tickets to tour the house and gardens.

When I entered the house and gave my ticket to the guide, I saw that the man from the trail was standing there with her and talking in friendly tones with another guide. I could see now that he was a park ranger. He turned hazel eyes and a friendly smile to me, and I felt myself turning red for some reason. It seemed like he was looking right into my mind, discerning that I was all messed up, and why.

Without thinking, I gave him a shy smile and quickly turned and entered the house’s parlor, where I joined five or six others who were on the same tour.

Three rooms later I was standing at the back of the group, lost in an explanation on eighteenth century life in the house of a Revolutionary War notable when I realized that someone was touching me. It wasn’t just that someone had brushed by me; someone had a hand firmly on one of my butt cheeks and was definitely copping a feel. I quickly pulled away and moved to another part of the group, no longer on the back row. When I looked around, I saw that the park ranger was now with the group. He gave me another one of those smiles, and my cheeks burned. I don’t know if it was because of what I was going through, but I hadn’t been repelled by the encounter. I had enjoyed it. But, again, I was frustrated by not knowing what it meant or where it might be headed, or how it might get there.

Shortly thereafter we found ourselves in the dim-lit kitchen in the slaves quarter area in the gardens away from the main house. We were all packed pretty close together and once again I found myself on the back row listening to the guide’s description of the kitchen and how activity here fit into the rhythm of the plantation life.

The hand was on my butt again. I didn’t move away this time, even when the hand had squeezed my butt cheek. And then I felt the hand come up and go under the waistband and squeeze the butt cheek, skin on skin. It moved over, centered on the small of my back, and I felt a long, strong finger slowly pushing down through my crack. This scared me, and my knees began to tremble uncontrollably. I did move away this time, moving around the edge of the group and then swirling out of the kitchen door with them, into the sunlight, as the tour ended.

I didn’t follow the others into the garden, but stumbled quickly toward the entrance toward the path back down the hillside. This was all just too overwhelming. I’d teetered there on the edge, and it had disturbed me deeply; I hadn’t had any idea where to go from there.

I was moving quickly, blindly down the path. I heard him behind me. The park ranger was following me down the path, moving more quickly than I was.

“Stop,” he yelled in a deep, hoarse voice. “Just stop.”

I stopped dead in my tracks. His was a voice not to be challenged. But I was trembling all over when he reached me and turned me around, facing him.

He held me out from him with strong hands on my upper arms. I looked down at his hands and wrists. He was wiry, but his