in the light of day, I can determine the cause.”
“We’re going to the cliffs?”
Logan shot her a look of disbelief. “How did you know
cliffs edged this end of the island?”
Mica stared ahead of them, her eyes searching wildly for a
safe answer. Damn, she mentally cringed. How was she
supposed get out of this one? Even if the buildings didn’t look
familiar, the lay of the land wouldn’t have changed that much
over a hundred years, and she searched for some way to save
her from her faux pas.
“Well, you can see the rise of the land up ahead.” She
pointed vaguely off in the distance. To add credence to her
answer, she smiled weakly at him. “Besides, don’t all islands
have cliffs, and sandy coves, and waterfalls, and...”
He laughed at her exaggeration, shaking his head. “It really
is too bad they don’t teach ladies something besides watercolors
and menu planning. If you like, I will gladly give you some
instruction in geography.”
Mica had to grit her teeth and clench her fists beneath the
folds of her skirt to keep from punching Logan in the jaw. She
had purposely led him down this path to cover her blunder, but
she hated his macho male attitude and longed to tell him as
much.
However, in 1850, he was perfectly within his rights in a
male-dominated world to express such thoughts. There would
come a time, she thought, when he would be sorry for all the
rude comments he had made. She would see to that.
She changed the subject, so she wouldn’t forget what
century she resided in and give him a lecture. “What are those?”
She pointed to a series of large brick structures that stair-stepped
down from each other in groups of three.
“Fermentation vats. They are used to create the dye that
carries our name. The process is quite lengthy. Once the plants
are cut, they must be placed in the largest vat at the top of the
tier and covered with water. When the indigo leaves are
saturated, the fermentation process begins. The liquid must be
the right taste and color before it is drawn off into the lower
vat where the process continues.”
“The right taste?” Mica gave him an incredulous look.
“Isn’t dye poisonous?”
“Not at all. It must be exactly the right sweetness. An hour
too long of fermentation could endanger the entire yield. Once
the process at the vats is complete, the indigo is transferred to
the building over there.” He swung his arm to the buildings to
the left of the road.
“The raw indigo is heated to remove impurities, then
strained through linen cloth and formed into cakes, all of which
bear our island stamp.” He pointed to other buildings farther
on. “That is the drying and storage shed, and farther along are
the dyeing and weaving sheds. We not only grow and process
the indigo, but we buy raw cotton thread which is dyed and
woven into world famous Indigo Bay cloth.”
Mica couldn’t help being impressed at the work involved
in such a venture, even though she had never heard of Indigo
Bay cloth before. So used to ready-to-wear clothes, convenience
stores, and electronic mail, she had no concept of the time and
effort it took to create a product in this era.
“I am very impressed. You must be very proud of what
your father and stepfather have done.”
An instant scowl crossed Logan’s face, his dark brows
coming together over menacing eyes. Mica leaned back,
unaware of the blunder she had committed.
“Charles Seaton had nothing to do with the success of
Indigo Bay. In fact, because of his incompetent dealings, the
island barely survived.” He snapped his mouth shut, and Mica
realized he had said more than he intended.
Why was it men thought they didn’t need anyone to listen
to them, or to help out once in a while? That trait hadn’t changed
over the years. She placed a hand on his thigh and felt the
muscle tighten beneath her touch.
“Logan, please. As I tried to tell you earlier, I’m quite
capable of understanding business and economics.” She smiled
She studied his profile as he concentrated on keeping the
horses on the narrow dirt path, passing the buildings without
further comment and leading them towards the northern end of
the island.
“Logan?” She watched as his jaw tensed in aggravation.
She added what she hoped was an element of trust. “You asked
me to stay here and get to know you, to learn the legacy of
your island. How can I do that if you won’t talk to me?” She
could feel the tension in his leg beneath her hand and knew the
moment he let go of his frustration.
Logan glanced her way, and Mica could see the surprise in
his gaze. “It’s not considered polite to talk about family
problems with outsiders. Besides, most women don’t care about
the land. Or economics or politics, for that matter.” Somehow,
Mica should have expected such an answer.
“I understand that, but as you have pointed out on more
than one occasion, I am not your ordinary woman.” She grinned
at him.
He laughed in return, relieving the tension. “That is of a
certainty, lovely lady.” He concentrated on the horses, and she
supposed it was because the path had narrowed. Indigo plants
high enough to block the surrounding area gave Mica a feeling
of seclusion.
He didn’t speak, and she began to think he wouldn’t tell
her any more. When he did begin, his voice sounded far away,
as though he pulled memories from the deepest part of his soul.
“The island has always belonged to my family, for as far
back as anyone can remember. When indigo was introduced
back in 1740, my ancestors decided the island was ideal for
growing the plant. Thus the name Indigo Bay. My father learned
from his father, and I from him.
“I never wanted anything else except to work the land, to
be part of it. I understood at an early age that if I took care of
the land, it, in turn, would take care of me and mine.” He sighed.
“But Father died when I turned only thirteen, and when Mother
married Charles Seaton, he left no place for me in the scheme
of things.”
Mica could hear the heartbreak in his words and ached for
a little boy’s lost dreams. She gave his thigh a gentle squeeze.
He chuckled, but she could hear no mirth in his voice.
“I tried so hard to take care of the island and Mother. But
every improvement I wanted to make—every time I suggested
a change—Seaton would have none of it. Neither my mother
nor I could persuade him from his course. Over the years, he
planted more and more, refusing to rotate crops or allow the
fields to lay fallow. If he hadn’t died when he had, he would
surely have killed the land.”
Mica realized how important family and this land had been
to Logan, and she lost her heart to the boy who had been
determined to take on a man’s responsibility. Before she could
say anything further, he gave a shout and jerked the horses to a
halt. Tossing her the reins, he jumped clear of the still-moving
carriage.
She glanced wildly around her, her hands automatically
clutching the reins and pulling. She spied the source of Logan’s
aggravation at the same time he pounced, hauling a large man
off a small African American boy.
Even as she tied the horses off and climbed down from the
carriage, she could hear fists connecting with flesh. The boy
appeared none the worse for wear and scooted backwards out
of reach.
The two men continued to roll back and forth on the ground.
Mica twisted her hands in despair, wanting to help, but afraid
of getting in the way. She couldn’t recall from her self-defense
training just how to end a fight when it didn’t involve her.
She needn’t have worried. Within minutes, Logan had the
other man pinned to the ground. Using his weight for leverage,
he straddled the larger man, his hands still throttling his neck.
“Logan!” Her cry of appeal had no effect, and she rushed
to his side to grab his arm. “Logan, stop it! You’re going to kill
him.”
“I should kill the son of a bitch!” Though his voice was
choked with anger, Mica was relieved to see him release the
pressure on the man’s neck. He rolled to the side and jumped
gracefully to his feet all in one motion, but he never turned his
back to the other man, who continued to lie breathless in the
dirt.
“Get to your feet, Jacobs, and get off my land,” Logan
said, jerking the man up by the collar.
Mica watched in awe, for Logan stood several inches
shorter and much leaner than the husky man he now handled
so roughly. Yet he had shown no fear. He had acted on impulse,
coming to the aid of someone unable to defend himself.
The man called Jacobs spat blood off to the side then rubbed
the back of his hand across his mouth. “Those darkies need to
know their place.”
“These are people and work here because they wish it.
They are no different than you or I.”
Mica could see the anger build in Logan’s eyes as he spoke,
but she couldn’t understand the reasoning behind his defense
of the boy. After all, it was 1850, and everyone in the South
owned slaves.
“They’re niggers, Rutledge. Stupid nigger slaves. Mister
Seaton kept them in their place and let me do my job overseeing
them.” The man balled his fists, and Mica feared he would
throw a punch.
In the next instant, Logan drew a pistol from beneath his
coat, leveling the barrel at the man’s heart.
“Seaton does not own this land. I do, and I have been in
charge for the past month. You have apparently forgotten who
pays your wages, but that shall not be a problem any longer.
You have one hour to be off this island. I will forward your
pay, if I decide to pay you at all.”
The surly man grabbed his hat from the edge of the road,
knocking it against his leg to shake the dust. He refused to
meet Logan’s gaze, but as he turned to leave, he grumbled,
“You’ll be plenty sorry for this, I guarantee. You ain’t seen the
last of me.”
As the man disappeared around a bend in the road, Logan
breathed an audible sigh of relief and lowered the pistol to his
side. He glanced around. “Where’s the boy?”
Mica stepped to his side, lifting the corner of her skirt to
wipe away the dust and blood from his face. “He ran away as
soon as you freed him.” Her intense relief that Logan had come
out of the fight unhurt turned to anger at his foolishness.
“You idiot! You could have been hurt. That man was twice
your size. And why didn’t you just pull your pistol on him in
the first place? Another thing, why do you even carry a pistol?
They’re dangerous weapons.”
He silenced her with a kiss, his lips barely touching hers.
But the instant fire was enough to squelch any further argument
from her. When he lifted his head, she bit her bottom lip to
refrain from picking up where she’d left off.
“I take care of what’s mine, Michaela Marie, by whatever
means I need to use.” He tucked the pistol into the back of his
trousers, took her by the elbow and guided her back to the
carriage. “You would do well to remember that.”
Mica’s breath caught at the intensity of his expression, and
the heat from his hands as he lifted her onto the seat. She
subconsciously touched the key around her neck, wondering if
she shouldn’t make a hasty retreat back to her own world. While
his touch thrilled her beyond words, she wondered if a mere
door between the centuries would ever be enough to keep her
from wanting him.
He climbed aboard and released the horses, clicking softly
to urge them forward. She turned her thoughts to other matters.
“If you fire Mr. Jacobs, how will you manage your island?”
“I’ll do it myself, if I have to. They all think the same.”
Mica knew he referred to the slaves. “But the Afri…uh,
Negroes are slaves.”
“Mine aren’t,” he lashed out, then softened his tone. “You
wouldn’t understand.”
“Why? Because I’m a female?” Her statement brought a
grin to his dirt-streaked face.
“You are definitely female, but that isn’t why. I guess
because so many people don’t understand, I assumed you
wouldn’t, either. I shouldn’t have jumped to that conclusion. I
apologize.”
His sincerity touched a chord deep within her. In the short
span of a few days, she found she cared very much what Logan
thought, not only about her, but also about his way of life.
“Tell me. I promise I’ll try to understand. At least I won’t
judge you.”
He rested his elbows on his knees, letting the horses find
their own leisurely way down the path. “Many years ago, when
Father still lived, we discussed freeing the slaves and paying
them a wage for their labors based on the profits we made. It
only stood to reason that if they had an investment in the work
they did, they would work harder to make the island a success.”
He snorted. “Father died before he could find a lawyer
willing to draw up the necessary legal documents to make
Indigo Bay a slave-free island. At that time, it amounted to the
same thing as treason against the South, as you probably well
know.”
Mica understood better than he would ever know. Even in
her time, prejudice and segregation issues were still very volatile
topics to many deep-rooted Southerners.
“So how have you managed to free your slaves, especially
when the abolition issue is beginning to heat up?”
He raised an eyebrow. “You have read about the abolition
movement?” When Mica nodded, he
went on to answer her
original question. “I went to school to become a lawyer. I felt
the only way to make changes was through legal avenues. I’m
not the only one to feel this way, though most of the antislavery
sentiment is in the Northern states. Just last year, Representative
Lincoln introduced a bill to end slavery.”
“Abraham Lincoln?” Her astonishment must have been
clearly written on her face, but Mica couldn’t help it. Her
fantasy about jumping back two centuries had focused around
Logan. Up until that instant she hadn’t given a thought to the
historical people who were alive and doing their incredible
work at this very moment.
Logan misinterpreted her exclamation. “I see you have
heard something about politics, then. Well, it did Mr. Lincoln
no good, because our very own Senator J.C. Calhoun has blasted
abolitionists at every turn.”
Without thought, Mica stated, “It will lead to war, you
know.”
“Oh, I doubt that.” Logan countered. “The people of the
United States are many things, but it would go against
everything we believe in to fight against our own people, no
matter what the issue. No, the President and the Northern
constituents will eventually see that the South is capable of
taking care of itself and will let us do so.”
Mica realized she couldn’t fault his logic, nor could she
dispute what he said unless she gave him evidence to the
contrary. Whatever the rules governing this adventure of hers,
she instinctively knew better than to make a comment about
his future that was her past.
“Damn! Look at that. Acres of lost crop. Why?”
Muttering to himself, he climbed down from the carriage
and stormed off, kicking clumps of dirt and jerking the charred
remains of indigo plants from the ground.
Left to fend for herself, Mica almost tripped over the
cumbersome length of skirt before her feet hit the ground. Her
training in law and associated work with detectives soon had
her checking the ground for evidence as to the origins of the
fire.
“Do you smell anything peculiar?” Logan asked.
Mica stopped and lifted her head into the breeze. “Nothing
other than the burnt odor. What do you smell?”
Instead of answering her, Logan knelt by a plant at the