"In my father's notes mostly. You're famous, or should I say you were famous."

"I was, but I am not any longer?"

"No, actually you're dead!"

"I most certainly am not dead!"

"Yes, you are, you..." Miri let her words trail off, at a loss for a reasonable explanation. "What year is this?" she asked instead.

"1866, of course," he replied tersely.

Miri shook her head in disbelief. "It can't be 1866."

"I assure you it is 1866. August 15th, to be exact."

"But that's impossible," Miri argued. "You're dead. You died in..."

"Do I look dead to you, Miss Johnson?"

Miri could hear the growing impatience in his voice.

He stepped closer. Harshly, he repeated, "Do I look dead to you, Miracle Johnson?"

Miri stared up into his face, at the strong jaw, the full sensual lips and into the depths of his eyes. "No," she said finally. "You don't look dead at all."

Gently, he reached out and took her hand in his, pressing her open palm to his still damp chest. Miri could feel his thundering heartbeat as clearly as she felt her own. Taking one step forward, he threaded his fingertips through her hair and cupped the back of her head. "Do I feel dead to you?"

"No," she whispered.