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

cutting a virtual seam through the mob. Halfway across the street, Leale halted the procession and yanked a blood clot from a hole in Lincoln’s head, tossing the gooey mass into the street. Fresh blood and brain matter oozed from the doctor’s fingers. Stranded, with nowhere to go, the president of the United States was dying in the middle of a street surrounded by thousands of frenzied witnesses.

A man opened the front door of 454 Tenth Street, came out on a high curved staircase, raised a sole candle, and shouted, “Bring him in here.”

The somber bearers carried the president up the stairs and through the doorway, leaving the frantic crowd behind. Braham collapsed on the stairs, holding his saber in a shaking, bloody hand, and pointing it at the mob. He had failed to protect his president from an assassin’s bullet, but he was determined to protect Lincoln’s final moments from the hungry rabble.

Braham closed his eyes and blackness overtook him.

69

Washington City, April 14, 1865

Charlotte stood at the window in Braham’s drawing room, listening to the chattering and courting of the mockingbirds under the light of the moon. The shutters were open, and cool air poured in, both chilly and soft, the way spring nights were meant to be. But this wasn’t a normal spring evening. Edward had turned down the gaslights and banked the fires. The darkness didn’t bother her, but a strange stillness, broken only by the singing birds perched in the leafing trees, did. The room’s cool air stroked her arms, and the hairs rose quietly on her skin.

Jack had managed to procure two tickets to the production of Our American Cousin at Ford’s Theatre, but she had adamantly refused to go. He, however, couldn’t pass up the opportunity to be an eyewitness to one of the biggest events in United States history.

“Braham might succeed tonight,” she had told Jack before he had left for the theater.

“Either way, I’ll still be an eyewitness to history.”

Charlotte wanted to be as far away from the theater as possible. Jack was a writer; she was a doctor, and they had quite different perspectives on the evening’s events. If she had been there and Braham failed to save Lincoln, she would rush to the mortally wounded president’s side, and in the process, earn a place in history—a woman from the future imprinted indelibly onto the past. In her heart, she hoped Braham would succeed. How much her life would change when she returned to the twenty-first century didn’t seem to matter right now. She let out the breath she had been holding in a sigh like the April wind. She checked the time on the mantel clock. Lincoln should be at the Petersens’ house by now, brain dead.

Unless…

Her throat was as sticky as glue. She turned away from the window, willing the tears pricking the backs of her eyes to stay where they were. Needing to loosen the pasty feeling in her throat, she tilted up her glass of whisky and gulped. Fire trailed down her esophagus, but the alcohol did nothing to soothe the worry and sadness burdening her heart.

The window curtain fell back into place, and she walked over to refill her glass at the sideboard, but the clatter of carriage wheels and the jingle of harnesses pulled her back to the window. Jack, barely visible in the shadow of the gas streetlights, was helping a man out of the carriage. She watched, puzzled. Was the man drunk? When Jack moved out of the shadow, the light glinted off the man’s blond hair, and she saw his blood-streaked face.

She ran toward the door, threw it open, and dashed down the front steps. Jack had propped Braham against the side of the carriage. Reaching him, Charlotte immediately checked his breathing, since his head hung limp. His breath warmed her cheek. She pressed her fingers against his neck to feel his carotid pulse—too fast and maybe a little weak, but palpable. Blood oozed from his forehead, and his jacket had a large wet crimson stain.

“What happened? Has he been shot again?”

“I don’t know.” Jack grabbed Braham around his waist and lifted him over his shoulder. “He was unconscious when I found him.” Jack rushed up the stairs and through the door, leaving behind a trail of blood.

Charlotte followed closely, suddenly missing her hospital, the efficiency of the ER, and the medical advances which could save Braham’s life again. “Put him on the dining room table and get his clothes off. If there’s active bleeding, put pressure on the wound. I’ll get Edward and my bag.” She ran down the hall, calling the butler.

He poked his head out of the kitchen. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Braham’s hurt. Jack’s putting him in the dining room. I’ll need clean cloths and boiling water.” Charlotte ran up the stairs for her medical bag. On her way back down with her supplies, she patted her pocket, touching the brooch. Regardless of what Braham wanted, she refused to let him die.

Jack and Edward had Braham stripped to the waist. Blood saturated both his discarded shirt and jacket. He had a deep gash in his right shoulder, but there was no spurting vessel. She grabbed her stethoscope and checked his lungs. Sounds were shallow but equal on both sides. The knife probably had not punctured his lung, but she couldn’t be sure with him lying down. She would listen again carefully when she could sit him up. His heart rate was fast but regular. His color was good; there was no active bleeding, and his blood pressure was low normal.

Satisfied he wasn’t in any immediate danger, she turned her attention to the shoulder wound. A cut rotator cuff could impair the strength and use of his shoulder. For even a preliminary evaluation, he needed to be awake, and if the injury was serious, he’d require an orthopedic surgeon. Even after repair, it could be months before he had full use of his arm again.

The six-inch gash