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

lose their memories. This memory might be a good one to lose. Will you check the newspapers tomorrow and see what you can find out?”

Before laying Braham back down, they gave him the medicine mixed with a sip of water. Then, very carefully, they shifted him to a pad on the table for comfort and elevated his head on goose down pillows to decrease the intracranial pressure. He groaned but didn’t open his eyes again.

“I’ll sit up with him. Why don’t you go rest?” Jack said.

“No. These first few hours are critical. I want to be close by to check his level of consciousness hourly.” She shrugged against an almost staggering feeling of helplessness. “There isn’t much I can do if he starts to deteriorate.”

“If it happens, I won’t object to you taking him to the hospital.”

“It might be too late.”

Jack screwed up his nose as he peered intently into Braham’s face. “He doesn’t want to go.”

She unfolded a quilt and pulled it up over Braham, tugging it to his chin. Had she done everything she could for him? She rubbed a finger between her brows, mentally rewinding the tape of the last hour then playing it again. Yes, she had. Satisfied, she straightened the creases in the blanket, tucking it neatly under his sides. “Let’s see how he does over the next hour.”

“Do you want me to move a sofa in here so you can stretch out?” Jack asked.

“It would be more comfortable. Thanks.” She blew out the extra candles and turned down the gaslights. In the dimness Braham was no more than a dark shape on the table, his breathing slow and hoarse.

Edward and Jack pulled the sofa into the dining room. With cups of coffee in hand, she and Jack eased back against the cushions as quiet descended into the room.

After several minutes, Jack said, “He’s a fine man.”

“Fine and stubborn.”

Jack tilted his head to one side, eyes narrowing. “You’re in love with him, and he’s in love with you, but you won’t stay, and he won’t leave.”

“It’s hard to imagine never seeing him again.”

“After all you’ve been through,” Jack said.

“I’d rather not dwell on it. Let’s get him well first.”

They sat there listening to Braham’s breathing and the crackling fire.

Jack interrupted the silence by clearing his throat. His voice shook slightly when he said, “It was horrible.”

Sleep was encroaching on her consciousness, but she heard him speak and jerked upright, shaking herself hard. “What?”

“What happened at the theater was horrible.”

She reached for him, and his arm was tense beneath her hand. He shied away, not wanting to be touched.

“I never imagined it would be…well, like that. I was focused on the play, waiting for the lines Booth believed would produce the most uproarious laughter from the audience and cover the noise of the shot. ‘Don’t know the manners of good society, eh? Wal, I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, old gal…’

“When I heard the lines spoken from the stage, something clicked inside me, and I had what I could only describe as an out-of-body experience. I was there, but I wasn’t.”

Jack turned away from her, and his eyes fixed somewhere beyond the room, inward probably, where he wouldn’t have to share his thoughts or emotions with her. Tonight, she wouldn’t intrude, would simply give him room to say what he needed to say. She didn’t move except to breathe more deeply and hide her knotted fists within the folds of her skirt.

“Lincoln never knew what happened to him. His head dropped forward, his chin hit his chest, and he sagged against the upholstered rocking chair. It didn’t sound anything like twenty-first century gunfire. It was more of a poof that echoed to the ceiling, and to the stage, and then reverberated through the theater. No one moved. People weren’t sure at first whether it was part of the production, or a celebration, or what.

“Major Rathbone was the first to realize something was wrong. I was sitting close by and had been watching for his reaction. He glanced up, so did I. The smoke from the pistol swirled in front of the gaslights and gave the crimson upholstery and wallpaper in the box a devilish glow. Booth looked like a demon. His face seemed ghostly against the black of his clothes and hair and mustache. In his right hand, he brandished a big knife—bright as a diamond in the stage lights—as he leaped from the box onto the stage.

“I was the only person there who had read the script and knew the storyline. It all happened as history recorded, and everyone played their roles perfectly.” Jack’s voice fell to an anguished whisper. “Only it wasn’t a play. It was real…and the bastard killed one of greatest and finest men who ever lived.”

Jack bunched his fists up so tightly they turned white, and the veins throbbed from fingertips to forearm. His eyes closed for a moment to keep her from seeing in too far.

“What happened then?” she asked.

“From the moment of the gunshot to Booth vanishing into the wings, no one in the audience moved. Some gasped; others thought it was part of the play. Major Rathbone shouted, ‘Will no one stop that man?’ and then the actress Clara Harris cried out, ‘He has shot the President.’

“Then fifteen hundred people went wild. Some men climbed up on the stage, women fainted, and half-crazed voices shouted to kill the murderer, but by then Booth had left the building.”

Jack paused and drank his coffee.

“What’d you do then? How’d you find Braham?”

Jack looked at her; his eyes searched her face, as if her features held important answers. “Panic erupted, and people shoved each other to get out. I stood there, unable to move. Finally, I made my way to the lobby and ended up following behind the bearers who carried Lincoln’s body across the street. I kept waiting for the police to rush in and impose order, but they never came. Lincoln almost died in the middle