniversary of Mary’s death. These two weeks are mine. I must make contact with Mary, and she must help me to communicate with Frank.

I’m guilty of nothing, and I can’t go on with Frank accusing me. Whatever he feels I’ve done wrong, I must explain to him so that he can rest in peace and I can continue with my life.

In a manner of speaking, Mary is my last hope. My last “sane” hope.

THE KEY TO Ravenwood’s gates weighed heavy in my hand once I got out of my car and approached the wrought-iron fence. It was a work of art, iron twisted in curlicues that look as delicate as lace. With a grumble of protest, the gate opened. The driveway curved ahead of me, lost in a thicket of dark cedars and pristine dogwoods, a striking contrast of light and dark. Once my van was inside the fence, I got out and re-locked the gate behind me. There would be no need to leave the grounds. No one who could be stopped by a lock would be visiting me.

The scent of the paper-whites was as sweet as I remembered from childhood.

Ravenwood Plantation. I’d done my homework. The house was very old, dating back to the late 1700s when one wing of it was built by the original owner, Jeremiah Quinn. As the family prospered, the house grew. But the three-story structure has never been as awe inspiring as the grounds. From formal garden to acre upon acre of cotton and section upon section of woods, Ravenwood is one of the last remaining plantations.

The mini van I’d rented and stocked with two weeks worth of provisions cruised quietly down the winding drive. In the next few weeks as April’s sun kissed Mississippi hello, the grounds would shift from the frills of spring to the vibrant colors of summer.

My family is “old Jackson,” and I have several brothers who are in the legal profession. It was my older brother, Shane, who arranged for me to stay at Ravenwood. How he managed it, I didn’t ask. It was one of those friends of a friend of a friend things, and I know Mama had a lot to do with it. She probably told Shane I was going off the deep end with nightmares and visitations. Anyway, Shane stepped in and took care of all the details down to the fact that I would not be disturbed by anyone for two entire weeks. I had to suffer his amused comments about my “new hobby of ghost hunting,” but I got the key.

I drove around to the back of the main house. My quarters were to be in the newest portion, an apartment built above the old kitchen back in the 1930s. This was the only part of the house with electricity. Determined to settle in as quickly as possible, I hauled the ten sacks of groceries into the kitchen and my three pieces of luggage up the stairs to the bedroom.

From the moment I opened the door to the bedroom, I was enchanted. Three walls of the room were windows from waist level up. The fourth wall held the door to the bathroom and a fireplace. The bedroom was enormous. A cozy sitting area was structured around the fireplace and the bed, draped with coral mosquito netting and set up on a dais, occupied one sunny corner. If I remembered my history correctly, this room had been created according to the express wishes of Corrine Quinn, the last of the Quinn family to inhabit Ravenwood. A distant relation of Mary, Corrine had never married and had devoted her life to restoring and maintaining Ravenwood. It was her decision to open the house to public tours, and she laboriously documented the furnishings and repairs made to the original structure. Ravenwood had one of the most complete histories of any home in the state.

Although she was a spinster, there had been rumors that Corrine was not a saint. The house was her life, but she found spare time for pleasures and happy pursuits. She was reputed to have been a great beauty, and the only surviving photograph of her showed a slender woman with eyes that held the promise of mischief. She’d died at a young age in a riding accident. But her wishes had been followed in keeping Ravenwood open to the public—and closed on the anniversary of Mary’s death. Corrine had been bold enough to give an interview to the local newspaper saying that Mary deserved a couple of weeks alone in her own home.

The chifforobe was empty, so I made myself at home, unpacking my bags and arranging my belongings in the room I would occupy for the next two weeks. I was anxious to race past the gardens and down the riverside trail that led to the old oak tree where Mary’s ghost was said to visit frequently. Something held me back, though, some sense of propriety, as if I had to give Mary time to adjust to me, to sense that my intentions were sincere and that I honestly needed her help. I wanted to spend a few hours settling in to her home, learning a bit about her from the furnishings that had once made up her daily life.

So instead of rushing about the grounds, I made my way through the entire house, room by room.

The dimensions of the house dwarfed me. I’m average height, about five-six. During the days of the Civil War, I would have been a giantess of a woman. Miss Scarlett boasted of a seventeen-inch waist—and she was probably only four feet, eleven inches tall. The high ceilings of the plantation houses were designed for coolness, not the size of the inhabitants.

The staff at Ravenwood had done an impressive job. The bedrooms were filled with personal items from brushes to pantaloons in keeping with the period. I had to laugh aloud at the beds; they would have been barely long enough to contain my legs. In one bedroom a corset was laid out. No wonder Southern women swooned.

What price vanity! Or should I rephrase that to say, what price society does extract. Well, it would take more than a maid to wrestle one of those things on me. I’m afraid I would have failed miserably in the role of mistress of the plantation. Ha! Frank always said that my tongue would run an honest man away. I suppose that’s another area of womanliness that I would have flunked. I do have an inclination to speak my mind.

I wandered the rooms of Ravenwood, wondering if Mary Quinn’s ghost watched me. I’ve never been afraid of ghosts or haunted houses. I’ve never spent much time thinking about either. With my footsteps echoing on the beautiful oak floors, I hoped that such things did exist. How else, sanely, to explain Frank’s reappearance?

Before I could imagine, the afternoon was gone. I had a feel for Ravenwood. For all of its magnitude, it had been someone’s home. It had been loved and cherished. I was comfortable as I sat on the front porch in an old rocker and greeted the dusk. It occurred to me that for the first time in two years, I had not written a word. Not a day had gone by since Frank’s death that I hadn’t been able to pen some pithy remark or hone some sentiment that would fit perfectly inside a Hallelujah Hijinx card. The line specializes in sharp humor, and I had prided myself that I’d never lost a day’s work over Frank. I had some peculiar idea that he would have approved of my refusal to buckle under to grief. But today, I also knew that he would understand. Maybe it was time to take a breather. Maybe it was finally time to sit on the front porch and rock until dark had settled around me like a soft blanket.

When I picked up the flashlight I’d had the foresight to bring with me, I left the porch with reluctance. I had dinner to make and a fat, juicy novel to take to bed. There was also the little matter of the fireplace. Someone had laid it with seasoned oak. All it required was a match, and I’d brought a big box of kitchen matches for such a necessity.

After a light meal, I found myself curled before the warmth of the fire, my book opened but unread upon my lap. The sense of loss that struck was acute. I stood, the book dropping unattended to the floor. Why couldn’t Frank be here with me to share this room, this fire, this soft spring night with just enough chill to make the fire welcome? Why, of all the people in the world, was it Frank who’d been killed?

As a million others who’ve lost loved ones, I went to bed that night with my questions unanswered.

The next day dawned brisk and beautiful. Pale pink light suffused the room, creeping in through the wall of eastern windows and ricocheting off the delicate webbing of the mosquito netting that I’d been unable to resist draping around my bed. It was like a fantasy to wake up swathed in that glorious coral bed. I was thankful that whoever had furnished the room had been of more modern size. The bed was more than adequate, with plenty of room to wallow and indulge. But this wasn’t a morning for such activities. I intended to get up and scout the grounds for the old trysting oak of Mary Quinn and Charles Weatherton. I had the peculiar sense that during the night Mary had stood over me, weighing my cause. I would meet her this day. I knew it in my bones.

My hair is dark brown and straight, just below my shoulders, and I’ve taken to pulling it back in a barrette or ribbon at the nape of my neck. My mother says I’m not young enough or old enough to support this style and that it’s simply a tactic to look austere and spinsterish. Most days I stay in the house and write, and since the grocery man or the postman haven’t complained about my “do,” I’ve been able to ignore Mother. I donned a pair of jeans and a cotton sweater, tied a ribbon in my hair and set out with a piece of toast in one hand and a cup of black coffee in the other. Perhaps I’d breakfast with Mary Quinn.

Walking through the gardens, I recalled the legend. There are a few variations on it, but only in specific detail. The content is the same no matter what version I’d heard or read.

In the spring of 1861 Mary Quinn was a seventeen-year-old girl, or woman in those days. Corrine, her descendant, favored her greatly in looks and attitude. Curly red hair, pale skin and green eyes. The ferrotypes of Mary reveal a lovely young girl with a square jaw and a humorous twinkle in her eyes. It was March, and Mary was attending a church social on the grounds of the Presbyterian Church in Vicksburg when she was introduced to young Charles Weatherton. Four years her senior, Charles had been to Europe and was reputed to be quite a charmer. He had completed his education and was heir to the Weatherton fortune, a firm that had grown up around the development of the railroad in the South.

While most of the eligible Vicksburg ladies had fallen victim to Charles’s gray eyes and olive complexion, Mary was immune. She told him archly that as an only child, she had been well vaccinated with skepticism by her father when it came to male charm.

Charles was smitten. By the end of March, he had proposed to her at least fifteen times—and been declined. His sixteenth plea met with success, for as saucy as Mary’s tongue could be, her heart was tender and she’d fallen in love with Charles.

Mississippi had already seceded from the Union, and Charles had joined the Confederate army. Mary had jokingly told her friends it was the combination of Charles’s gray eyes and the gray of his cavalry officer’s uniform that had finally worn down her resistance. Whatever the source of the attraction, their love was so deep and intense that no one who saw them together could help but feel the tender brush of their love. Even the most cynical of anti-romantics melted at the emotion that flowed between the two.

The proposal was approved by both families, and a wedding was hastily arranged. Charles was due to report to Richmond for his orders, and Mary wanted her wedding before he left. The entire town rallied to the cause and began the preparations for the April 14 wedding. But fate stepped in, and on April 3, Charles received orders to report to Richmond immediately. There was dire need for his services. Torn between his duty to his country and his fiancée, Charles hesitated. It was Mary who tied his golden sash of rank and walked him to his horse. He could not love her if he neglected his duty to his country, she’d said. She would wait for him. She would wait until eternity.

The quick war that everyone in the South had anticipated was an illusion. Though one Southerner might be able to lick ten Yankees, the Yankees were better trained and better provisioned. And there were so many more of them. The year passed, and then another. It was 1863 and the South was struggling for survival.

Mary received many letters from Charles. She would take them unopened to the oak tree where they had often sat holding each other in a tight embrace and planning their future after the war. When she read them, she could feel Charles beside her.

It was in February of 1863 that Mary received word of Charles’s death. He had led a charge in a remote area of North Carolina and been shot down. He did not suffer. His death was instant. Mary’s reaction to the news was completely unexpected. She said she’d known for three days that he was dead.

Instead of the terrible grief her family expected, Mary went on about her life as if she still believed that Charles would return after the war. She did not speak of the future, but she did not grieve, either. She continued to go to the oak tree where they’d had their trysts, and each time she returned, she seemed calmer, happier.

When Vicksburg came under attack, Mary’s father, Canna, ordered her to remain in the gardens and not to venture along the riverbank to the oak tree. Union soldiers were straggling about the grounds of Ravenwood, and even desperate Confederates were dangerous. For the first time in her life, Mary disobeyed. No matter what her father said, she refused to give up her daily visits to the oak. Canna ordered a servant to restrain Mary. With all the agility of her quick mind and body, Mary was able to elude her keepers. At last, Canna ordered her locked in her room. Not even a lock on her door could prevent her from slipping away to the tree.

One clear spring day Canna followed his daughter. To his horror, he found her acting out the role of lover to empty air. She spoke as if Charles answered her, carrying on an animated conversation and even mimicking the act of hugging and kissing her nonexistent fiancé. The Yankees could not defeat Canna Quinn, but the sight of his daughter, his only child and heir, in such a condition, devastated him. He ordered Mary to be restrained in her bed.

Within three days’ time she was dead. Once she could not go to the oak tree, she simply gave up the will to live. She had told everyone not to mourn her, that she was simply going to meet Charles and that he waited for her, as she’d promised to wait for him. She’d closed her eyes and died without a struggle. She was not quite nineteen years old. Her date of death was April 14, the second anniversary of the scheduled date of the wedding.

Out of compassion for other lovers separated by death, Mary’s ghost is said to intervene in misunderstandings. She is said to be a messenger between the living and the dead. But only a pure love can attract her help.

There is certainly some misunderstanding between Frank and myself. I do not have the purity of Mary’s love, I know that. It was impossible for me to simply will myself to stop living, though I did think about my own death in the first months after Frank’s murder. Walking through the rose garden and past the fountain, I gave that idea some thought. Perhaps there is another kind of strength that allows one to survive a tremendous loss and continue to live. I’ve often thought that I’d rather be dead and allow Frank to live. But that in itself is cowardly.

Even through the worst of my grief, I never doubted that Frank knew how much I loved him. Not until lately. In the past month he has appeared to me three times. I wake up from a troubled sleep, and he is standing at the foot of my bed. He points his finger at me and makes his accusation of betrayal. I want to reach out and touch his hand, to feel his thick, black hair beneath my fingers. To pull him to me and tell him that I haven’t betrayed him in thought or deed. But he makes his accusation and he fades. It is unbearable, and if I don’t find the reason for his visits, I truly will become insane.

By the time I had mulled through the entire legend yet again, I found that I had arrived at the old oak. It was a live oak, an enormous presence that exuded a peace that invited me to sit beneath its branches on an old root. I settled in, wondering if Mary and Charles had shared this same natural seat. I felt as if they had. Setting my empty coffee cup beside me, I leaned back into the trunk of the tree and prepared to wait. I wasn’t certain what to do to attract the notice of a ghost. Were there chants or songs or whistles that might help? I didn’t know.

Lacking any specific behavior, I decided to wait quietly. The sun was warm and relaxing, and I leaned into the tree and closed my eyes. Fragments of dreams danced behind my eyelids. There were parties in Ravenwood, laughter, the crinkle of dresses, the clink of crystal. Charles and Mary danced before me, their love a palpable presence so that all other dancers stopped to watch them. I think I must have laughed out loud with pleasure at the sight of them. They held nothing back from each other. To stand beside them was to bask in the overflow of their love.

I awoke with a start. To my dismay, dusk was settling around me once again. I’d slept the entire day away. I gathered up the coffee cup and hurried back toward the house. It was a long walk and darkness was falling. Since I’d set out so early, I hadn’t even considered needing a flashlight, and the grounds were without any lighting. Unfamiliar with the landscape, I had to hurry or risk getting lost.

Mixed with the sense of having squandered a valuable day was a secondary feeling of bitter disappointment. I had been so certain I would find Mary at the tree. Had I slept through our meeting? I thought not. It was more likely that she simply had not come. That she would not come.

Tears are a rare thing for me, but as I hurried along the path back to Ravenwood, I felt them building. I knew it was a combination of disappointment, disorientation and desperation. The dreams of Mary and Charles were still with me, highlighting my own loss. It had been foolish desperation that had brought me to Ravenwood in quest of a ghost. Maybe Dr. Stoler was right. Maybe I’d never accepted Frank’s death.

Rain that I hadn’t even noticed blowing in began to fall softly. It mixed with the tears on my face as I hurried along the unfamiliar path. My cotton sweater was soon clinging to me. Half blinded, I failed to see the horse and rider step out of the trees and directly into my path. When I finally registered man and beast, my shrill cry of fear unsettled the horse and he danced forward.

I had one glimpse of a superb rider controlling the magnificent animal before I had to throw myself off the trail and out of the horse’s path. In that one brief glance I saw a man with his face completely hidden by a hat. I had time to notice no more before I landed facedown in a leafy azalea. Before I could move from the clutches of the shrub, I felt the cold bite of steel against the back of my neck. My face was pinned into the azalea.

“What are you—?” I began indignantly.

“Make another move and you’ll die.”

Chapter Two

The pressure of the knife or whatever blade he held against my neck made me give up any ideas of resistance. Roughly he pulled me out of the shrub. When his hand grasped my breast, he stopped suddenly.

“You’re a woman!” He spun me around to face him.

The light had completely faded from the day. The gray mist of rain and gathering darkness concealed most of his features, but I could see that he was dressed in the uniform of a Confederate officer. The weapon he’d used to pin me to the ground was his sword. For a second I was so taken aback, I couldn’t think of anything to say.

Once I found my tongue, I had no lack of questions. “What are you doing at Ravenwood? Who are you? Where did you come from? Why are you dressed in those clothes?”

He didn’t answer, but a slight grin played across his face. “And I could ask you the same,” he said in a drawl.

The hand that had pawed me suddenly lifted me by the elbow with a gentle support. “The lighting was poor. There are stragglers from both armies on these grounds, and I’ve developed a fondness for the residents of Ravenwood. Whenever I have some spare time, I ride through here to patrol.”

I had been frightened before, but it was nothing compared to what I experienced now. “Wha-what armies?” His dress. His speech. It was as if I’d stepped into a nightmare.

“What armies?” He laughed. “The Confederate and the enemy, of course. What did you think, the Trojans and the Greeks?”

“Oh, Lord.” The words escaped me on a sigh. I was too afraid to scream. It occurred to me that the man and horse standing before me were figments of my deteriorating imagination. If I could conjure up Frank, why not a Confederate soldier and horse? I decided to play for time and test him. “What year is this?”

“Eighteen sixty-three. April. Have you lost your senses tumbling around in the bushes?”

His hand was still beneath my elbow, and for good reason. My knees threatened to give. In an instant he had his hands about my waist, offering support. “You’re rather tall for a woman and strangely dressed. I thought you were a boy.”

“I don’t feel very well,” I answered as I stumbled forward. Thank goodness he was on the tall side, for a man, or I might have crushed him on the spot. In a moment I had my spine re-engaged and I stood on my own. I had gone to sleep in 1993 and awakened…in the midst of the Civil War? It was not possible. It was…insane. But the man beside me was flesh and blood. A very solid man with firm muscle. The horse smelled of horse. Even the delicate scent of the paper-whites was all around me. If this was a dream, or a nightmare, it was Technicolor. But after all, hadn’t I come to Ravenwood in search of a ghost?

For the first time I noticed the silence. The night was hushed, as if it waited for a burst of fire or a volley of cannon. “Where is the Union army? Why aren’t they shooting?”

“Several battalions have dug in at the low ground not two miles from here. We’re expecting reinforcements any day.”

He spoke with such matter-of-factness, and absolutely no fear. I didn’t completely accept what might have happened to me, but I felt a sudden rush of pity for this man. He had no concept of the future, of the futility of the battle about to be fought. How could I tell him that those reinforcements would never come? That the siege of Vicksburg was one of the most torturous events of a long and bloody war. That his army, his men, were doomed to starvation and death, along with many of the residents of the town. I was overwhelmed with what I knew and could not tell.

“You’re looking ill. Let me walk you back to Ravenwood. I’m sure that we can find something to bolster your spirits.”

I hesitated. What would I find at the plantation? Would Canna Quinn be mourning the death of his daughter, Mary? What would he make of my sudden and unexpected appearance? What had happened to the mini van I’d rented? How could I wake myself from this nightmare?

“My name is Nathan Cates, lieutenant colonel in the Seventh Confederate Cavalry.”

How should I respond? I decided on a simple name. “Emma Devlin.”

He hesitated, as if he waited for more. “Are you a relative of the Quinns?”

“No. A guest.”

Nathan captured the reins of his horse and we started back to the house. Several minutes passed in silence. I sensed that the man beside me struggled to say something. I was completely disoriented and unable to decide what I believed. Silence was my only choice.

“Miss Devlin, I’ve taken a vow this summer, and I’m about to break it. I think this has gone far enough.”

He’d lost me completely, but it sounded sinister. “What vow? What are you talking about?”

“I took this…job, and it’s a matter of honor with me to fulfill my obligations. But I can see that I’m distressing you, so I think I’d better tell you the truth.”

With his words, it was as if lightning had zapped behind my eyes. The costume! The strange cadence of his speech! The courtliness of his manner! “You’re part of the Civil War reenactment, aren’t you? You’re paid to act out the role of cavalry colonel and it’s against your contract to break character.” I’d read all about it. With the first flush of excitement also came a bitter aftertaste of disappointment. I had wanted to meet a ghost. I’d been more than ready to believe it. As unreasonable as it was, I also felt anger.

“What are you doing on the grounds?” I asked.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said.

“These are private grounds. I think you should take your horse and leave.”

“Miss Devlin, please allow me to walk you back to the house. The grounds are supposed to be private, but they aren’t secure. I am sorry that I’ve upset you. You see, I didn’t expect to find anyone here, either.”

He sounded genuinely contrite, and a bit of my anger passed. “You frightened me, but only a little. I didn’t know if I’d woken up in the Twilight Zone or if I was in the company of some raving lunatic who was living in the past.” I wasn’t about to confess that I’d hoped he was a ghost.

“By your accent, I’d say you’re from the South. Surely you know about the Vicksburg reenactment. It’s part of the history of the town. It’s one of the biggest tourist attractions. And reenactors are required to stay in character.”

“I had my mind on other things.” The understatement of the year. “That business with the sword at my throat, though, was pretty convincing.”

He laughed out loud, an easy, slow chuckle. “Maybe I should ask for a pay raise if I’m such a great actor. Or maybe, Emma Devlin, you’re ready to believe in something different in your life.”

The humor of the situation struck me hard. I smiled, and that was quickly followed by a chuckle. The man had truly unsettled me. He had every right to believe I was a half-wit. All it had taken was a uniform and a half dozen comments, and I’d been ready to believe I was talking with a Confederate soldier.

“I am sorry,” he said. “I brought Frisco over for a gallop around the grounds. He doesn’t get a lot of exercise during the day I’m afraid, and the gardens around the plantation are incredibly beautiful.”

“They are indeed.” He was waiting for my explanation. “I’m staying in the house while it’s closed. I’m…researching a project.”

“Then you’re a writer?”

His eager questions made me feel guilty of some deception. “In a way. I write for a card company, but I’m at Ravenwood on personal business.” That was as much as I would give him.

“I’ll see you back to the house and then be off.”

He seemed to sense my desire for privacy, and I walked silently beside him. Frisco followed behind like an obedient puppy. I’d learned to ride as a child at my Aunt Charlotte’s, and I liked the looks of the big chestnut gelding. The night sounds of Ravenwood closed gently around us. The chirr of crickets was a comforting noise, reminding me again of happy childhood moments.

But the silence between us had stretched too long. “How long will you be working with the reenactment?”

“On and off through the summer, I suppose. I have a teaching arrangement at Mississippi College. Then…”

I felt him shrug beside me, and without being able to see, I knew that he was smiling. He was confident of his future, whatever it might prove to be.

“You’re from the South, aren’t you?” My curiosity was piqued.

“I’ve never been able to completely curb my accent.”

“And I should hope you wouldn’t try. Why would you want to sound as if you came from Illinois or Idaho?”

“A good question,” he said, “and one for which I don’t have an answer. Are you staying at Ravenwood alone? I ask because I’ll stop and check on you if you’d like.”

There was no pushiness in his question, only concern. Walking through the dark with him and the horse, I felt an unaccustomed peace. “I’d like that. I am alone.”

“Ravenwood is a big house. Don’t let the little idiosyncrasies unsettle you.”

“I’m not easily unsettled.” Through the heavy green of magnolia and oak leaves I could see the night-light that had been put up near the apartment door.

“An independent woman. I like that.”

“And I’d like to point out that you are a gentleman, and I like that.”

We laughed together as we walked to the kitchen door and I drew the key from the pocket of my pants. “Thanks for seeing me home, Nathan Cates.”

“My pleasure, Miss Devlin. And I’ll be by to check on you during the next two weeks. If you hear a horse galloping about the property, you can bet it’s me and Frisco.”

“Did you rent him at a local stables? I thought I might like to ride while I’m here.”

“No, Frisco isn’t a rental, but I think I might be able to scare up a mount for you.”

“No Union horses.” I couldn’t resist a bit of teasing.

“Any horse I bring for you to ride will neigh with a drawl,” he said as he swung up into the saddle.

The light from the window caught him fully, and for the first time I realized what an attractive man he was. His legs were long and well-muscled, defined by the boots he wore. Wide shoulders supported a strong neck. His face was handsome in a rugged way, and there was a hint of sadness in his eyes. That disappeared when he smiled down at me.

“Not to alarm you, Miss Devlin, but be on the lookout for ghosts. There’s a rumor that Ravenwood is haunted.”

“What a charming idea, Mr. Cates, a haunted plantation house.”

“Most ghosts are harmless, Emma Devlin. Many of them are simply too sad to rest. But there are some that mean you harm.”

His words struck me like a cold blade along my spine. He was playing with me in a light, bantering way, and he had no idea how close to my heart he’d hit.

“I’ll be careful only to consort with the good-natured ones,” I answered, and unlocked my door. “Good night, Mr. Cates.”

Before I locked the door I watched the night swallow up horse and rider. I’d spent the day dreaming about Mary Quinn and met a strange history teacher who doubled as an actor. For a woman who’d done nothing all day, I was exhausted—and starved. Too hungry to wait for something to cook, I made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and took it up the stairs to the bedroom. I was suffering from an odd aftershock of meeting Nathan Cates. I was bone weary and yet I felt as if a tiny electrical pulse was running through me.

Thinking back through the meeting, I was surprised to recall that once I spoke with him, I had absolutely no fear of him. I’d never been a person who made instant friends. My mother, who has a list of complaints a mile long about me, said it was because I was sarcastic and smart-mouthed. Before people got a chance to like me, I drove them away, she said.

Frank had defended me by saying that I weeded out the wimps. At the memory of those lively debates, I couldn’t help but smile. The smile faded as I thought about my reasons for being at Ravenwood. I’d spent a dreamless night my first night here. Would I see Frank tonight?

I finished the last bite of my sandwich and took the plate back downstairs. I made sure the doors and windows were locked before I abandoned the kitchen for the bedroom and a hot bath. A tiny rule I’d made for myself was that I would not think of Frank before I went to bed. If it was my subconscious acting up, I didn’t want to invite a visit from the man I loved accusing me of betrayal. I picked up my book, spun the coral mosquito netting about my bed and settled down for the night.

About eleven, my eyes grew heavy and I gave up my book. Outside the open window, the night was alive with small creatures. With a smile I surrendered to childhood images and sleep.

The brush of the mosquito netting across my face woke me. Waking up in an unfamiliar place can be unsettling, and I forced myself to remain calm. A gust of April wind must have blown through the open window with enough force to billow the netting over the bed. It was a strange sensation, like waking up in the folds of an elaborate gown. There was a coral glow around the bed. I was pushing my way clear to the surface of material when I saw Frank.

Standing at the foot of the bed, he watched me closely.

“Frank.” I wanted to reach out to him, to hold his hand, to touch his face. But I could not. The chill of the grave held me back. No matter how much I didn’t want it to be true, Frank Devlin was dead. Though he stood before me, handsome in the pink and coral light of dawn that had begun to chase the darkness from the room, I knew he was no longer of my world.

“The past is never dead, Emma.”

“I know that, Frank. I miss you terribly.”

“I have suffered at the hands of those I loved.”

His words were so sad, so horrible. Tears threatened to choke me, but I fought them back. “Not me, Frank. Never me. I could not have loved you more. You know that. I still love you.”

“I am betrayed, Emma. Betrayed.” His right hand came up and his finger pointed directly at me. “Emma…”

As in the past three times, he faded away. In a few seconds, the room was empty except for me.

“Frank.” I spoke his name, expecting no answer. My tears were bitter, bitter. Frank’s ghost was gone, but the specter of insanity completely filled my mind. Was I mad? Maybe the smartest thing to do would be to commit myself to an institution. Each time Frank visited, the pain was more unbearable. Each time his accusations were the same, and my ability to understand them no better.

Hugging my pillow, I cried until I had no more tears. Then I washed my face and went downstairs. I put on a pot of very strong coffee and thought about my options. I’d promised myself two weeks at Ravenwood. I would give myself that much time and no more. What I needed was a plan to find Mary Quinn. Walking to the oak hadn’t worked. Perhaps by sitting in Mary’s own room I might encourage contact with her. I had the coffee dripping when I ran back upstairs to change into a pair of stirrup pants and a long-sleeve blouse. God bless the creator of heavy knit. It didn’t wrinkle, held its shape and was as comfortable as a second skin. I crowded my mind with these trivialities, grasping desperately at the ordinary. Beneath everything I did, the question remained: was I losing my mind?

My fingers were working the last button when I heard the knock on the door. No one had a key to the gates, and I couldn’t imagine who might be on the premises. I ran down the stairs and peeked through the curtains in the kitchen door.

Nathan Cates was standing on the doorstep with a bulging grocery bag. Frisco stood patiently tied to a tree beside a buckskin mare. My mind blanked at the sight. I didn’t know what to do. Nathan was dressed in his uniform, undoubtedly on the way to work at the reenactment. He’d taken me up on my request for a ride.

He knocked again, and I couldn’t hesitate any longer. I’d thank him and tell him I didn’t feel like riding. I didn’t feel like living, if the truth were known. I opened the door. “Nathan.”

“Good morning, Emma Devlin.” He brushed through the door and took the grocery bag to the kitchen table. “I wasn’t sure if you’d brought provisions, so I picked up a few things for you. Then I thought I couldn’t take you out for a morning ride without breakfast. I hear that Southern girls are given to fits of fainting, and I suspect it might be because they don’t start the day with a healthy meal. So I brought some bacon, eggs, grits and the makings of biscuits.”

“Biscuits?” I was overwhelmed. In the morning light his eyes were sky blue against the gray of his uniform. The mustache I’d seen hints of the night before was full and blond, and there was a curved scar on his right cheek.

“Don’t you like biscuits?” he asked.

“I like biscuits from the breakfast buffet at a number of places. But I don’t make them.” I didn’t feel like company. I couldn’t eat if my life depended on it. Yet there was something about Nathan that soothed me. I needed to be alone, to think. But I didn’t want him to go.

“I make excellent biscuits. My grandmother taught me.” With a quickness and skill I’d never seen in a man before, Nathan made breakfast. As he worked, he talked about Ravenwood and the peculiarities of the house. He knew much more about it than I did. His voice was deep, reliable. It seemed only a few minutes before he put a plate of bacon, eggs, grits and biscuits before me. He took a seat opposite.

Although I thought food would choke me, I ate with surprising appetite. Nathan kept up the conversation with cheerful ease. It wasn’t until he’d cleared the table and poured us both another cup of coffee that he stopped talking for a long moment.

“Would you like to tell me why you’ve been crying this morning?” he asked finally.

I did not want to tell him. I had no intention of doing so, but the words poured out. I told him everything. Every single detail of my madness. And he listened. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t question me. At some point, he reached across the table and picked up my hand. When I finished, he gave it a long squeeze.

“I know the first thing that’s crossed your mind is that you’re going insane. Well, you aren’t.”

For the first time that morning, I smiled. “How can you be so certain?”

“As a historian, I guess you could say that I believe in ghosts, or at least messages and inspirations from the spirit world. And having known you for all of two hours, at the maximum, I get the impression that you aren’t the least bit unhinged.”

I suppose it was his confidence—in himself and in me—that was so comforting. I needed a vote of confidence, even from a stranger. “Thanks, Nathan. Thanks for listening, and thanks for not treating me like a budding lunatic.”

“Since you came to Ravenwood to see Mary Quinn, have you seen her?”

I shook my head. “I was hoping today might be the day.”

For the first time worry crossed Nathan’s face. “It’s none of my business, you know.” He stood and paced the kitchen. “I probably shouldn’t say this at all.”

“Say what?”

“Emma, is it possible that your husband’s death wasn’t completely accidental?”

The idea shocked any response from me. Frank, deliberately murdered? “Absolutely not. Frank didn’t have any real enemies. He was a man of integrity, of honor. People respected him. They looked up to him.”

Nathan crossed the room and stood behind me, his hands on my shoulders in a gentling motion. “Easy, Emma, easy. I didn’t mean to imply that he was murdered because he was a bad man. Don’t you know that sometimes people are killed because they’re good? Especially men of integrity and honor. They can gum up the works for dishonest people.”

“Who would want Frank dead?”

He squeezed my tense shoulders and then released me. “I’m afraid that’s a question only you can answer. But the way I’m looking at this is that Frank feels wronged. He’s defied the odds and returned to tell you, the woman he trusts, that he’s been betrayed. If he isn’t accusing you…”

“Then he’s looking to me to help him.” A distinct chill touched my back and rolled down my entire body.

“If not to help him, then at least to understand.”

I was captured by the idea. I had not betrayed Frank. Not in any word or gesture during our marriage or since his death. Was it possible that he was seeking my help to find someone who had?

“What should I do?” I looked across the room to the sink where Nathan had begun to wash the dishes. He wiped his hands on a dish towel as he took my measure.

“It depends. Remember, this is just a theory.”

“It makes more sense than anything I’ve thought up. Unless, of course, I want to believe I’m going crazy.”

“Did you examine the police report of Frank’s death?”

I shook my head. “There didn’t seem to be a reason to. I mean, it was a robbery attempt and Frank tried to help a woman they were abusing. The robbers were crazy, and when Frank gave them trouble, they killed him.”

“It sounds logical, but it may not be. If there’s anything to my theory, then the police reports are the place to start. Did they identify the killers?”

“No.” I sighed. “I don’t even know that they tried all that hard. After the first few weeks, I didn’t push it. Frank was dead and there was nothing that would bring him back. Revenge, or justice, if that’s a better word, was my last thought. I guess I just wanted to survive.”

“Enough time has passed now, Emma. Maybe justice is necessary. For Frank.”

I looked up into the blue eyes of a man who was virtually a stranger. “I loved him so much. I still do.”

Nathan smiled. “I know. And I’ll bet Frank knows that, too.” Dropping the dish towel on the table, he took his seat opposite me again. “Promise me that you’ll heed this warning, Emma. If we’re on to something here, if there’s something to be found about Frank’s death, it could be very dangerous. If someone had good enough reason to kill your husband, they wouldn’t hesitate to kill you.”

Chapter Three

If Nathan’s unexpected theory gave me a rope to cling to in the free-fall of my life, then the morning ride we shared gave me the energy to pursue his idea. The buckskin mare, Lucinda, was as good and solid as any horse could be. My rusty horsemanship improved after a few miles, and when we returned to Ravenwood, I actually felt as if I wanted to live.

Nathan left on Frisco, with Lucinda following behind. Duty called, and his reenactment forces were awaiting his command. My own duties called me, and I took a cross-stitch hoop to Mary Quinn’s bedroom to see if she might honor me with a visit.

The cross-stitch was an attempt to learn patience, never a strong suit in my character. In one of her often-repeated lectures my mother warned that if I went to hell I’d harangue Satan to light the fires faster. There was some truth to what she said. After the first three minutes I’d pricked my finger twice. Blood had gotten on the pristine whiteness of the cloth and I was ready to pitch the entire thing out the window. So much for demurely conjuring up Mary Quinn. What I did accomplish was a lot of thinking. And I made a decision. Jackson was only an hour away, at the most. I’d drive over there and look at the police reports.

By one o’clock, I was standing at Sergeant Benjamin Vesley’s desk. Once again my brother the lawyer had pulled some strings for me. Sergeant Vesley hadn’t handled the original case, but he said he’d look up the reports for me and go over them. He talked about unsolved crimes and the shame of it and how the human race was going to hell. He was a man who would have made a wonderful grandfather, but constant exposure to the worst of human nature had made him tired and weary. He was not hopeful that the police report would yield anything.

He left me alone at his desk with the papers. I think he sensed the difficulty I was experiencing. I read the statements of the officers, the evidence of the fingerprints, the procedural reports. The words “died instantly” had once brought me some comfort. Now they were cold and meant only a permanent separation.

The statements of the two investigating officers were exactly as I’d expected. The woman Frank had tried to assist was incoherent. She didn’t see or remember anything except that the robbers were hurting her and a man had tried to help and they had killed him.

There were photos of the store that showed the outline of Frank’s body. The blood had not been removed. The eyewitness account of the other customer in the store was also filled with shock and horror and no specifics.

Robert Mason’s report was the longest. I saved it for last. I had been in the liquor store once since the shooting. I’d gone to show Robert I didn’t blame him. We had both stood there and cried like babies in front of several customers. Emotionally, it was too hard on us both, so I stopped going there.

Robert’s report was clear and detailed. He described the men. He heard the one in the leather jacket referred to as Diamond. I found a scratch pad on Sergeant Vesley’s desk and began to make notes. Diamond had dark hair pulled back at the nape of his neck in a ponytail. Though he wore a ski mask, his eyes were visible. They were an intense blue. The other robber was younger, with a smaller frame. Diamond had shot Frank. It was Robert’s feeling that they might have been under the influence of some type of drug.

After he covered the details of what was said and done, Robert made a special point about the gun. It was a .357 revolver. I had to read this part of the report twice because I didn’t fully understand. “No robber in his right mind comes in with a piece like that. It was an antique. These guys acted like professionals, but the killer had this cowboy six-shooter.”

Robert had been in the army and knew a lot about guns. He’d tried to get me to take shooting lessons and buy one for protection in the house. Since the information about the gun was the only thing I’d learned new, I wrote it all down verbatim. The ballistics report was beyond my comprehension, and I didn’t need to read the autopsy to determine the cause of death. I stacked up the reports and went to thank Sergeant Vesley. He was waiting for me with a cup of coffee and a kindly smile.

“It’s been two years,” he said. “Why now?”

“I don’t know.” I couldn’t tell him I was being haunted. “Maybe it’s the last step in putting it all behind me.”

“I hope so, Mrs. Devlin. I’d hate to see you turn into one of those people who avoid life by burying themselves in the details of death.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.”

Since I was downtown, I decided to stop by the liquor store and talk with Robert. The store had changed. Burglar bars had been installed over the windows and doors, and there was a buzzer system to announce the arrival of customers. Even through the bars and glass I could see that Robert had changed as much as I. Threads of gray ran through his hair. He was older, more cautious. He buzzed me in with a wary look.

“Emma!”

Before I knew what had happened, I was engulfed in a bear hug. “I’ve been thinking about you for the past month. I’d just wake up in the middle of the night with this uneasy feeling. Martha said I should call and check on you, but I didn’t want to resurrect any bad memories.”

“You wouldn’t have, Robert. I’ve been thinking about you, too. I wanted to talk to you.”

He went to the front door, locked it, flipped the sign to Closed and pulled the shade. “What can I do for you?” He signaled me into the storage room where he kept a small office complete with an extra chair.

“I just read the police report on Frank’s death. You were adamant about the type of gun the killer used.”

Robert’s dark gaze locked with mine. He twisted the right side of his mustache. “What are you up to, Emma?”

“There are things about Frank’s death that trouble me. I wanted to check them out, to draw my own conclusions. Then, maybe…”

“You can get on with your life.” He nodded. “There are things that trouble me, too.”

“What was it about the gun?”

“Wait a minute and I’ll show you.” He left the room and returned in a moment with a pistol. He snapped a piece from the handle and held it out. “This is a clip. Automatic. Shoots very fast. The night Frank was killed, the killer had a revolver. You know, the gun with a round cylinder that rotates to put the bullet in the chamber. Reloading with a revolver is much harder than with an automatic. In an automatic, the bullet is already in position and it moves up through spring action. Most criminals just carry pre-loaded clips. When one is empty, they pop it out and put in another clip.”

What he said made sense, to an extent. “Maybe that was the only gun he had.”

“I just don’t understand it. It was a really fine gun. A Smith & Wesson, blue steel, hand-carved grip. An antique. Killers like those punks wouldn’t carry a piece because of its aesthetic value or the history of it. He could have sold that piece and made enough to buy several automatics. Most times killers drop the piece anyway. They want something cheap.”

He had a point. “Was there anything else? What about the man with the gun? Did he have a diamond in his ear, or any type of jewelry that might tell why he was called Diamond?”

“He was wearing that mask. I couldn’t see anything.” Robert took a breath. “Emma, I’ve thought about it over and over again. I should have been able to stop it. I should have…”

I went to him and put my hands on his shoulders. “Stop it, Robert. There wasn’t anything that you or I could have done. Frank, either. I’ve thought about it, too. I wondered why he couldn’t let them take the woman, why he had to try to step in. And the answer is, that was the kind of man he was. Neither of us would have cared for him as much had he been any different.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Keep thinking this through.”

“What are you looking for, Emma? The police said they never got any kind of lead. I called them every day for almost a year.”

“I’m thinking that there may have been more here than just a simple robbery-murder. I don’t know how or why, but maybe those robbers were in this store on that night for a specific reason. You could help me by thinking along those lines.”

“You’re saying it was a setup, specifically to kill Frank?”

Robert’s eyes were wide with shock. It did sound preposterous. Robberies happened all the time. People got killed because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. That was easier to believe than deliberate murder.

“I’m not saying that it’s true. I’m just saying that I’m thinking about the possibilities.”

“Why, Emma? Why? Who would do such a thing?”

“I don’t have a clue. As I said, I’m just looking and thinking. Maybe you could talk to the other store owners in this neighborhood. See what kind of robberies they’ve had. See how many turned violent. That kind of thing. Frank was on the floor. He was defenseless. They could have knocked him unconscious or wounded him. They didn’t have to kill him.”

Robert nodded. “I’ll canvass the neighborhood. Want me to call you?”

“No, I’ll call you. I’m going to be hard to catch these next few days.”

“Emma, have you uncovered something?”

Robert’s hand on my shoulder was strong, supportive. “No. Nothing like that. It’s just a feeling.”

“I know what you mean. For the past few weeks, I’ve been thinking more and more about it.”

“I’ll be in touch, Robert.”

I pulled up the shade and flipped the sign to Open as I went out. Although I’d learned nothing, I felt a kernel of hope growing larger and larger. Robert was feeling something, too.

On the spur of the moment I decided to check out the woman who’d been in the liquor store that night. I had her address from her statement, and I thought Laree Emrick might have some new details to add.

The neighborhood was off Northside Drive, a good distance from downtown. I couldn’t help but wonder what she was doing in Robert’s store when she could have shopped in her own neighborhood. I knew I had no right to blame her for anything, yet my entire life might be different if she’d gone to another store that night. Might be different. If Frank was deliberately murdered, then Laree Emrick had not even really played a role in the sequence of events.

The house was freshly painted and the yard immaculate. I could hear dogs barking inside when I rang the bell. Laree Emrick was a petite woman with curly brown hair. She opened the door with a smile and an order for two cocker spaniels to quit barking.

“I’m Emma Devlin, Mrs. Emrick. You were in the liquor store the night my husband was killed.”

There was no way to soften the words. She blanched and stepped back, but she opened the door for me.

“I’ve always felt it was my fault,” she said slowly as she led the way to the living room. “If I hadn’t cried…I’ll bet you hate me, don’t you?”

“No. Not at all.” And I didn’t. I had thought at one time that I might, but it was ridiculous. She was as much a victim as Frank, or me. “Please don’t think that I’ve come here to start any kind of trouble. It’s just that I have to settle this in my own mind. I want to be sure that Frank’s death was…the worst kind of accident.”

“I don’t remember much.” She motioned me onto the sofa and she took a seat in a wing chair. “To be honest, I’ve tried very hard to forget it all.”

“Maybe we could both forget if we finally examine that night.”

“You sound like my husband.” She sighed and began to talk. Her story was much the same as the statement she’d given the police. She was downtown at an antique store and decided to buy a bottle of wine for dinner. It was happenstance that she went into Robert’s store. The men came in. She did as they said and they started to abuse her. Frank intervened and they killed him. She remembered none of the conversation, none of the details.

“Did it ever cross your mind that those men would have killed my husband no matter what he did?”

She looked up at me. “I don’t know.” She rubbed her hand across her forehead. “You know, there was another customer in the store. The robbers ignored him completely. Now that you mention it, maybe they did seem to watch your husband more.”

“Are you certain, Mrs. Emrick?” I felt a thrill of hope growing.

“I told my husband it was like a train racing downhill. There wasn’t any stopping it once the killers walked in the door.” She hesitated. “Yes, I’m certain. They paid more attention to your husband than anyone else, or anything. Even the money. You know, they never demanded more money. They just took what was in the cash register.”

“Thank you, Laree.” I took my leave. My visit had upset her, but I had another tiny straw of evidence. If it was not real evidence, then at least it was mortar to help build the wall of my new theory.

I thought about going to my home, but as soon as I had the idea I gave it up. I wanted to discuss my ideas with someone. I could have called my brothers or my mother, but it wasn’t them I wanted to see. My brothers would be skeptical, to say the least. Mom would hover and worry. She was already concerned about me, and I didn’t want her to know I was spending my time playing amateur detective. No one could have hated what happened to Frank more than my family. But they’d gone on. For them, it was over. And like most survivors of tragedy, they didn’t want to be dragged back to the abyss.

I took the interstate to Vicksburg. Nathan Cates was the man I wanted to talk to. He’d share my sense of accomplishment. I didn’t examine my feelings in this, I simply accepted them. It seemed that I’d done nothing but probe at myself for the past five weeks. Nathan Cates’s interest in my problems was a luxury I was simply going to enjoy.

Ravenwood seemed too empty when I drove through the gates. It was silly, but I was disappointed when I didn’t see Frisco tied to the camellia near the drive. I hadn’t invited Nathan to return, so I shouldn’t have expected him. I had a sudden inspiration and got back in the van and drove to the battlefield.

Instead of the activities I’d expected, the Vicksburg National Military Park was quiet. I had to remember that it was April, still a month before the siege of Vicksburg actually began. The height of reenactment fever would come in the later months, along with the tropical heat. There was a cluster of young soldiers near some roughly constructed shelters. They carried old rifles and pistols and wore their Johnny Reb caps at jaunty angles. At first glance, they might have stepped out of the pages of history. Of course I knew them for what they were, hired actors who played the role of Confederate soldiers to entertain tourists.

“How are you boys today?” I asked.

“Just fine, ma’am,” one of them answered in a long drawl. “The Yanks are giving us a little peace and quiet for a change. We’re hoping our replacements will be in soon.” He looked at me and grinned. “I haven’t been home in over a year. My wife’s gonna forget what I look like.”

He looked hardly old enough to be out of school, and I smiled back at him. He was a wonderful actor. “I’m looking for a Lt. Col. Nathan Cates, of the Seventh Cavalry. Where might he be?”

The boy took off his hat and scratched his head. “No cavalry around here, that I know. That’ll come later in the summer when we reenact—” He blushed to the roots of his hair at his slip.

Ignoring his faux pas, I continued. “I met Colonel Cates yesterday. I’m sure he was in this area. May I look around?”

“Just watch out for stray bullets,” he said, recovered. “Hate to see a pretty woman like you get wounded.”

“I’ll use great care,” I assured him as I headed back for my van.

A paved road, a favorite of bicyclers and joggers, curves around the park and provides challenging hills and some of the most beautiful scenery in the Hill City. The scars of the Civil War have healed, at least the evidence of metal and fire that once devastated the earth. Green grass covers the hillsides where thousands of men died. The remaining weapons of war have been silenced and are now polished and painted for display.

The entire park is filled with monuments, some enormous and grand, others small and austere. These are the reminders of the high cost of that bloody conflict. Although I’d lived in Mississippi all of my life, I’d never visited the memorial. War and death, there was plenty of it in today’s world. I had no curiosity to probe the wounds of the past. As I drove around the park, I found myself stopping to read the monuments. The cost of taking Vicksburg was high. Thousands of men, gray and blue. Most of the deaths were not easy ones.

What I hadn’t expected was the beauty and the solitude of the park. Fragments of history courses I’d taken in high school and college came back to me. The siege of Vicksburg was one of the most gruesome ordeals of the war. Located on the banks of the Mississippi River on high bluffs, the city was crucial for the South’s survival, and just as necessary for the North to take. Once the siege began, one side had to lose. Some six weeks later, Vicksburg surrendered, after the civilians had been driven into caves dug into the bluffs. They ate rats, and many died of starvation and disease.

As I drove along the scenic parkway, I came upon Shirley House, the only structure that had managed to survive the battle. At one time it was used as a Union headquarters, surrounded by trenches—called saps—where soldiers lived, digging their way to wherever they had to go.

Beside the house was the Illinois Monument, a magnificent domelike structure with a skylight and the names of hundreds of soldiers who died so far from home engraved on every wall. I waited there, trying to shake the feeling that at any moment I would hear the sound of cannon and the cries of wounded horses. Thank God I had not lived in that time.

My own loss, no doubt as violent, had changed me forever. But I had not lost my home and my family and my way of life. My ancestors were of stronger stock to have survived such a war and kept enough faith to raise families, to risk loving again.

The afternoon was waning, and I had not located Nathan. There had been no signs of cavalry, as the young soldier had pointed out. Apparently they were bivouacked away from the park. It hadn’t occurred to me, but perhaps Nathan did not constantly ride his horse. The idea that he was out coaching young recruits in the dialogue and dialect of the 1860 South tickled me. I hadn’t known him long, but I was willing to bet he was a good teacher.

I drove back to the front gate and stopped to talk with the park rangers. When I asked about a cavalry colonel, the ranger was friendly, but not very helpful. The reenactment forces were so numerous, the park made no efforts to manage them. He did not have a list of the participants in the battle. As he explained, some of the units were volunteers, history buffs who went around the country acting out roles at different battlefields. Others were like Nathan, professional historians and scholars paid for their work. I went back to Ravenwood hoping that Nathan would take an evening ride through the estate. He would see my mini van and stop. I felt good about the progress I had made in looking into Frank’s death, but I wanted a sensible sounding board.

Maybe the tragedy of the battlefield had caught a ride home with me, but when I turned in the gate at the plantation, I had a sudden poignant sensation of Mary Quinn’s life. It must have been a fairy tale before the war. I could imagine the old plantation running at full blast, the house ablaze with lights and laughter. From all I’d read, the Quinns were a happy family with a love of parties and feasts. Before the war.

It was foolish of me, but I couldn’t resist looking around the ground for Frisco’s hoofprints. There was no sign that Nathan or his horse had paid a visit to me while I’d been out.

Since I couldn’t find him at the battlefield, I decided to call Mississippi College where he worked as a professor. It took forever for the secretary to answer the phone. When I asked for Nathan Cates, the young girl explained that she was a work-study student and that she didn’t have an extension listed for a Dr. Cates. A pleasant young woman, she apologized and said that the regular secretary would be back the next day.

Since I had no other plans for the evening, I decided to make my version of chicken alfredo. Cooking is an act that many Southern women turn to in times of anxiety or periods of waiting. Frank and I had once spent our evenings bantering in the kitchen as we explored cuisines from around the world. There was nothing he wouldn’t attempt. I’d lost my interest in cooking after his death, and my desire to work in the kitchen surprised me. I even chilled a bottle of white wine I’d brought along. Just for the fun of it I’d cater dinner to myself in the big old dining room. While the pasta cooked, I hurried over to the old house and set up two candelabras. Anything worth doing was worth doing well.

When the meal was prepared, I sat at the elegant table in the main dining room. There was seating for at least twenty, and the candles glowed against the burnished mahogany of the lovely table.

I was halfway through the meal when I remembered the oven. I’d left a small portion of bread in it to warm. There was little chance trouble would occur, but I couldn’t enjoy the rest of my meal if I was worried about burning the bread. Feeling as if I should excuse myself, I left the table and hurried to the kitchen. I could see where servants would have worked up a sweat carrying dishes back and forth for three large meals a day. The bread was very toasted, but there was no damage. I turned off the oven and went back to my meal.

I had just settled my napkin into place when I saw the yellow rose beside my plate. The chill that ran up my body was indescribable. The front doors were locked, and I’d used the back one. The gates to the plantation were also locked. No one could have slipped into the house without my knowing it—except a ghost. Mary Quinn! She’d left me a message to let me know that she hadn’t abandoned me, that she was considering my plight. Perhaps it was even a sign of approval that I had taken some action on my own.

Should I finish dinner and wait for her to make her appearance, or should I attempt to find her? The sound of footsteps on the second floor ended my questions. Instead of the light footsteps of a teenage girl, the tread was heavy. Ominous. Anticipation turned to fear. Old houses attracted all kinds of weirdos. I’d been gone from Ravenwood all day. Anyone could be hiding in it.

My thoughts halted as I took a sudden gulp of air. The footsteps were coming down the stairs.

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