"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?"