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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Four

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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