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

Point, because of your repeated scurries into the bushes, I suspected. By the time we reached Richmond, I was sure.”

She had the grace to blush slightly. “You should have told me.”

“It would have eroded your confidence.”

She attempted a smile of acknowledgement. “You’re probably right.”

Gaylord made a slight bow. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll see to the preparations.” He departed at once, leaving Charlotte staring out into space, her face scrunched in concentration.

Jack poured two glasses of whisky and handed one to his sister.

“Thanks.” She pointed her glass in the direction of Gaylord’s withdrawal. “I’d call that a dump truck full of malleable concrete quickly set into a plan. No heroics needed. Just go here. Do that.”

Jack raised his drink and gave a chortle. “Nope. It’s the Cosmos working overtime.” He emptied the glass and set the crystal on the table. “I’m going to pack.”

After Jack left the room, Charlotte leaned back in the chair and twirled a pencil between her fingers. It popped out of her hand and hit the floor. When she reached for it, she spotted the corner of a familiar-looking piece of paper peeking out from under one of the books she had swatted off the desk. She picked up the paper embossed with the Executive Mansion. She placed the president’s pass dated October 22, 1864 on top of the desk.

No heroics needed. Just go here. Do that.

Things were rarely so simple, though, and she seriously doubted this would be an exception.

50

Richmond, Virginia, March 31, 1865

Charlotte, Jack, and Gaylord dismounted at the same tumbledown farmhouse on the outskirts of Richmond where they’d paused months earlier. A warm breath of wind carried the sweet scent of flowering dogwoods, and their fragrance and the peace of the new-growth forest soothed her. Of course, the calm was only temporary, but she welcomed the short-term respite with relief.

During most of the trip Jack had jotted notes in his journal. “The novel is taking shape,” was all he would say when questioned, with the added caveat that if anything happened to him, she had to save the journal. If anyone from the nineteenth century read his notes, more than Lincoln’s legacy could be at stake. He didn’t elaborate further, which was typical for him when developing a new story. Later, if she plied him with enough whisky, he might reveal a hint of the plot, but it would require her to drink as much as he did. For the foreseeable future, inebriation wasn’t on her to-do list.

Gaylord gathered the horses in a cozy knot, and left them hobbled and snorting. Vapor from their mingled breaths formed clouds of white in the predawn light. With the horses settled, he pried up a porch floorboard and removed a metal box. Inside were several neatly folded sheets of paper. He gave them a quick perusal then handed them to Jack.

“Those are special passes to get us through to Richmond. The other papers identify us as essential government employees. Without the documents, we could be conscripted and sent to the front lines.”

“We’re bypassing the checkpoints, though, right?” Jack asked.

Gaylord nodded. “If you’re stopped by the Rebs, you’ll need a pass, or they’ll toss you in Castle Thunder.”

Jack stuffed the papers inside his jacket. “If I enter the prison, I’d rather it be on my terms, not theirs.”

While Gaylord returned the box to its hole, Jack sat on the stoop and spread out a map drawn on tracing linen. Charlotte hunched beside him, studying the vicinity of Richmond and the positions of the battery defenses. He pointed to a spot on the northeast side of Richmond. “By my calculation, we’re here.”

Gaylord bent over Jack’s shoulder, hands on his knees, viewing the map. “We’re within the three-mile radius of the city on the northwest side. Both armies have holes in their defenses.” He drew a line with his finger. “We’ll sneak through this way.”

“Is it the way we went last time?” Charlotte asked.

“The Rebs closed the hole we used, but they opened another one.”

“And if the new one is closed?” Jack asked.

Gaylord raised his shoulders in the faintest of shrugs. “We’ll find a way through the woods. Might take longer, but we’ll get there.”

As if acknowledging the truth of Gaylord’s statement, the wind sighed softly through the budding foliage, ruffling the edges of the map.

“Give me the canteens and I’ll refill them,” she said.

Jack’s eyes narrowed to crinkled slits as he scanned the encroaching woods. “Where?”

She jerked her thumb over her shoulder toward the spring Gaylord had shown her the last time. “Your preternatural hearing must need a tune-up.”

Jack’s eyes flicked up, assessing the surroundings, as he smiled enigmatically. “Are you talking about the spring hidden behind the scrubby growth of evergreens to the right of us, or the trickle of water over stone and pebbles to the left of us?”

She gave a snort. “Ha-ha.”

Jack refolded the map and returned it to his saddlebags. “Don’t be gone long.”

She gathered up the canteens and a small hygiene kit before trudging, mud-splattered and achy, off to the creek for her morning ablutions. Imagining a hot shower and breakfast, she momentarily considered zapping herself back to the twenty-first century, but the idea drifted away on the breeze like dandelion fluff. If she quit and went home, she’d have to give up on the task she’d begun, and quitting wasn’t in her genes.

Braham’s incarceration in Castle Thunder, a rat-infested hellhole with sadistic guards, no sanitation, and barely enough food to survive, weighed heavily on her mind. Gaylord told her he’d heard Braham had been dumped into the dungeon, which guaranteed he’d be among the prisoners who were tortured.

She pressed her hands against her chest, feeling hollowness there, an emptiness carved into her heart the night at Chimborazo when she’d looked into Braham’s eyes and known she couldn’t let him die. Putting him back together again after a second rescue wouldn’t be easy. Not that it had been last time, but then she had the advantages of twenty-first