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

wagon train heading west in 1852.” Braham paused and studied the mug in his hand. His face betrayed nothing other than a look of fond remembrance, but then his eyes darted as if trying to grasp an annoying thought.

“They settled in San Francisco,” he continued, focusing his attention once again on his listeners. “The next year they bought land in the Napa Valley and started a winery in 1854. A year later I started one, too. I discovered I loved nurturing the vines, putting my hands in the rich soil”—he examined his fingers and seemed to be surprised to find there was no dirt under his nails—“and spending time with my horses rejuvenates my soul.” He gave a one-shoulder shrug and sipped his coffee. “I solve problems working outside, even in the rain.”

“The only problem I try to solve in the rain is how to get out of it,” Jack said and chuckled.

Charlotte set her cup on the table next to her, checked her phone for emails, scrolled through several, but none of them seemed as important as listening to Braham’s story. She put the smartphone down. “What about your law practice?”

“I spend most of my time in San Francisco, but I get restless and go to the winery every month or two for several days. If I run for a senate seat, it’ll be harder to get there as often.”

“State Senate or US Senate?” Charlotte asked.

“By the time this conflict is over, I’ll have had enough of Washington.”

Charlotte and Jack laughed. “A hundred and fifty years, and some things haven’t changed,” Jack said.

Charlotte yawned. “It’s late. I need to get back to town.”

“Why don’t you stay?” Jack said.

“I’ve got an early-morning lecture. It’ll be easier if I go home tonight.”

Braham glanced around the room then looked at Jack. “Ye’ve got a lot of books. I’d like to select one to read tonight, if ye don’t mind.”

“You mentioned reading Plato. I’ve got The Republic, The Symposium, Phaedo, and The Trial and Death of Socrates.”

“I’ll take The Republic.”

Jack put his coffee down, went to the floor-to-ceiling shelves, and scanned the collection. “It’s here somewhere. It was my grandfather’s favorite book, too.”

Charlotte found her thoughts drifting back to her earlier examination of Braham’s wound, the pajamas, and his muscular arms. Her face heating, she yanked her attention back to the conversation. “It was also his father’s favorite and his father’s and his father’s and his father’s ad infinitum.”

Jack gave an amused snort. “As far back as I can remember the book sat on the bedside table. He read passages every evening. If he traveled, he packed it in his suitcase. I’m surprised my grandmother didn’t put it in the casket with him.”

Braham joined him, moving slowly from one bookcase to another. “I think this is it.” He removed a book, opened it, and thumbed through several pages. “He made notations in the margins. I’ll enjoy reading his thoughts.” He then nodded to Charlotte and Jack. “Good night.”

Before he reached the door, he stopped. “There’s a newspaper clipping in here dated April 1965. It’s for a memorial service to pray over the hundredth anniversary of the death of Abraham Lin—” Braham stopped reading and glanced up, ashen-faced.

“If April 1965 was the one hundredth year,” he rasped, “it means Lincoln died in April of 1865.” Braham’s hands shook so hard the laminated clipping tapped against the book’s cover. “What killed him? This doesn’t say.” His voice was an anguished whisper.

Charlotte’s panic hoarsened her voice. “We can’t tell you.”

Braham pounded his fist on the edge of a table, rattling the lamp and glass candy dish. “What the hell do ye mean, you can’t tell me? Lincoln’s dead, and ye can’t tell me what happened?” He scanned the titles in the bookcase. “Ye’ve got hundreds of books here. One of them will tell me what I want to know.”

“Stop him,” she said quietly to Jack. “The Sandburg titles are right in front of him.”

Jack squeezed Braham’s shoulder. “Come. Sit down. Let’s discuss this.”

Braham shrug off Jack’s arm. “Are ye going to tell me what happened?”

“No,” Jack said.

Braham grabbed a book from the bookcase. “Abraham Lincoln: The War Years Volume IV by Carl Sandburg. This will tell me.” He glared at Charlotte and continued in a steely voice, “Ye’ve known all along he might be dead by the time I got back. Yet ye never said a word. Why?”

Charlotte had the sensation of losing a patient on the operating table, knowing there was nothing she could do to salvage the situation. “Life is full of uncertainties. None of us knows what the future holds. You can’t come here, soak up what’s happened in the past hundred and fifty years, then take the knowledge back to your time and manipulate history. I won’t be responsible for it happening.”

“Damn it. Ye should have let me die.”

Something in his voice and the way he looked at her made her heart knock against her ribs. “I couldn’t. Lincoln recruited me to save your life.”

He slapped the book against the doorjamb. “Ye saved the wrong man, Doctor Mallory. I don’t have to read this to know he was murdered. We begged him to be careful. But he refused to listen.” Tears glittered in his eyes. “I have to go home and stop this madness before it happens.” Braham turned and left the room with shoulders hunched in sorrow.

Charlotte moved to follow, but Jack held her back. “He doesn’t need us right now.” He poured brandy into two glasses. “When he reads what Booth did, he’ll demand to go back and stop the assassination.”

Charlotte gulped her drink. “We’ve got a problem, then. If that’s his plan, we can’t let him go.”

“We can’t keep him. He’s not a stray. He has a life he’s entitled to live.”

“Braham lost the life he had. We can’t give him another one and then let him loose to shake the fabric of our lives. Can we?”

“No.” Jack freshened his drink then tipped the decanter to pour more into