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starboard now and didn’t seem nearly as strong or as cold as from the larboard. She had learned the terms from the captain when he’d escorted her on a tour of the Star the second day on the river. Two years ago, Mark Twain had published a book about the Mississippi and his experiences as a steamboat pilot. Once she reached Memphis, she would buy a copy and learn more about this amazing waterway.
    Andrew stood with the captain on the deck below, arms crossed over his chest, his boredom on display for everyone. Shifting position, he happened to see Lisette watching and gave her such a bitter scowl, she turned away immediately.
    A shudder of revulsion squirmed through her. Andrew, exactly like his father, knew nothing of tenderness or compassion, having impressed Lisette as arrogant and self-centered the moment they met. Her opinion of him had not changed during the past eight years, and the indignities he visited upon her hardened her heart to any fake tenderness he might have shown on this trip. She suspected, though, the captain had seen through Andrew’s charade and knew more of his true nature than he’d admitted.
    She pulled a lace handkerchief from the sleeve of her dress and dabbed her eyes and cheeks. Crying would not change Andrew’s presence on this boat, her father’s condition or the past. She learned long ago that tears were no weapons against fate. Yellow fever had claimed her mother, then her father’s health and mind. When the vile disease also killed James, she considered it an ironic gift and determined, after forfeiting eight years to misery and grief, to do everything she could to salvage the potential happiness of the future. Once home in Memphis, she would help Aunt Portia care for her father. Somehow, she would find happiness.
    She glanced around, hoping no one had witnessed her distress. Across the deck, next to the railing, stood Doctor Stewart. Was it simply a trick of the moon or yet another dream?
    She dabbed at her eyes again and moved toward him. He looked directly at her, through her almost, as though he did not see her at all, and headed toward the stern. He couldn’t leave. She had to speak to him. She would ask him to escort her home after the boat docked. Such action was improper for a woman in mourning. Aunt Portia might be mortified by such behavior, but she had to have time to talk to him. Obviously, he was no apparition. She was very much awake and intended to verify everything she remembered about their first encounter. As for the lighted bridge, she would try to gain a logical explanation.
    “Doctor Stewart!”
    He heard.
    “Lisette?” He came immediately. “Where did you go? I looked everywhere for you. You have to tell me where you live. I don’t know your father, and—”
    “I’ll tell you everything. We have to—”
    Andrew’s angry voice interrupted. He bolted up the stairs toward them, with the captain close behind. “Lisa, we’re docking. You don’t have your things ready. What are you doing out here?”
    She could see Andrew was furious about what she’d done. Without looking back at the doctor, she pleaded with him, “I have to get out of here. Will you take me home?” When she turned for his reply, he was gone.
    How could he leave without her hearing his footsteps or seeing where he went? There was no good reason for him to leave so abruptly, without saying good-bye, and no way off the deck except by the stairs on the far side. He had to be on the boat somewhere.
    She hurried toward the far staircase, but Andrew caught her before she reached the top of the steps.
    “What the devil are you doing? Your behavior tonight has been abominable!” He clutched her arm so tightly, she almost cried out in pain, but bit her lip instead, refusing to give him the satisfaction.
    His fingers dug into the tender flesh of her upper arm until fresh tears stung her eyes. “You’re hurting me. If you don’t release me this instant—”
    “Mr. Westmoreland, I’ll ask