“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 stop it. You can’t undo all this.” She waved her hands to encompass the building and grounds.
He started down the stairs, ignoring her plea. Although she had met Lincoln, the president was still only a marble statue to her. She didn’t love him. If she did, she would want to right this wrong, too.
“I. Won’t. Take. You. Back.”
The breath froze in his lungs. No one had ever told him they wouldn’t do what he wanted done or used such a tone of voice—not a client, not an employee, not a soldier, and certainly not a woman.
He gritted his teeth and turned to look up at her, the sun shining in his eyes. A shadow passed over. Then, as if lightning had struck, the pieces of his plan fell into place. He knew how he was going to get back, and he didn’t need Charlotte or her brooch to get there. When the sun shone again, he said calmly, “We’ll work this out.”
“Yes, I believe we will.” Charlotte’s flat tone and blank stare managed to convey the exact opposite.
He fell silent for several moments then roused himself as though coming awake after a bad dream. “Where are we having lunch?”
She checked her phone for a message. “Jack made reservations at the Occidental Grill & Seafood at the Willard Hotel. They have the best seafood in Washington.”
Braham raised one eyebrow and crooked up a corner of his mouth in a too-knowing grin. “The Willard is still in operation? If so, I wouldn’t eat the seafood.”
Smiling, she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. “The food has improved since you were there. I heard they hired a new chef.”
18
Mallory Plantation, Richmond, Virginia, Present Day
After dinner Charlotte and Braham took their coffee to the library so Charlotte could teach him how to use the iPad. “You can access the digital musical collection from here,” she said, pointing to an icon. Braham selected an overture by Mozart. When the music streamed from the hi-fi wireless speaker, his feet hit the floor.
“Where’s the music coming from?”
“The speaker over there, on the bookshelf next to the window.”
He found the source nestled on a lower shelf in the bookcase and knelt to examine it. No matter how she tried, she couldn’t take her eyes off him. T
he plaid sport shirt Jack had loaned him stretched tight across his back and shoulders, highlighting his muscles. His hair, still damp from a shower, hung loose over his collar in tousled waves. She had seen almost every inch of his body, and she marveled at how beautifully God had knitted him together. Perfect proportions. Eye-catching. And he’d certainly caught her eye. She snapped pictures of him using the iPad camera. Then chastised herself for drooling over her patient. There were lines doctors didn’t cross, and she was tiptoeing along the edge.
She took a breath, desperately needing a distraction. She tapped her fingers on the iPad cover. “Now you know how to turn on the iPad and have listened to Jack’s long explanation of the Internet, what other questions do you have? Or would you prefer to give me something to research?”
He stood and searched the titles of the books on the shelf in front of him. He pulled one out and leafed through it. “See if Montgomery Winery is still in existence.”
Charlotte typed in the name. “This isn’t your winery, is it?”
“My friend Cullen Montgomery owns it, or did in 1864.”
The website opened and she clicked on the About page. “Looks like his descendants own it now. Meredith Montgomery is the current president, and the winery has been in the family for more than a hundred and sixty years. She’s married to renowned Thoroughbred breeder Elliott Fraser.”
Braham grabbed the edge of the bookcase, rattling knickknacks on the shelf.
She looked up, startled by the noise. Braham’s face had lost all color. She leaned forward in her seat with a slight pang, knowing he didn’t want to be coddled, but she was prepared to go to him if he needed help. “Are you okay?”
He waved away her concern, but his color didn’t return. “Fine. Keep reading.”
She did, but her eyes kept darting between the iPad and her patient. “The Frasers have one son. When not at the winery, they split their time between a farm in Kentucky and an estate in the Scottish Highlands.”
Braham sat heavily in the nearest wing chair, rocking it slightly, and put his head in his hands.
Charlotte jumped up then, dropping the iPad on the table next to the sofa and rushing to his side. “You’re not okay. What hurts?”
“Must have been all the stairs I climbed. My legs gave out.”
She pushed a footstool over to his chair and lifted his legs. “Put your feet on the stool. I’ll get you some water.”
He shook his head. “No water. Whisky.”
She gave his arm a reassuring squeeze, and the rigid muscles beneath her hand eased a little.
The visiting cat jumped off the sofa and followed her across the room to the liquor cabinet, where she rubbed up against her legs. Charlotte scratched her behind the ears. “Go find Jack. Go.” The cat skedaddled. “Good luck,” she said to the vanishing animal. When Jack was in writing mode, he was capable of ignoring fire alarms.
She scooped ice into two highball glasses then splashed whisky over the cubes. The Mozart overture ended and the room-temperature spirits cracked the ice, roaring like an avalanche in the silence.
She handed Braham a drink. “Do you feel dizzy?”
“I’m fine.” He took a long sip and the color slowly returned to his face.
Satisfied he wasn’t in any physical distress, she returned to her spot on the sofa and was rejoined by the cat. “Struck out, huh?” She curled up beside Charlotte, purring.
“What else is written about the Montgomerys and Frasers?” Braham asked.
A chunk of wood split in the fireplace with a loud crack, and sent a swirl of sparks up the chimney and the scent of hickory into the room.
Charlotte picked up the iPad, tucked her feet up under her, and read more from the website. “The winery had a successful launch of a new chardonnay a couple of years ago. The wine is called Cailean. I’ve seen the wine at the liquor store but haven’t tasted it.”
“Cailean means child in Gaelic.”
She cocked her head in surprise. “Do you speak the language?”
“Gaelic, Latin, Italian, Spanish, and French.”
She wanted to ask him to translate the inscription on the brooch, but she didn’t dare. They’d start arguing again.
“Jack’s also a polyglot. He can’t speak Gaelic, but he can speak the other ones, plus Greek, Japanese, and German.”
Jack entered the room, heading straight for the liquor cabinet. “And a little bit of Russian.” He poured a drink. “I just got off the phone with my agent. She wants me in Atlanta tomorrow for two days. I’ll have a car pick me up in the morning. Which means you can drive mine home and leave your car for Braham to practice with.”
She gave Jack a brief, shocked laugh. “You can’t leave Braham here by himself. He can come to Richmond and stay with me.”
Braham rattled the ice in his glass. “I’ve been taking care of myself for a number of years. I can manage. Besides, I want to learn to drive, which I can’t do safely in the city.”
She removed a blue-patterned scrunchie from her long ponytail, finger-combed her hair, pulled it together, and then looped the tie around her hair again. Fiddling with her hair gave her a minute to think instead of spitting out her first response—I’m not leaving you by yourself.
“You just got out of the hospital and should have a caregiver close by. I’d stay here, but I’m on call for the next two nights.”
“If you’re working during the day and on call at night, what’s the difference? He’d still be alone.”
“The difference is I’d only be five minutes away.”
“It’s only two days. He can manage.”
“Oh bloody hell, Jack. Stop thinking about what’s most convenient for you and think about your guest.”
“I am, sis. Braham would much rather stay here where he’s familiar with his surroundings than spend two days stuck in your house where he can’t even see the river. Right?” Jack said, glancing at Braham.
Braham cocked his brow. “Right.”
Jack winked at Charlotte. “See? Told you.” He sipped his drink. “Now, what did I hear about a winery?”
She sighed, shaking her head. Sometimes it was pointless to argue with her brother. He could bulldoze his way up, down, and all around her. If she was going to be home she’d have a better argument, but she had a full schedule, so she accepted defeat and moved on.
“Braham’s friend started a winery in Napa,” she said. “It’s still in existence and is operated by his descendants. It boasts the longest continuous operation of any winery in the country.”
Jack gave her a broad smile. “A long weekend in the wine country would be nice. I can schedule a book signing to make the trip tax deductible.” He tossed back his drink. “I’ll check my calendar later, but right now I’ve got work to finish. I’ll be in my office.”
“Would you like to visit the winery?” Charlotte asked Braham.
He gave an agitated sigh and took a long swallow of his drink. “Maybe. Is there any more information about the man she married or his farm?”
Charlotte Googled Elliott Fraser. “He breeds Thoroughbreds and owns MacKlenna Farm in Lexington, Kentucky. The farm is a three-thousand-acre Thoroughbred breeding and training facility established in 1790. Wow. Impressive. The farm has also had several Kentucky Derby and Triple Crown winners.”
Jack returned to the library. “Did you say MacKlenna Farm?”
“If you’re going to eavesdrop, why don’t you stay in here?” Charlotte said.
“I can’t, really. But did you say MacKlenna Farm?”
“Have you heard of it?”
“I met Elliott Fraser and Sean MacKlenna several years ago when I went to the Kentucky Derby. You had an emergency and couldn’t get away. I’m glad you didn’t go. Fraser would have hit on you. The guy is a drinker and a player.”
“Not anymore,” Charlotte said.
Jack scooted the cat out of the way and sat down next to Charlotte. “Guys like him don’t change. Let me see his picture.”
> Charlotte clicked on several pictures of Elliott with his wife and child. “This isn’t the face of a womanizer.”
“Does it say anything about the farm’s stallions?” Braham asked.
“The stallion with the smallest stud fee, five thousand dollars, is an eight-year-old named Stormy.” Jack whistled. “What a horse. Look at this picture.” He held up the iPad, showing off a magnificent stallion with three white stockings.
Braham took the iPad from Jack with a shaking hand. “I’d let this horse service my finest mare any day of the week. He’s a winner.” Braham handed back the iPad and poured another drink. “What time do ye leave in the morning?”
“The car will be here at six,” Jack said. “I’ve got an early flight.”
“I’ll be up before ye leave,” Braham said. “I don’t want to miss a cup of yer coffee.”
“You can at least show him how to make it himself,” Charlotte said.
“Oh, he knows. He prefers to have it ready when he comes into the kitchen in the morning. He can’t stay at your house. You don’t even have a coffeepot.”
“I don’t need one. There’s a Starbucks at the corner.”
Jack shook his head. “Sad.”
“I’m turning in. It’s been a long day. Good night,” Braham said.
“Hey, if you need cash while I’m gone, there’s a little bit in the top drawer of my desk.”
Charlotte laughed. “It’s his pizza delivery money.”
“Glad to know. The pizza we had yesterday for lunch was good.” He left the room, and a minute later they heard his bedroom door close.
“He had a rough day,” Charlotte said. “You should have seen him at the Lincoln Memorial. It was heartbreaking.”
“Then you were the best person to be with him.”
“Not necessarily,” Charlotte said. “I wish I knew what he was thinking. He’s a very private person.”
The Sapphire Brooch Page 13
