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

and Sean drank and talked late into the night and, in a moment of weakness, Sean asked when it would all end. Braham gave him a peek into the future. Knowing the date seemed to lessen Sean’s fears for his family and property. Although Braham didn’t tell Sean about Lincoln’s assassination, he did imply the outcome of the war, for many people in the South at least, would take decades, if not centuries, to accept. Now, as Braham prepared to leave Lexington, he wrestled again with the decisions he had made.

“All aboard,” the station manager announced.

Braham lingered on the platform, statue still, part of him pulled in a westerly direction, and the other determined to go east.

“All abooaaard.”

The train began to chug slowly out of the station. If he didn’t go now, he wouldn’t go at all. Why am I hesitating? Half the train passed the platform and still he didn’t budge.

Charlotte’s face flashed before his eyes, so did Lincoln’s. Without honor, Braham had nothing. He had no choice. He snatched up the food basket Sukey had prepared for him and chased after the train. As the caboose neared the end of the platform, Braham grabbed the car’s iron railing and hoisted himself aboard. He claimed a cracked leather seat in the back of the musty-smelling car, where he sat very still, staring off at nothing for a long time, with a gunmetal taste in his mouth.

The wheels clacked as they rolled off one rail onto the next. The snow flurries had stopped, leaving behind a brilliantly clear sky. The rolling hills of Kentucky’s Bluegrass Region passed by quickly, one conical hill after the other. Dormant tobacco fields dominated the landscape while the weeks he’d spent in the twenty-first century dominated his thoughts—Charlotte’s almond-shaped blue eyes and full, kissable lips, Jack’s friendship, the Internet, driving a car with wind blowing in his face from the open windows. The lure of these memories had to be sealed away, hidden in his heart—forever.

In hindsight, the skirmish at MacKlenna Farm had been a blessing. The next time he encountered men with guns, he would be protected by his battle-hardened determination, now fully prepared to engage the enemy.

28

Washington City, December 1864

The train arrived in Washington two days later, during a cold December rain. At a station prior to his final destination, he’d gotten off and sent a telegram to his Lafayette Square townhouse butler, advising the staff of his arrival. He often stayed in the city instead of taking the long ride out to Georgetown, and meeting with Lincoln and Stanton should keep him in Washington for at least a day or two. After a bath and change of clothes, he would present himself to the president and secretary of war.

Though he knew they would press him for an explanation, he also knew he could never tell them the truth unless he wanted to be committed to the Government Hospital for the Insane. He would have to use the same answer he gave the police officers: I don’t have any memory of what happened.

As to where he had been for the last few weeks, he would have to tell them Doctor Mallory had kept him at an undisclosed location until he was fit to travel. Would they believe him? He shrugged. They were more likely to believe a lie than the truth. At this point, all they cared about was when he’d be ready to return to work.

Two hours later he strode, outwardly confident at least, into the White House. When he reached the second floor, he ran into the president’s short-tempered, dyspeptic private secretary, John Nicolay. Braham got along well enough with Nicolay, but he preferred to deal with Lincoln’s other private secretary, the witty John Hay.

“Major McCabe, you’re alive. Mr. Lincoln will be pleased. Come quickly. He’s descending the private stairs to visit the War Department. We’ll catch up to him in the basement.” The gaslights threw a warm, mellow glow along a stuffy hallway lined with unwashed patrons. “We’ve had no news of you since Doctor Mallory was sent to arrange your escape. We assumed you were dead.”

Braham followed the secretary through the colonnade. “I should be, but I’m not yet.”

“We’re greatly relieved,” Nicolay said. “There he is.” A dozen yards ahead, the president lumbered across the lawn. “Mr. Lincoln. Mr. Lincoln. Wait, Mr. Lincoln.” Nicolay waved his arms.

The president stopped and turned. When he saw Braham, he opened his long arms. “The prodigal has returned.”

Braham jogged toward Lincoln, arriving breathless, his hand braced on his belly. Lincoln embraced him. “We heard you were fatally shot, and we feared you were dead. We’ve had no word, but here you stand. Doctor Mallory performed an astounding feat of magic.”

Braham lowered his eyes, shaking his head. “I can’t explain it any other way.”

“Nicolay, find the doctor. I want him to work his magic and end this terrible war.” The president took Braham’s hand and clasped it between his own. “I prayed for your return. My prayers have been answered.”

“Congratulations on yer reelection,” Braham said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to vote.”

“It was a hard-fought campaign. The victory at Cedar Creek was instrumental.”

“Ye need to be careful now. It’s even more dangerous for ye. I even dreamed ye would be attacked,” Braham said.

“Mrs. Lincoln has one every night. I’ll tell you what I tell her. ‘I confess, the first two or three threats made me uncomfortable, but having become familiar, I pay them little attention.’ Besides, I have always thought there’s a divinity that shapes our ends…”

Braham finished the quote from Hamlet. “Rough-hew them how we will—Maybe so, Mr. President, but—”

The president waved away Braham’s worry with a flip of his hand. “Tell me, Major, what’s the news from Richmond?”

If he couldn’t convince the president to take the threats seriously, Braham would implement his own plan, even though he didn’t, as of yet, have one completely formed.

“There’s increasing desolation and rampant inflation. The election and fall of Atlanta has demoralized