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trouble for yourself if you don't . . . Miss Jessie, you keep a civil tongue in your head, now!" This last was called after her in a scolding, beseeching tone as Jessie stalked toward the house without waiting for him to finish. Muttering and shaking his head, Progress watched her go, his hand absently stroking Firefly's muzzle. Then he looked skyward as if for divine help and turned to walk the mare into the stable. Easier to stop the flow of the river than to stop Miss Jessie when she was in a mood.
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    Jessie completely forgot about heading for the cookhouse and supper, about her exhaustion and bedraggled appearance. She marched toward the front of the house, stride militant, jaw pugnacious. Her anger, which had cooled over the course of the afternoon, heated again. She would not let that— interloper make himself at home in her house without a battle!
    They would most likely be in the dining room by this time, sitting down to supper. Celia would want to impress her beau, so the meal would be grand. Just thinking about its probable composition—a ham and yams, or maybe a roast chicken—made Jessie's stomach growl. Until that moment she hadn't even realized she was hungry. Except for the cherry tartlet, most of which had gone to waste, she hadn't eaten at all that day. Jessie climbed the steps, seething, mentally rehearsing the coming confrontation. Visions of her own eloquence and power, and an even more satisfying vision of the vanquished Edwards fleeing from Mimosa never to return, floated tantalizingly in her head. Afterwards, of course, Celia would hate her more than ever, and make her life difficult, but that would be a small price to pay to keep Mimosa safe. Until the next man. . . . But she wouldn't think about that. Maybe, after seeing how horrified this one was once he learned the truth, Celia would give up the notion of remarriage. And if she didn't . . . Well, Jessie could deal with only one calamity at a time.
    With the onset of darkness the air had grown cooler, and Jessie might have shivered in her worn-thin gown if she had been in any state to notice the chill. So wrapped up in her own thoughts was she that she was oblivious to the drop in temperature, as well as to the delicate scent of mimosa that wafted on the breeze with the hickory smoke and the aroma of what might have been ham. 34

    The chirping of crickets and night birds went unheard. Her thoughts were all concentrated on the coming confrontation— on what she must do to rid Mimosa of the interloper who threatened it.
    Thus she didn't notice the bright glow of a cheroot tip on the upper gallery, or the man who leaned against a pillar, smoking, watching her rapid ascent with narrowed eyes.
    "Good evening, Miss Lindsay."
    The unexpectedness of the soft drawl, coming seemingly out of nowhere, made her whirl toward its source. Since she had just reached the top of the steps, the sudden movement threw her off balance. Jessie teetered wildly for a moment, eyes huge as she quivered on the brink of tumbling down the stairs she had just climbed. Then a hand, grabbing lightning-fast through the darkness to close over her upper arm, saved her. She tumbled forward instead or back, to fall against her rescuer's chest. Her heart pounded from the nearness of her escape. Both hands and forehead rested against his shirtfront, and for a moment she was content to stay that way as she fought to get her breathing under control. The steps were steep, and a fall down them would almost certainly have caused her an injury. He had saved her from that, but then, he had been the cause of her near fall in the first place, so she owed him no gratitude.
    He smelled of leather and good cigars. The linen of his shirtfront was smooth beneath her hands. Beneath it his chest felt warm and solid. She was tall, but he was taller by a good head. The breadth of his shoulders dwarfed her own, though she was far from daintily made. Jessie registered all this in a scant few seconds.