Over the next several weeks, the Underground Railroad ran more and more efficiently. Some combination of Miss Ro, Jean-Luc and Wesley typically smuggled escapees on to either the Picard or Ro property. Then Guinan, Worf and Geordi would take over, feeding, clothing them and leading them into the tunnels dug to conceal their movements. Taking teams from the two plantations as security, Worf would guide the escapees to the next stop on their road to freedom. Everyone felt a sense of urgency as the country appeared to be marching toward war.

When they were not occupied with their illicit activities, Jean-Luc, Wesley and Geordi helped Mr. Soong build harvesting machinery to be used on Miss Ro's land. Improving the productivity of her farm would help her to keep freedmen on her property employed and help finance her main business.

More often than he felt comfortable admitting, Jean-Luc noticed Wesley watching him. At times, he knew, the younger man was learning by his observation of Jean-Luc's technical skills or, what Jean-Luc thought of as his command style—efficiently delegating tasks to those best equipped to do them, recognizing the achievements of his workers and, he hoped, inspiring their confidence in him.

Other times, he caught Wesley stealing a glance at him unexpectedly and he wondered what Wesley was thinking. His thoughts immediately jumped to Beverly and he imagined that perhaps her son was trying to convey a secret message to him. Perhaps Beverly wanted to talk to him. Maybe she was pining away and his presence was needed immediately—discretion be damned—to save her life. He envisioned himself dropping his tools, running to his horse and riding at breakneck speed to her side.

After a while, however, Jean-Luc set aside his foolish fantasies and realized that Wesley was seeking his acknowledgement, his praise. From that moment, he made it a point to informally mentor Wesley, to teach him what he could about managing a business and a work force. Wesley still spent most of his time helping Mr. Soong and Geordi and Jean-Luc was busy throughout his large property, in his office and on errands

In time, Jean-Luc realized that Wesley was an integral part of the smuggling operation. With his engineering expertise, Wesley shored up both the new tunnel and Miss Ro's old tunnel. Even more impressive, Wesley helped secret people away, sometimes driving right through town with hidden passengers in the back of Miss Ro's wagon, on the theory that no one would suspect the young man.

It was a cold February day. Beverly wrapped her cloak more tightly around her as the wind gusted. Because Dalen was treating a house full of flu victims in town, she was driving his carriage to the far east end of the county to check on Julianna Soong, who, a neighbor boy had announced on his trip into town, had fallen and been injured.

Fewer people in the poorer eastern part of the county sought their medical services thus Beverly was unfamiliar with the narrow, winding roads. She almost drove past the unassuming, small house. She turned the horse into the short, uneven lane that led to the Soong property.

The dilapidated condition of the house and grounds startled Beverly. She had seen Juliana in church in the past and always thought of the older woman as well put together, if modest. Her image of Juliana did not match the state of disrepair of the house and yard.

Beverly climbed out of the carriage and realized that she could not recall seeing Juliana recently. Perhaps something had happened that had kept her away from church and town. Perhaps she had become infirm or immobile and unable to travel or take care of her dwelling.

Those thoughts were quickly dispelled as the older woman opened the door and waved to her. Juliana Soong was dressed as neatly as ever, with her white hair in a tidy bun.

"I was expecting Dr. Quaice." Her voice, Beverly noted, sounded strong.

"He's attending to some flu patients. He didn't want to come out and spread the disease to you." Beverly had learned long ago how to respond to people who preferred Dalen to her.

Juliana lowered her head, as if resigned to being seen by Beverly. She gestured for the nurse to follow her inside and when she did Beverly found herself surrounded by an alarming array of clutter.

Books and sewing piles competed with pillows and stacks of letters for space on tables, chairs and seemingly every piece of furniture in the cozy living area. Beverly worried that Juliana must be quite ill or severely injured to have let things go so much. She noticed that the woman's left arm was wrapped in a cloth stained brown from dried blood. She immediately began to wonder how much blood her patient had lost and if the blood loss had affected her mind.

"Why don't we sit down here, Mrs. Soong," Beverly began, although, as she looked around, she was not sure where there was enough space for them to sit, "and I'll take a look at you."

"All right." Julianna moved a couple of books and a threadbare shawl from the corner of a loveseat and sat down. She leaned forward and began to unwrap her arm, apparently presuming that Beverly, rather than sitting herself, would kneel in front of her to examine her wound.

Beverly did so. The cut was deep and needed to be cleaned and stitched. "Mrs. Soong," she said, as she set about treating it, "how did this happen?"

"Oh, it was so silly. I was fixing the roof and—"

"You were fixing the roof?"

"Yes, and I must have lost my footing. I fell in the yard and my arm landed on the edge of the shovel."

"A shovel?"

"Yes, I was going to do some gardening. I just hadn't gotten to it yet . . . ." Her voice trailed off as she looked out the window.

Beverly worked quickly and neatly.

"You know," Julianna said, "my son has a wonderful position. He works as an overseer on one of the largest plantations in the county, over at the Picard place."

"Mm-hm." Beverly did not stop or look up from her work.

"I'm so proud of him. He's so smart, a genius, really, like his late father. He's always inventing new things and coming up with new ideas. And he got a nice raise in pay from the new Picard."

Beverly said nothing.

"He works very hard over there. He doesn't get much of a chance to visit any more. But that's all right. I'm so proud of him. Marie Picard is such a sweet lady. I see her in church every Sunday. And Mr. Picard, that tall man, he has such a wonderful singing voice. He's very nice, everyone says so."

Beverly noticed that Julianna seemed to glide between the present and the past as though they were one and the same.

"I have another son. I don't know if you knew that."

"No, I didn't." Beverly did, in fact, know of her second son, but felt it best to encourage her to talk.

"He's a bad boy. He always was. We haven't seen him in years, my husband and I. He didn't get along with people around here. Some people thought he was a criminal, but of course he wasn't. He just couldn't keep up with his brother because his brother is a genius. He just felt competitive, that's all."

Although Jack and she had moved to the county after the departure of the Soongs' prodigal son, they had heard enough stories to confirm that the young man had left a trail of furious crime victims when he left the area.

"People say he's up North now. I don't know. I hope not. He's a good boy, too, just misunderstood." She paused for a spell, looking out the window as Beverly cleaned, examined and tended to her wound. "Now, my other son, he's a genius. A very sweet boy. He works over at the Picard place. Do you know Marie and Robert Picard?"

"Yes, I do."

"They're very nice people, aren't they? I see them in church every Sunday. It's not easy work either, getting all those blacks to work. They don't want to, you know. Even on a fancy place like the Picards have. It's very difficult work getting all those lazy Negroes to get up and do something. But my son does it. He's a genius."

By the time Beverly left Julianna, with promises to return to check on her arm in a week and to help plant a garden in the spring, she felt shaken. Would she end up like Julianna, living alone, with no one to talk to, no husband or friends, infrequently visited by her own genius son, slowly losing her mind? The wind blew into her face and cold tears stung her cheeks.

Jean-Luc and Guinan sat in his office, going over the books of the business and another, more important, ledger. The second book, which he kept hidden in a wall safe in the office, tracked the freed Africans from his plantation—who had left and who had remained. He also kept correspondence with those who had travelled north locked in the safe.

"Fewer than half the people have left, leaving us with a good-sized workforce. I don't expect we'll have any problem with the harvest." Jean-Luc sounded optimistic, but his tone changed. "But, still, as talk of war becomes more and more strident I worry that we should get everyone out of here."

"We've made pretty good progress," Guinan countered. "Don't forget—if everyone here disappeared in one week, that would be noticed by the powers that be."

Jean-Luc sighed. "I'm not sure how many more weeks we have left. I went to dinner with Kyle and Will Riker last night. It seems there's considerable talk among southern states about seceding from the union."

"Do you think that will really happen?"

He nodded somberly. "At first, I did not. But, after living here for a year and listening to my esteemed neighbors, who treat human beings as property, as machines they feed and clothe and work to make enormous profits, yes. I believe they will take up arms to defend the institution of slavery. And I think we must save as many people as possible before the hostilities start."

Guinan stood and peered out the window, as though she could see what was coming. "I think so, too. I think if it comes to war, it will be more terrible than any of us can imagine."

Jean-Luc caught his breath. In his time in the South, he had heard stories of African mystics who could see the future. He had dismissed them as fairy tales created by white people who did not understand African culture, yet, something about his friend always seemed different. "Guinan," he asked tentatively, "what do you see happening to your people?"

Guinan shook her head. "Not just my people, Captain. I see suffering for all people in the coming years."

"Years? The union has vastly superior resources. Why wouldn't they crush us within a year, eighteen months?"

"You know the answer to that question." She turned to face him. "Southern men are going to fight fiercely for their economic advantage and for their pride. They'll be defending their land as well as their way of life. This will be a battle fought in the South and it will destroy the South."

Jean-Luc stared at his glass of brandy. "If you're saying what I think you're saying, . . ." he said slowly.

Guinan walked over and stood in front of his chair. "Then it's not just the black people that we have to worry about. It's the white people, too. You, Marie, Miss Ro, Mr. Soong, Wesley, . . ."

"Beverly," he said, still staring in thought. He had never considered that the union army could penetrate the South all the way to their county. He had thought it unlikely that the war could continue long enough for that type of incursion to be remotely strategic. Could Beverly, and Marie, Wesley and the others, all be in danger in the apparently upcoming civil conflict? What could he do to keep them safe?

"Dr. Quaice, Deanna Troi, Will Riker."

Jean-Luc felt a sense of duty. Guinan had foreseen the danger and now warned him of it. It was incumbent on him to do something about it. "Do you have any suggestions?"

"I would start by canning food and hiding it in the tunnels. We may have to expand them or maybe Geordi and Mr. Soong will tell us to dig separate hiding places, but I want to store food in case it becomes scarce later on."

Jean-Luc could hardly imagine a lack of food, surrounded as they were by farmland. "What else?"

"We'd have to make sure we have enough arms and ammunition to defend the property. Every man here should be armed."

"That goes without saying. What else?"

"Build stone walls. The fences we have around the property won't keep out northern armies."

"Surely, you don't think—"

"I do think they could come here. And when they do, we better have all the food, ammunition, cotton seed and people that we care about inside the walls of this property."

Jean-Luc finished his brandy in one long drink. How could he possibly get Beverly into his house to keep her safe?

"And another thing."

"Yes?"

"If you plan to combine your land with Ms. Ro's, and keep her and her people safe, and have access to her land to feed everyone and bring money in, and, above all, to keep the tunnel hidden . . . ."

"Yes?" Jean-Luc looked Guinan in the eye. It was unusual for her to pause in the middle of a thought.

"The two of you are going to have to marry."

Jean-Luc breathed in with a gasp. His charade of courting his neighbor and partner in crime had successfully concealed their work, but at a great personal cost. Although he had no intention of stopping, deep down, his heart could not let go of Beverly Crusher. Even as he processed Guinan's words and agreed with her logic, even as he imagined that, combined, the two plantations, with their staffs, could become the safest place in the county, a fortress to protect Beverly, Wesley, Marie and the others, he could not agree to marry someone else. He knew Miss Ro would readily accede to the plan, for she had no one else, nothing else in her life, besides her passion for freeing the enslaved. He chastised himself for not feeling the same way, for placing his personal feelings above the lives and the liberty of so many.

Standing above him, Guinan watched as worry and then anger crossed her boss's countenance. She understood his predicament and, not for the first time, her admiration of the man grew. His face contorted into pain, a glimpse of the torture that lived deep inside him. Watching him suffer, as he poured himself another generous drink, Guinan had an idea.

"The Picards are Catholic, aren't they?"

He nodded and took a drink, hoping the brandy would act quickly to eliminate his capacity for clear thought.

"There's no Catholic church around here."

"No," he said, "just that . . . that Protestant church everyone goes to around here. What is it?"

"Baptist," Guinan supplied. "But you'd need a Catholic church to get married in, wouldn't you?"

His only answer was to finish his brandy and pour himself another one.

Guinan continued. "Because if you had to travel to Atlanta to get married in a Catholic church, then no one here would actually witness it. No one would know if you had really gotten married or not."

Through the alcohol, Jean-Luc now had to attempt to think clearly. "But, what about Marie? She'd have to come to the wedding."

"We'll have to figure out something to tell her. Maybe explain that you're doing this for business purposes."

It might work, he thought. Marie would not be happy with him—she hadn't been since the barbecue last summer—but her anger could not be avoided. Not if they were to help people get to freedom and safety.

"But to everyone else in the county, Miss Ro and you will appear married."

Including Beverly. He downed his full glass of brandy. "We'll talk to Miss Ro tomorrow. Guinan, I'd like to be left alone now." He poured another.

Guinan bowed then silently walked out, already thinking about the plans that would be needed for the scheme to work.

Jean-Luc carried his glass and the half empty brandy bottle to the small sofa along the bookcases and sat down. He took a drink then leaned forward, his head in his hands, and cried. Beverly, if you knew how much I missed you. How much I want to be with you. Just to see your smile, to hear you tease me, to touch your hand. If you only knew how much I love you . . . .

"Today it finally feels like spring!" Deanna exclaimed happily. She settled comfortably in Beverly's living room, next to one of the windows opened to create a cross breeze. She sipped some lemonade then picked up her sewing.

Beverly sat on the other side of the sofa with her own lemonade and sewing. "I'm so glad you could come." She smiled at her friend.

"Well," Deanna said, "I'm happy for the chance to chat with you. You've been so busy with Dr. Quaice lately and I've been . . . ."

"Yes?"

Deanna sighed. "Let's just say my mother has been keeping me busy." She gave a knowing look.

"Ah." Beverly understood—Lwaxanna's desire to marry off her only daughter was becoming an obsession several months ago when Beverly last spoke to her. She could only imagine what the scheming mother was up to now. "Anyone interesting?"

Deanna stopped mid-stitch. "There are many interesting men in and around the county."

"But . . . ."

"But, I just don't feel . . . ." She sighed. "I don't know. I don't feel that attracted to them. There are some very sweet men, like Wyatt Miller or Reg Barclay. Though, I think Wyatt's in love with someone else."

"Mm-hmm." Beverly kept sewing. "I know Reg likes you."

"There are some very successful men, like Devononi Ral."

"Apparently, he makes a lot of money. Dalen met him and told me he has businesses all over the state."

"And he's handsome." Deanna admitted.

Beverly looked up, considering it. "Yes, I suppose so."

Deanna was quiet.

"Deanna?"

"Yes?"

"What's the problem, if there are plenty of handsome, wealthy men to choose from?"

Deanna drank some lemonade. "I just . . . . I want to feel something when I'm with a man. I want to feel electricity when he holds my hand. I want to look into his eyes and see his soul, his passion, his love for me. I want to feel excited when we're together and tingle with anticipation before we meet up. Do you think I'm being too picky? My mother does."

Beverly stared into space. She had tried for months to expel thoughts of Jean-Luc Picard from her mind. Better than she had ever put into words, Deanna had just explained what she felt toward him. What made him different from any other man she had ever known, even—if she were completely honest with herself—Jack, who had been a kind man and a good husband, but not someone who stirred her or made her tingle. A simple man, whose eyes just did not contain the depths of emotion and thought that Jean-Luc could communicate with a single, lingering glance.

"Beverly?" Too late, Deanna realized that she had reopened a wound. Beverly had seemed to finally be recovering from her recent heartbreak. Since the new year, she had begun to venture out in society, baking pies for the church bake sale, singing in the choir, and inviting Deanna over for visits. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you." She leaned toward her friend, took her hand and squeezed it.

Beverly closed her eyes tightly and fought to contain her roiling emotions. She knew what she had to say—she only had to force it out. "Deanna, the important thing is that you don't wait too long. Find someone you love, and don't let him go, even if it means you have to pursue him, fight for him. Don't end up like me—an old woman, living all alone, left to go crazy by herself."

"What?"

Opening her eyes and exhaling, Beverly thought of a way to deflect attention from herself. "What about Will Riker?"

The question caught Deanna off guard. "Will?"

Beverly seized her advantage. "Will is handsome, wealthy and interested in you." She patted Deanna's hand to stress her point.

"You're beginning to sound like my mother." Deanna rolled her eyes.

Beverly leaned back, smiled and picked up her sewing. "Your mother and I both care about you and maybe we both know what we're talking about. Will is a good man."

Deanna hesitated. She was much more comfortable talking about Beverly's heart than her own. "I don't know. Will tends to be 'interested' in a lot of women, if you know what I mean."

Beverly considered that. Will did have a bit of a roving eye at social events, never missing an attractive young woman. With his easygoing manner, he readily talked with women. At different times, he had pursued her and Miss Ro. Yet, . . . "He's still single, though. Isn't it strange that all his flirtations have never led to marriage? Almost as if he's waiting for someone."

All of a sudden, Deanna found her sewing fascinating. She worked with her eyes on her dress.

"Do you feel something with Will?"

Deanna focused on her stitching. Oh yes, I definitely feel something. She looked up, ready to broker a truce. "Can we strike a deal? I won't ask you about your love affairs if you don't ask me."

The two women smiled warmly at each other, then laughed. "I agree," Beverly said, "but only if you promise to think about what I said."

Deanna had her own inspiration. "I will think about what you said on one condition."

"What condition?"

"That you think about it, too. That you fight for love with someone that you feel something special with."

Deanna saw her friend pale. Suddenly, Beverly seemed weak, smaller. She looked down at her lap.

Closing her eyes to hold back the tears, Beverly whispered, "I'll think about it." She had not seen Deanna's final attack coming. As morose as she felt, contemplating her old age alone, she had never imagined herself having the ability to change her situation. Despite her efforts, she could not help thinking about Jean-Luc, but she had no idea how to fight for him.