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

Jack didn’t move; he merely intensified his stare. “It was real, sis. Not a goddamn reenactment, or a movie, but real.”

The anguish on his face made her heart slam against her ribs. She opened her arms, and he fell into them, hugging her tightly. Tears dampened her shoulder as he poured out the fathomless grief of a man who had grown up honoring a marble sculpture until at last he grew to love the man who had inspired it.

Charlotte wasn’t the only one who would bear the emotional scars of this trip back in time. These new wounds would be indelibly etched on the whole of Jack’s being.

70

Washington City, April 15, 1865

Charlotte reclined on the sofa next to the dining room table, grateful for the morning sun’s warmth and light, while she reviewed the chart of Braham’s vital signs and medication. She chewed her lower lip as she considered what to do next. During the night, after Jack had fallen asleep, Braham’s agitation had increased, and she hadn’t been able to calm him.

As a last resort, she had climbed up on the table and lain next to him with her hand on his chest keeping track of the rise and fall of each breath. She had kissed his lips, cradled his head against her breasts, smoothed his tousled hair back from his face, and whispered the words of her heart. Words he would never remember, but they had calmed him nonetheless. The warmth of his body seeped through her clothes, dispelling the chill of the night but not the chill of their upcoming separation.

He had not been fully awake since Jack brought him home hours earlier. He had moaned, and sipped water laced with medication, but he hadn’t fully opened his eyes or followed basic instructions other than to drink what was offered. She fluffed the pillows and edged smaller ones beneath his neck and back. She yawned, stretching. The night had been very long, and she hadn’t slept.

Midmorning rays came low through the trees, spilling through the windows and making shifting leaf patterns on the dining room walls. The front door opened and footsteps, quick and solid, thumped the oak floorboards. A minute later, Jack entered the dining room. “How’s the patient?”

“His vitals are good, he doesn’t have a fever, but he’s still not responding as he should. I’m considering—”

“I know what you’re thinking, and don’t waste your brain cells.” Jack plopped down on the sofa and crossed his hands behind his head. “I considered it earlier, and said only if his life was in danger, and it’s not now. Right?”

“But he needs to be seen by a neurologist.”

“Why? Do you think he has brain damage?” The muscles in Jack’s neck knotted. It obviously cost him a lot to ask the question, even more to wait for the answer.

“There’s no way to tell until he wakes up.”

“Can’t you look in his eyes or something?” Jack voice grated past his throat.

“It doesn’t work that way.” She pressed her hand on his arm in warning and then said in a low voice, “I can’t tell if this is exhaustion, a concussion, or neurological deficit. Some people in comas remember conversations. I don’t know if Braham is listening to us or not, so let’s keep our voices down.”

Jack ran his hand through his hair, creating furrows. “Sure, no problem. It’s just…”

“I know. I’m tired, too.” Moving slowly, she came to her feet, her joints protesting loudly. She pressed her hands on her lower back and stretched. For the last several hours, she’d sat at the table next to Braham, watching him breathe, stroking his face, holding his hand, letting him know he wasn’t alone. “What’s the news on the street?” she asked.

“I saw Gordon at the War Department. Saw him outside the theater last night, too. You know the expression if looks could kill? Well, it’s how he glared at me. Creepy.”

The hairs prickled on her arms, and she shuddered. It was one of those uncontrollable shudders, according to old wives’ tales, caused by footsteps walking over her future grave. “You didn’t say anything to him, did you?”

“No, I nodded politely and moved on.”

“Good, because he scares me. I’m surprised he hasn’t challenged you to a duel.”

“If he could get away with it, he probably would.”

“So what other news do you have?”

Jack removed his journal from his pocket and opened it to a page about halfway through. “The city’s agitated and there’s a spirit of revenge. At the New York Avenue Presbyterian Church, the president’s pew was draped in black. Stanton has called Grant back to Washington to defend the city. Johnson’s been sworn in, but Stanton’s in charge. The manhunt for Booth has been going on for hours. Stanton believes there was a conspiracy planned in March, and the Confederacy might be involved. Lincoln took his last breath at seven twenty-two this morning. Mrs. Lincoln returned to the White House about nine o’clock. I saw them carry the body into the White House in a crude, improvised coffin. It looked like a shipping crate. But you know”—Jack paused and tapped the tip of his pencil against his teeth—“Lincoln wouldn’t have cared. It was the roughly hewn coffin of a rail splitter. There were no bands, no drums, no trumpets, only the cadence of horses’ hooves.”

“Sounds like you have a story to write.”

“Not me. This story will be well documented without my two cents.” He glanced up at Charlotte, blinking slightly. “I’m ready to go home.”

“It’s time ye both left,” Braham said in a raspy voice.

Mouth agape, she whirled around to face her patient. Jack jumped to his feet and rushed to the table. “You’re awake,” they said in unison.

He seemed to want to say something more, but couldn’t decide what. His mouth opened, but nothing came out for a moment or two. Then, in a hoarse voice he said, “It’s over now. Go home.”

The coldness in his voice