Tate barked.
Elliott patted the dog’s head. “That’s the most excitement we’ve seen from ye in months. Now get down.” Tate sat, his tongue lolling.
“Where’s Tabor?” Braham asked. “As I remember, they were never far apart.”
A Maine Coon cat sauntered out of the front room.
“There ye are.” Gingerly, Braham squatted and gave Tabor a rub, too. “It’s been a long time, old girl. It was a hard trip we made.” He glanced up at Elliott while continuing Tabor’s rub. “My crossing wasn’t so bad, but Kit, Cullen, and the critters had it much worse.”
Elliott gave Braham’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “Water under the bridge now. Kit and Cullen eventually got to where they needed to be.”
Braham straightened, grimacing. “Now I’m in a similar situation.”
Elliott grabbed a jacket and a green cap with a MacKlenna Farm symbol from a coat rack by the door. Jack had worn a similar cap with New York Yankees written on it. Braham hadn’t wanted to offend Jack by asking why a good Southerner wore a Yankee cap.
“Cocktails are served at five in the library. Some of my staff joins us, including Kevin and David. They’ll be glad to meet ye. They’re the only ones here besides Meredith who know the truth about Kit.”
“If my memory serves, Kit called Kevin yer aide and David yer bodyguard.”
“Among other things—”
“Doctor Fraser,” an older woman called from the back of the house. “Kevin said you’ve got company. Is he staying for dinner? I need to know.”
Elliott zipped up his jacket. “Yes, Mrs. Collins. He’ll stay for dinner, and please have the guest room prepared.”
Braham shoved his hands into his pockets. “I can’t—”
Elliott held up his hand, interrupting Braham. “Trust me. It’s simpler this way.”
“But I can’t—”
Elliott gave him a direct look Braham found easy to interpret. He’d seen it on the faces of every general he’d ever met. “If I decide to loan ye Kit’s brooch, ye won’t need the room. If I decide not to, ye will. In that case, I’ll fly ye back to Richmond in the morning and have someone drive the car. Unless yer Virginia host shows up on my doorstep, too.”
“I don’t know how she could.”
“Don’t ever doubt the power of a woman, the Internet, or a tracking device.”
Dread hung in a tight knot in the back of Braham’s throat. “What’s a tracking device?”
Elliott pointed to a nearby table. “That.” He picked up a small black box and tossed it to Braham. “The owner of the car ye were driving knows exactly where ye are now.”
Braham’s heart skipped several beats. “This wasn’t in the car’s manual. I would have read about it.”
Elliott laughed. “There’s no way ye can learn all ye need to know by reading a damn manual. If ye and Kit aren’t two birds in the same nest. I swear, she thought she could go back in time and cross the Oregon Trail because she had been in reenactments. She had a lot to learn when she got there, didn’t she?”
He pursed his lips, thinking. If Charlotte and Jack knew where he was, they could show up at the door any minute. Or would they? Charlotte wouldn’t even know he was gone until after seven o’clock. Then she and Jack would have to talk, and then they would have to get to the farm. He had at least twelve hours to convince Elliott to loan him the ruby brooch.
“She did have a lot to learn,” Braham said. “Mostly about herself.”
“Changed history, too.” He put his arm around Braham’s shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go see my son ride his pony.”
Braham stopped when he spotted a portrait of a young pregnant Kit hanging on the wall. “Sean painted this a few weeks before Thomas was born. He had an awful time getting her to sit still.”
“No one recognizes her as the young girl who grew up here. I think it’s the extra weight she’s carrying in her face.”
Braham gazed fondly at the portrait. Would he ever see her again? When they had said their good-byes in California before he left for the war in 1861, they both knew it was a possibility, although they hadn’t discussed it. Now he was in the house she grew up in, he ached to see her again.
“It would break her heart if I didn’t come home,” Braham said.
Elliott gave him a rigid smile. “Kit didn’t fight fair either.”
Braham mirrored Elliott’s smile. “She said she learned it from ye.”
Elliott readjusted his already-straight ball cap. “I’ll give ye my decision after dinner.”
Braham had the distinct feeling Elliott was stalling. But why? It wasn’t like he could search the Internet for information about him. Braham didn’t exist in the present century. And there was no way Elliott could find out about Charlotte and Jack. Braham had been careful not to mention any names.
Elliott’s phone beeped. He checked the message. “James Cullen’s waiting. He’s taking his first jump today.”
Braham took a step backward, slapping a hand over his chest as if that could contain his racing heart. “A two-year-old?”
“Don’t look so shocked. How do ye think Kit learned to ride?”
“But not at two.”
“Ye’re right. She was eighteen months when I put her on her first pony. Meredith wouldn’t let James Cullen on a horse before he turned two. We compromised at twenty months. Now he’s almost three. Come on. If I miss this big event, I’m good as dead.”
They hurried out of the house with Braham shaking his head. They reached the paddock just as the trainer lined James Cullen up to jump a beam on the ground. Meredith sat on the top rung of the fence, softly hissing. Elliott put his arm around, patting her hip gently. “How’s he doing?”
“He’s fearless. But his mother is not.”
“Did ye double-check the harness?”
“And the helmet,” she said, gripping the fence rail. “No cracks.”
“Ye should have bought a new one. The one he’s wearing could have a hairline crack.”
She looked down her nose at him. “I went over the dang thing with a magnifying glass. It’s fine.”
Braham rested his foot on the bottom fence rail, noticing Meredith’s knuckles were white. He chuckled. Although projecting calm, she was still anxious. So much like Kit.
Elliott entered the paddock and leaned against the fence, arms folded, one leg crossed over the other at the ankles. His posture was relaxed, but his lips were pulled tight between his teeth.
“The first time I saw Kit ride, she was racing Stormy at Fort Laramie. She was riding up over his neck. I didn’t think she could possibly keep her seat. Best damn race I’ve ever seen. Unconventional, but typical Kit,” Braham said.
“Elliott raised her, you’re her cousin, and I’m her six-times-great-granddaughter. When you see her again, will you tell her about Elliott and me and little James Cullen?”
Braham gave her a lopsided smile, reflecting his anxiety. “Do ye think I will?”
“What? See her again?” Meredith gave him a closed-lip smile which signaled to Braham she knew something but wasn’t comfortable sharing it. “Elliott knows Kit loves you, and he would do anything for her. What do you think?”
Braham breathed a bit easier. It was what he’d been counting on.
James Cullen’s pony walked over the jump and everyone clapped. Kevin led the pony to Elliott, who unbuckled his son. “Who’s my winning jockey today?”
“I am, Daddy. Can I ride Stormy now?”
Elliott hugged him. “Not today, but soon.”
Meredith jumped off the fence and took her son out of Elliott’s arms, removing the helmet. “I’m so proud of you.”
“Did I jump my horse like you do, Mommy?”
She kissed his cheek. “You sure did. Are you ready for a snack?”
He licked his lips. “I want a cupcake.”
“Maybe after dinner.”
“When we celebrate my ’complishment?” Elliott traded James Cullen’s helmet
for a miniature MacKlenna Farm cap, and the lad straightened it on his head exactly as Braham had seen Elliott do earlier.
Elliott laughed and tugged on the cap’s bill. “Sure, we’ll celebrate yer accomplishment.”
Although Braham was godfather to Kit’s children and loved them dearly, he hadn’t given much thought to having any of his own, but seeing Elliott with his son reminded Braham of his own father and the love they had shared. Maybe after the war he’d look for a wife, have children, and teach his son to ride a pony.
“If James Cullen is anything like Kit, ye won’t keep him on a pony for long. He’ll be champing the bit for a bigger, faster horse.”
“Which will be his mother’s decision,” Elliott said. “I won round one when he got to ride at twenty months. She gets to decide when the lad can graduate to a bigger mount.”
“Kit and Cullen’s biggest arguments have been over similar issues. They’re learning the art of compromise.”
Elliott threw back his head and laughed. “Cullen must be teaching her the art, because she certainly didn’t learn it from her father or me.” He picked up his son’s helmet. “Let’s go over to the stallion barn. Stormy’s covering a mare at two o’clock.”
They walked along an interior road lined with overlapping trees that formed a fall-colored canopy. Braham reflected on the quiet serenity around him. No guns. No cannon fire. No screaming soldiers. Yet in a matter of hours, if Elliott did what Meredith had predicted he would do, Braham would return to the war. It would only last a few more months, and then he could return to California, to his law practice, his vineyards, and his life.
Elliott interrupted Braham’s thoughts. “Stormy’s first yearlings will sell in February. Since he doesn’t have any winnings or successful offspring, we’re all but giving away breeding rights this season. Next year should be better. With his pedigree, he’s bound to produce Grade One stakes winners.”
“How many live covers will he do this year?” Braham asked.
“He has a book of two hundred,” Elliott said.
“Kit has explained how things are done now in the breeding business. It’s more complicated.”
“A lot of money is at stake.”
When Braham entered the dark, oak-paneled stallion complex, he gave a low whistle so as to not startle the horses. “These stallions live better than the majority of the people in the nineteenth century.”
There were six stalls with brass nameplates hanging on each. A brick floor and a cupola gave the barn a fit-for-a-king appearance.
A handler dressed in heavy boots led Stormy into a larger room with a rubber floor.
“Stormy is a few pounds heavier than the last time I saw him.”
“He lost a wee bit of weight during Kit’s journey.”
A mare restrained with a twitch waited for the stallion, the swathe of her tail held high, signaling her readiness. Stormy approached at an angle several feet from her nearside, instinctively avoiding startling her and causing her to kick out. He was fully erect. His handler allowed him to mount the mare. The mare lurched forward, but not far enough to put stress on the stallion’s great muscles, already tense and straining in the act of mating. He signaled ejaculation by flagging his tail. A handler was ready with a bucket to catch the spillage as the stallion withdrew. From start to finish, it only took moments. Once the cover was complete, Elliott led Braham into a side room.
“They’ll examine the semen under a microscope to confirm viable sperm,” Elliott said. They stood out of the way, waiting patiently until the person looking through a microscope announced it had been a good cover. Elliott smiled, and he and Braham ambled back toward the house with Tate on their heels.
“Our stallions are too valuable to take any more risks than absolutely necessary. Everything is choreographed.” Elliott opened the back door leading into the kitchen. “Are ye hungry? Mrs. Collins can fix ye a sandwich to hold ye until dinner.”
The aroma of roasting meat made Braham’s mouth water and his stomach rumble. “I can wait.”
The woman working at the stove said, “You can’t come into my kitchen hungry and not eat. I fed Doctor Fraser a couple of hours ago, so the complaining stomach I hear ain’t his. You sit. I’ll whip you up enough food to put hair on that big chest of yours.”
Braham gave her a teasing smile. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I’ll leave ye with Mrs. Collins,” Elliott said. “I need to return a couple of calls.”
Braham read the Lexington Herald-Leader newspaper while he waited. Every article he read generated a dozen questions, and he wished he had Charlotte’s iPad. The idea of access to unlimited knowledge both baffled and intrigued him. There were several things about the twenty-first century he’d miss, especially Charlotte.
He hadn’t even had a chance to kiss her.
20
MacKlenna Farm, Lexington, Kentucky – Present Day
Elliott entered his office already busy checking emails on his smartphone. He closed the door behind him. David was sitting at the conference table with two laptops, notes scribbled on a legal pad, and the tracking device from Braham’s car.
Elliott sat next to David and picked up the device. “Thanks for leaving this on the hall table. The expression on Braham’s face told me he had no idea what it was. So what’d ye find out about him?”
David put down his pen and picked up the legal pad. “The vehicle is registered to Doctor Charlotte Mallory, the daughter of Jackson and Margaret Mallory. Both parents were US Senators. Both died in office. Charlotte went to Duke Medical School, did her internship and residency at Cornell, then returned to Richmond to practice medicine and teach. She has an outstanding reputation. No malpractice claims. Is well thought of by her colleagues. She’s a marathoner. Has qualified for Boston but cancelled. No reason given.”
“Probably her schedule,” Elliott said. “What else?”
“Her brother, Jack Mallory, is a New York Times best-selling author.”
Elliott nodded his approval. “I’ve read his books. He writes mysteries and suspense. Good storyteller.”
David continued. “Neither one is married. Jack resides at the family plantation, which has been owned by the Mallorys since 1613.”
“One family?” Elliott was not only surprised but thunderstruck. “Since close to the founding of Jamestown, which was a long time ago.”
David looked at him, his eyebrows raised in an unspoken question. “How do ye know so much US history?”
“After horses, history was Sean’s favorite topic.”
“Which Sean?”
“Kit’s adoptive father, Sean the sixth.” Elliott tugged on his chin. “Matter of fact, Sean the fifth was a bit of a history nut, too. They talked. I listened. They were proud of the farm’s history. It was once part of Virginia, given by a land grant to Thomas MacKlenna in 1763. But it isn’t as old as the Mallorys’. Very impressive.”
David sat back, shaking his head. “Do ye want to hear this or not?”
“Not all at once. I probably paid a thousand bucks for the quick information. I’d like to savor it a bit at a time. Feels more like I’m getting my money’s worth.”
David stood, dropping the legal paid on top of the conference table. “Call me if ye can’t read my notes.”
“I’m teasing ye, lad. Sit. Get on with it.”
David shifted his solid frame in the conference table chair. He flipped a page and continued reading through his notes. “Charlotte took McCabe to the Winchester Medical Center on October 18 for treatment of a bullet wound in his abdomen. She claimed she found him in the parking lot following the reenactment of the Battle of Cedar Creek.
“McCabe told the police he didn’t know who he was or who shot him. He stayed in the Winchester hospital for four days then transferred to the Virginia Medical Center. He was released into the care of Jack Mallory, who also paid his medical bills. Mallory caught a flight to Atlanta this morning and has a two-night reservation at the Ritz-Carlton. Charlotte was
on call this evening, but she’s changed her schedule.” David flipped a page on the notepad. “We ran the prints we got off the car. One set matches Charlotte’s—”
“Why are her prints on file?”
“She volunteered for a six-week program to provide surgical assistance in Afghanistan.”
“That took guts.”
David grunted. “Another set matches Jack Mallory’s. He was arrested in college for public intoxication. The case was dismissed. Arrested a few years ago on a murder charge—”
“What?”
“He was interviewing a biker gang and was arrested with them. Nothing came of it except an article he wrote afterward trended on social media. I’m sure it sold more books.”
“What about Braham’s prints?”
David shook his head. “The man is a battle-hardened soldier. Ye can tell in the way he walks and stands, and ye can see it in his eyes. But there’re no prints in any database. No credit cards. No employment history. No birth record. Michael Abraham McCabe didn’t exist before October 18.”
Elliott sat back in chair. “What do ye think?”
“He’s either in the federal witness protection program, or he’s telling the truth when he says he’s from the nineteenth century.”
Elliott guzzled a bottle of water then squeezed and popped the plastic. “I believe him.” He threw the bottle toward the trash can like a basketball. It missed and landed on the floor.
David howled. “Jim Manning can do it without missing. Ye can’t compete with yer lawyer.”
“They didn’t have basketball where I went to high school in Scotland, and I had no interest in learning when I was at Auburn vet school. Ye’re right. I can’t compete with a guy who played at the University of Kentucky. Call him and let him know about Braham. Something might come of this later, and I want him in the loop. Let him know about yer investigation, too. His legal skills will come in handy when yer cyber snooping and questionable contacts get ye into trouble.”
“What do ye want to do now?” David asked.
The Sapphire Brooch Page 15
