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

to hold him in such high esteem if he had died an old Illinois country lawyer?”

“At least he would have lived to be an old country lawyer.”

She gestured toward the memorial. “But he wouldn’t have all this, and he wouldn’t have six million visitors every year.”

Tears welled up in his eyes, and he could feel the burn of them. His upper lip quivered as he fought for control over his emotions. “Do ye believe marble is an adequate substitute for a person’s life? Because I don’t.”

“I think leaving a lasting legacy that symbolizes the expansion of rights and equality to people across the spectrum of color and backgrounds is a good thing.”

His eyes flashed briefly before going dark and intense. “What the hell are ye talking about?”

“Equality—the president’s legacy.”

Her statement made the rising mix of anger and grief harden. He didn’t want a legacy. He wanted the man—alive, well, and leading the country.

She studied him with her huge blue eyes, a touch of tears shimmering in them. “I don’t know what else to say. Come on. Let’s go back to Richmond.”

Charlotte had saved his life. He didn’t want to hurt her. She had rearranged her day to bring him here. The least he could do was visit the monument. He didn’t have to like it, but he owed her that much. “If what I suspect is up there”—he paused and glanced over his shoulder—“I’ll show the president the honor he deserves.”

She wiped away a tear with the heel of one palm. “The elevator is this way,” she said, nodding toward the side of the memorial.

He steeled himself, breathing through his mouth, preparing for what he knew would be more painful than a punch at the site of his wound. The impact would rip him open. “I’ll not take the easy way up.”

She shuddered, aghast. “There’re fifty-seven steps to the top.”

“I don’t care if there are a hundred and fifty.” Logic and the law were things he understood, and there was nothing logical about climbing those stairs in his condition, but he would not be seen as a coward. He raked fingers through his hair until they stuck in windblown tangles. He gave up on the tangles but not on his decision.

He took the first five stairs easily enough. By twenty, sweat poured down his face. His heart bumped hard against his chest, but he kept climbing. He counted each and every step. By the forty-fifth, he was winded and had to stop for a rest.

Charlotte wiped his brow with a handkerchief. “Let’s sit for a minute, please.”

He shook his head. “No.”

The exertion burned his legs and the seams of his jeans strained around his bulging thigh muscles. The last seven stairs took him the longest. When he reached the top and had a full view of Lincoln immortalized in marble, Braham’s legs faltered. He would have crumbled to the ground if not for a fluted column next to him. He clung to it, digging his fingers into the grooves.

Charlotte rushed to his side and put her arm around him, her face tense with concern. “Please rest. You can barely stand.”

“It’s not the hike weakening my legs; it’s the view at the top.” Despair cut through his voice.

After a moment, he regained his legs and took one step, and then another. His hands knotted into fists, and his jaw clamped tight to the point of shattering. He would not approach as a grieving friend, but as a soldier reporting to his commander. He willed his jaw, and then his fists, to relax. In Braham’s heart, his president was not dead.

He reached the base of the statue, which was surrounded by a rope enclosure. He unconsciously reached out, but the marble was too far away to touch. Shivering, he stared, lost in thought, and then finally read the inscription above Lincoln’s image:

In this temple, as in the hearts of the people for whom he saved the Union, the memory of Abraham Lincoln is enshrined forever.

Tears etched tracks of anguish down his cheeks. If Lincoln had only died an old man instead of being assassinated, Braham would lift his hands with joy at the breathtaking monument. But he didn’t die of old age. And if Lincoln had lived, nothing would have stopped him from receiving the accolades he so richly deserved. The heat of vengeance, unlike anything Braham had ever felt before, seared him, leaving him rough-edged and blackened. He would return to his time, and he would find a way to stop Booth, or he’d die trying.

Charlotte joined him at the base of the statue, slipping her cold hand into his.

“The sculptor depicted him as I know him,” Braham said, his voice quavering. He breathed slowly, fighting for control, and he rubbed Charlotte’s fingers against the side of his leg to warm them. “Worn, but strong. One hand is clenched, representing his determination, the other more open, showing his compassion. He was a humble man. He would never have agreed to a memorial of this magnitude.”

“He deserved a memorial equal to what he did for the country,” she said.

“He died too soon.” Braham’s pain echoed in his gravelly voice. “If the president had lived his full life, they couldn’t have built a memorial big enough to equal his contribution. I will go back, find the people responsible, and stop the assassination from happening.”

“The conspirators were tried, and convicted, and four,” she said, holding up her fingers, “were hanged.”

Braham dropped her hand he’d been holding, turned, and headed for the stairs. He wanted to run away and grieve for the man he loved, whose friendship he cherished and whose wisdom he sought. Who would advise him now?

Charlotte followed him. “Braham, wait.”

When he reached the top of the stairs, he grabbed the column for support again and stared out over a pool of water and the Washington Monument. “The conspirators won’t need to be punished, because the assassination will never happen.”

She glanced around, then leaned in, and said in a low voice, “You can’t