April 12, 1861 savannah, Georgia

Don't jail. Tonight of all nights, don't fail.

Keziah Montgomery placed her gloved fingers into the waiting hand of the man smiling at her with confident expectation.

Taking a shallow breath against the corset threatening to crush her ribs in its unyielding grip, she willed her fluttering stomach to calm and allowed Mr. Watson to lead her onto the crowded dance floor. A colorful array of bright silks and lace flurried around her in circles. The thick, sticky air carried the weight of pomade and a nauseating mixture of shaving soaps and rice powder. The din of chatter and polite laughter choked her dizzying thoughts.

From across the room, she caught Mother's penetrating stare. Elsie Montgomery had been adamant Keziah be at her best. No one must know her shamefUl secret. The sooner she marry, the better ... before her future husband realized what her parents were so desperate to keep hidden.

Looking up, she smiled into the youthful face of Tate Watson as he cupped his warm hand against her waist, keeping the proper distance between them as the musicians struck up the opening strains of "The Scenes of Our Childhood." She noted the golden stubble lining his jaw, his brown eyes bright. A flush of heat crept up her neck.

She blinked away the grit filming her vision. It was late into the festivities and the night seemed to drag. Still, she maintained her pasted-on smile and allowed him to sweep her through the whirling couples and blurring faces. If only it weren't so warm.

Mr. Watson's lips moved, but it took her several moments to focus on what he was saying. "Are you enjoying the ball?" "Yes. The Ballingers throw an exquisite party."

"Indeed, although I fear all the talk of impending war may have dampened the festivities to a degree."

She nodded demurely, though she'd never admit conversing about the possibility of war was far more interesting than being forced to make polite niceties to the elite of Savannah's upper echelon. Her mother would faint if she allowed her tongue to spill the unladylike sentiment.

"If war is declared, will you go?"

His eyes glinted, his bearing stiff as he circled her past potted palms, pulling her into the thick of the dancers. "Without hesitation. It's my sacred calling and duty to defend the freedoms Mr. Lincoln is attempting to rip from our way of life. No man worth his salt would dare flee his duty."

Keziah pressed her lips tight, unwilling to say anything further, knowing if she did, she would be unable to stop. The issues did not seem so starkly cut to her. Instead, she smiled and nodded again, praying her mother could understand the depths of her desire to please. Keziah would not mortify her. Not again.

The room suddenly dipped and twisted. Her breath thinned. Stay upright. Focus. Blinking hard, she realized Mr. Watson was asking her something, though she didn't understand what. Alarm flooded her, followed by a frisson of something indefinable tingling up her spine.

No, God. Please, no. Not here. What will Mother think?

The prayer had hardly crossed her thoughts before she plunged into the abyss, the spinning colors collapsing into merciful blackness.

* * *

Micah Greyson scoured the crowded ballroom as he sipped the too-sweet punch. He didn't belong.

Since returning home to Savannah from medical school in Philadelphia, he felt distant, removed. He had thought to open a practice and wanted to live near Mother. He owed her much. But now? He couldn't shake the unease gnawing his middle. The feeling was odd and altogether unsettling. Not just because there were new faces, nor because old classmates and neighbors had moved away. This was something else. As if society's values were different. The perspective on human life and dignity had altered.

No, Savannah hadn't changed. It was him. Too many abolitionist rallies. He'd seen and heard far too much to leave Philadelphia unchanged and unaffected. He felt as if he'd just awakened from a long, hazy dream, suddenly aware of how different life could be, only to find himself sucked back into the foggy nightmare once more.

And what to do with the knowledge of who he was in the midst of it all? He would never belong. Could never belong again.

He took another pull of his punch, rolling the syrupy taste of cherries over his tongue, and sighed. Some men feared death; others feared losing their loved ones. His fear was entirely different. He must not grow callous and indifferent to the plight of those suffering around him.

The raucous laughter of a man to his left grated his nerves. Placing the half-empty glass on a tray with a soft clink, he scowled. It was a mistake to have come. He'd only done so at his friend's pleading. Oliver was bursting to talk war with the other men, not to mention dance with the young debutantes. His friend could be quite convincing. But Micah was charmed by none of it. The music seemed at odds with his mood, the air too suffocating.

He had turned to make his apologies to the hostess when a muffled cry rang out from the cluster of dancers clogging the floor. A male voice shouted amid the din.

"Is there a physician here?"

He stepped forward, eyeing the crush of people who had stopped moving. They swarmed around someone who had fallen. Man or woman? He couldn't tell. There was too much commotion. Too many people.

He shouted, "I'm a physician! Make way."

The crowd parted slowly to reveal a young man leaning over an unconscious woman crumpled on the glistening waxed floor. Pushing past the mob, he frowned.

"Please, give the poor woman some air."

As he knelt down to assess her condition, he sucked in a breath at the lovely form tangled in a swirl of blue silk, observing the way her fingers twitched sporadically, the soft muscles of her throat knotting as her head thrashed. His gaze landed on her face and his heart gave an odd lurch.

He couldn't believe it. After all these years. He cradled her head gently, stroking the soft skin of her cheek, and prayed.

Kizzie Montgomery.

Micah tugged Kizzie's slight weight closer to his chest as he struggled to carry her up the stairs of the Ballinger mansion, her voluminous skirts and hoops making his progress difficult. The murmurs of shock rippling through the room faded away as he followed the hostess to a guest bedroom.

"Here. This room should serve."

Mrs. Ballinger pushed aside the heavy door and hastened to light a lamp as he laid Kizzie on the green-and-gold brocade-covered bed. He pressed his fingers to her slender neck, monitoring the thrum of her pulse. Steady.

"How can I be of help?" The concerned matron twisted her hands, looking out of place as a nursemaid in her glittering beads and filmy lavender gown. Lines deepened around her eyes.

"Could I trouble you for some clean cloths and a pitcher of cool water?"

With a nod, she breathed, "Of course. I'll send Minnie up straightaway."

"Thank you."

He smoothed Kizzie's strawberry-blonde curls away from her temples, her skin pale but warm. A slight spray of freckles on her delicate nose stood out in stark contrast to her creamy skin. She seemed to be sleeping peacefully. No more twitches or convulsions.

"Doctor, may I be so bold as to ask —" the hostess swallowed, still lingering in the room — "what malady has befallen this woman?"

Easing one of Kizzie's eyelids open, he nodded in...