The Sapphire Brooch Katherine Logan (best beach reads TXT) 📖

crowded and smoky he and Braham could have passed her on the street and not noticed her, especially in her condition.

Taking a circuitous route to avoid the worst of the panicky mob, she reached the depot to find it already backlit by the bright orange glow of flames engulfing the bridge. When the wind changed, as it was destined to do, the fire wouldn’t take long to reach the building. She dashed inside to find the doctor in charge.

“My God,” she said, coming to a standstill. As far as she could see, men sprawled on the rough wood floor, row upon row of injured and dying Confederate soldiers. How could they all be moved before the building went up in flames? She bit her lip against a surge of fear and cringed at the sharp pain from her forgotten wound.

A surgeon stood by the door watching the conflagration.

She stepped in front of him, getting close so he’d pay attention. “This building is about to catch on fire,” she said. “When it does, it will burn quickly. These men have to be moved now or they’ll be burned alive.”

He raised both brows in patent skepticism. “Charles Ellis, president of the railroad, assured us the men would be safe here.”

“He’s wrong. Take a look for yourself. Do you want to wait until the building’s burning to find out?”

“I’m not going to move two hundred injured men on the word of a woman who looks like she rolled out of a chimney.”

“How about on the word of a surgeon?”

“Go home, surgeon.”

Charlotte returned his sardonic expression with a bland smile before stomping to within a foot of his face. How many times had she done this lately? “Listen, you son of a bitch.” She slammed her fists to her hips. “I don’t give a damn whether you believe I’m a doctor or not.” She leaned forward, getting nose to nose with him. “But this building will catch on fire. It will burn to the ground. And if your ego is more important than the possibility I’m right, these men will die.”

She shot past him and strode rapidly into the cavernous depot, searching for someone who might believe her. Several yards away, a man wearing a dirty white apron was tending to one of the wounded. “Excuse me, sir.” When he turned toward her, she rocked back on her heels, swallowed hard, and, with wide eyes, fell silent.

“Yes, what do you need?” he asked.

The man’s clear blue eyes, cool skin tone, and symmetrical face—ears flat against his head, straight nose sitting the perfect distance above his lips, sharp cheekbones, and a gently rounded chin—were dead-on identical to Jack’s, and to old paintings in the family portrait gallery. The man had to be Carlton Jackson Mallory, her six-times-great-grandfather.

Awkward? God, yes. She gawked.

“Are you looking for someone? If so, I can’t help you.” He turned aside, returning to his patient.

“Sir.” Her voice cracked. She poked his shoulder with her fingertip, feeling the tight muscles in his neck. “Sir, this building is about to catch on fire, and when it does, it will burn too fast to rescue everyone. We need to start evacuating…now.”

He was wise enough not to reject her out of hand, but his expression was skeptical. She gauged his mood before pressing on. There was no missing the tension in his body, the stiffness with which he moved, or the anxiety in his red and tired eyes. The enemy was coming, and while the end was imminent, his intensity was well-leashed, an admirable trait for a surgeon.

She touched his arm, pausing for the briefest of moments to figure out her best argument. “From one surgeon to another, I beg you to believe me.”

He glanced around the depot, sniffed the air. “Considering the amount of smoke outside, it seems safe enough in here.”

“Yes, but it won’t be when the fire on the bridge spreads to the roof.”

He squatted to check on another patient, pulling the man’s shirt aside to look at a shoulder wound. “What makes you believe it’ll happen?”

She peered over her grandsire’s head. “The wound you’re working on looks clean. No redness. An inch in a different direction and it could have shattered the clavicle or hit the subclavian artery. He would’ve lost his arm, part of his shoulder, or maybe his life. Do you want him to lose it now?”

Carlton Mallory took stock of her with a penetrating expression similar to ones she’d received during her surgical training.

“Look, I know there’s no reason for you to trust me. But I’m a student of the Greek philosophers. And logic and firsthand observation of the progress of the fire tell me this depot will catch fire, and these men are in mortal danger.”

He surveyed the ceiling, his eyes roving slowly from one corner to the other, his fingers rubbing his chin as if gauging the time it would take to burn. “Who’s your favorite?”

“My favorite what?” she asked, tracking his eyes.

He fixed his eyes on her, as if giving a final test. “Philosopher.”

The lives of hundreds of men now depended on her knowledge of philosophy, not on her medical expertise. She blinked. “Plato. Same as you.”

Thick lashes lifted, and he examined her more closely. Did he recognize a familiar trait in her face, or notice the hereditary bump on her ear Charlotte had traced back to his wife?

“Do I know you? What’s your name?”

Her eyes remained on his, unwavering. Telling him she was also a Mallory would be a mistake, although lying credibly was always a struggle. Behind her back, she interlaced crossed fingers with straight ones and squeezed hard. “Charlotte…McCabe.”

“I’m not convinced moving these men is the right decision. Still…” He hesitated for a moment, then made up his mind, and nodded. “There’s been enough dying, Doctor McCabe. Let’s get to work.”

Carlton Mallory summoned the other physicians. They trooped outside and reentered a few minutes later, still debating, then nodded their heads in agreement. The evacuation began, slowly at first. Charlotte hurried from patient