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

century medicine. Until she knew the extent of his injuries, there was nothing she could do except worry, which she chose not to do. As a little girl, she had memorized a worry verse from the Book of Matthew:

Therefore, do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.

Her anxieties firmly squelched, she returned to the farmhouse with refilled canteens and feeling somewhat refreshed.

“If you’ll carry your haversack and water, I’ll carry your carpetbag,” Jack said.

She slung the haversack strap over her shoulder. “Sure. Thanks.”

The weight of the tight strap pressing around her chest triggered a memory of archery class at youth camp. Instead of a quiver of arrows, she now carried a quiver of memories—the musky scent of Braham and the curve of his mouth as it fit perfectly against hers. In a recent disturbing dream, she had looked over the shoulder of a master painter and watched intently while he painted the curve of Braham’s mouth, then painted the curve of hers, making one mouth. When the artist completed the painting, he sliced the canvas in half, leaving two unfinished works of art. She had awakened in a cold sweat and ended up spending the hours until sunrise sitting in a rocking chair, thinking.

Dawn was coming now, casting a bluish-yellow glow above a landscape dotted with wildflowers. When the sun came up, so would a profusion of brilliant colors, the work of a true master painter.

Gaylord made a roundup motion with his finger. “Let’s go.”

She stopped ruminating and hefted the bag again, hoping the physical weight would distract her from the increasing weight of her worry. Pressing her right boot into the damp soil, next her left, then her right and left again, she eased into a comfortable stride which would keep her from lagging too far behind the men.

Allowing herself a small smile, she couldn’t help thinking if Braham knew she and Jack were risking their lives to rescue him, the force of his explosive reaction would register on the Richter scale. But Braham’s opinion in this case was irrelevant.

Jack had promised he would devise a plan by the time they reached Richmond. As far as she knew, he had yet to make it to the first rung on his plotting ladder. She was in favor of carrying Braham off to the future again, but it would only solve the immediate problem. He would merely turn around and come back to the nineteenth century, and there was no way she was going to live in a Groundhog Day time loop.

“Jack.” She hurried up next to him, ducking under a low-hanging willow branch. “Do you have a plan yet?”

He slowed, pushing aside the hanging veil of branches to make room for her on the path and letting Gaylord gain a few yards on them. When they were safely out of earshot, Jack said, “The prisoners will be evacuated Sunday night for a forced march south.”

She repositioned her haversack to ease the load on her shoulders, thinking about what dangers the evacuation would mean for Braham. “Hmm. Then we have to get him out before then.”

“I don’t think so. We can use the evacuation to our advantage.”

“What are you going to do? Pull him out of line while they’re marching out of town? What if he’s disoriented and resists?”

Jack put his finger to his lips, glancing ahead. “Shhh. The softest cry carries out here.”

Charlotte covered her mouth, realizing her voice could have carried across the field in the morning stillness. She whispered between her fingers. “We don’t know what condition he’s in. He could cause a disturbance by not realizing we are there to help him. He has to know what to expect.”

Gaylord stopped and signaled for them to catch up and follow the tree line to the right. In a low voice, he said, “Heard part of what you said. I agree. We need to get a message to the major.”

She moved to stand beside Gaylord, keeping her voice low, too. “A Confederate doctor could get inside easily.”

Jack came to a halt, pointing a finger at her. “You can get your crazy idea out of your head right now. You’re not going in there.”

She swatted at his finger. “Put your dictatorial brother finger away. I’m no longer your baby sister. I’m almost forty years old and can make my own decisions. If it’s a possibility, we can’t rule it out. I got into a Confederate hospital. I can find a way to get into a prison, too.”

Gaylord came up between the siblings, giving a small, amused sort of snort. “Miss Van Lew will have suggestions. We’ll sort out how to make it happen together.”

For the next hour Gaylord skirted around rebel forces, taking roads and paths through the countryside and bypassing the home guards manning checkpoints. As they neared the city, Gaylord followed the James River to the southeast. Slowly, in the chill of the morning, they made their way through to the woods lining the rushing river, swollen from early spring rain.

Charlotte ducked into a dense stand of trees and changed out of men’s clothing and into a traveling dress. Her preference was not to change, but they didn’t have work papers for another man, and women didn’t need them.

The trio arrived in Richmond, passing by the Tredegar Iron Works. At Cary Street, Gaylord left them with instructions to make their way to Miss Van Lew’s Grace Street residence.

“She might have news of the major,” he said in parting.

“If you hear anything, please send word.” Her fear for Braham was almost strangling. Since he had already been tried, convicted, and sentenced, he could have been hanged by now.

No, impossible. She would know. There would be barbed wire tightening around her heart, a sharp tug in her gut, the intensity would create a cosmic disturbance. Maybe she’d be the only one to feel it, but it wouldn’t diminish the intensity of the disturbance.

He was alive, and she knew it.

He