Charlotte shook her head. “No.”
“The bed and chair looked old. Very old. Have you seen them before?”
Charlotte gave him a what-the-fuck look. “Are you saying I’m old like the furniture?”
He had the decency to blush. “No, ma’am. I meant that the bed and chair looked similar to ones I’ve seen in Civil War books. You’re a Civil War reenactor. I thought you might have seen the furniture in someone’s tent during the weekend’s events. That’s all.”
“What happened to the rest of his clothes?” thin man asked.
“You’ll have to ask him.”
Grouchy shifted his squeaky leather duty belt. The clatter from his attached equipment sounded like a Roman Army on the march. “We’d like to talk to him as soon as he wakes up.”
“Fine. Check back tomorrow,” she said. She wanted to tell him to put a little saddle soap on his Sam Browne to keep it from squeaking, but decided it would be wise to keep her mouth shut.
Thin man put his notepad in his pocket. “If you think of anything that might give us a lead on him, please let us know. We’ll give you a call if we have any more questions. Are you going to be working at your office in Richmond tomorrow?”
“Yes,” she said, smiling. “Call me there if you have any questions.”
The officers caught the next elevator off the surgical floor, and Charlotte let out a relieved breath when the door closed behind them.
Ken eyed her from under his thicket of eyebrows. “That went well.”
She linked her arm with his. “Do you still have those steaks? I’m starving.”
“It’s after midnight.”
“My stomach doesn’t care what time it is.”
“I’ll cook for you but only if you promise to tell me the truth about where you’ve been.”
“Deal.”
Thirty minutes later she was soaking in the hot tub with a glass of wine in her hand while Ken grilled the steaks on his he-man barbecue several feet away.
“Okay, spill it. Who’s the guy and how’d he get shot?”
“You’re not going to believe this, so I’m only going to give you the synopsis. Are you ready?”
“Go for it.”
“Someone from Edinburgh, presumably a lawyer, sent me a Japanese puzzle box. Inside the box was a sapphire brooch. Inside the brooch were words written in Gaelic. I spoke the words, traveled back in time, and landed in the middle of the actual Battle of Cedar Creek. I was captured with the wounded General Ramseur and tended him all night until he died. The next day Sheridan sent me to Washington to meet with President Lincoln, who personally asked me to go to Chimborazo Hospital in Richmond to rescue Major McCabe, a secret agent. When I found the major, I realized he would die without antibiotics and surgery. The president had gone to extraordinary lengths to save him, so I did the only thing I could think of to give him a chance. I brought him here.”
Ken pointed at her with the grilling tongs. “That story is so far-fetched not even Jack could have made it up.”
“It’s true.”
“Well, if it’s true, I have one question for right now. Did you tell Ramseur he had a daughter named Mary?”
“Of course.”
“Then it was damn well worth the trip.”
Her eyes widened and her jaw dropped. “You believe me?”
“Hell no, I don’t believe you. I think you hooked up with some guy and have been screwing in the woods for thirty-six hours.”
She lightly thunked her head on the edge of the hot tub. “Why do you do this to me?”
“Look, it makes no difference to me. In fact, I’m glad you got laid. But you were less than forthcoming with the police. Tell me the truth. Is your new lover in some kind of trouble?”
“Trouble? If I hadn’t brought him back with me, and he’d survived, the Confederate Army would have hanged him. Trouble? Yes, he’s in trouble. He’s a Union officer who was caught behind Confederate lines out of uniform.”
“Calm down. I’m on your side, remember?”
“I’ve never lied to you or given you any reason to doubt me.”
Ken flipped the steaks and adjusted the cooking temperature. “Just for the sake of argument, if he’s who you say he is, what are you going to do with him?”
She put the wineglass to her lips and mumbled, “Take him back,” against the rim, grimacing and doubting she had the fortitude to make another trip to the past.
Ken jerked his head in her direction, dropping the tongs, which skidded toward the hot tub. “What? You can’t be serious. You barely escaped unscathed. Why would you return?”
“He didn’t ask to come to the twenty-first century. He deserves to live out his life in his own time.”
“If soldier boy had survived the gunshot, he would have been executed. One way or the other, his time was up. What you did was give him a brand-new life. He needs to live out the new life he’s got, not the one he would have lost.”
She took a long drink that emptied the goblet then held out the glass to Ken.
“Are you asking for a refill?”
“Yes, please.
“The steaks are done.” He turned off the grill and shut off the gas valve. “You need a towel. Hold on.”
He opened the storage cabinet and grabbed a pair of clean scrubs and an extra-large fluffy towel that smelled faintly of Downy Clean Breeze dryer sheets. She wrapped it around her bikini-clad body.
“You know any man, even your nineteenth-century major, would fall in love with you if you’d only give them a chance. Open up more than a corner of your heart, Charlotte, and let some deserving guy in. Let him win the whole kit and caboodle.”
“I’m not a contest.”
“That’s not what—”
She pressed her finger against his lips. “Not tonight, please.”
He kissed the fingertip. “Okay, let’s talk about the patient. He might not survive, although he looked better than I expected when we left.”
She slipped into scrubs that smelled like the towel, clean and fresh.
“He’ll survive.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Any man who can call President Lincoln and General Grant his friends, and can linger for a couple of days with a gut shot, and can fly through a two-hour surgery, is going to be hard to kill. Plus the bacteria infecting him have absolutely no drug resistance. I predict not only will Major McCabe survive, he’ll probably handle living in the twenty-first century with aplomb, and will still demand to be returned to his time.”
“If we’re making predictions, I’ll predict that the green-eyed major will worm his way into your heart. I’ll even wager another steak dinner it happens before Christmas.”
She laughed. “You’ve got a bet, and when you lose, I want sautéed mushrooms and a loaded baked potato with my next steak.”
He put the rib eyes on a platter and opened the door into the kitchen. “Don’t hold out for the mushrooms unless you intend to cook them.”
She collected the bottle of wine and the glasses. “You know, Ken, you’re forgetting the most important element in this conversation.”
He put the steaks on the table. “What?”
“That the doctor-patient relationship is sacrosanct. The major is my patient.”
He pulled the chair out for her to sit. “No, my dear, he’s mine.”
9
Winchester Medical Center, Winchester, Virginia, Present Day
Shivering under a light blanket, Braham opened his eyes a bit. A noise, not a chirp or a squeak—unlike anything he’d ever heard—had awakened him in a dim room. The sound came from a box mounted on the wall with green, blue, and red lines jumping in time with the odd noise. If he had died, he was pretty sure he hadn’t gone straight to hell. It was too damn cold. Cords hooked to patches on his chest led to the box on the wall. A thicker cord was attached to his arm with a tube extending to a clear fluid-filled bag which hung from a hook over his bed.
An old memory of a clear rubber bag w
ith an expiration date came to mind, and the shock of the memory was tantamount to dumping icy water on his groggy brain. His eyes bounced from one side of the room to the other as he tried to make sense of his surroundings.
A dim light in the ceiling cast eerie shadows against smooth whitewashed walls. The glass door was partially open, showing the hall outside was also dimly lit. There was no movement in his room or out there. His high bed had a metal railing on both sides. His head was slightly raised, although he had only one pillow. A tall armchair with an extended back sat in one corner, and another small box was mounted on the wall across from the bed with large red numbers in a row: five, five, six. Could it be the time? If so, the room was so dark he couldn’t tell if it was early morning or night.
He peeked beneath the bedcovers. Someone had undressed him. He wore a long blue shirt and nothing else. His pants weren’t hanging on the end of the bed. What would he wear when he got up? And where were his boots? He couldn’t see the floor next to the bed, but if his pants were gone, his boots probably were, too.
A band encircled his wrist. There was a line for the patient’s name. His band read: McCabe, Major. Had he given someone his rank? No. The surgeon had called him Major McCabe.
Braham had thought he would die, but he hadn’t yet. If he wasn’t dead, it appeared he had been transported to the future, maybe to Kit’s time in the twenty-first century. Was he stuck here for the rest of his life, or could he go back? Kit had been given a choice to either return home or live permanently in the nineteenth century. Would he have a choice, too?
He once again studied the room, this time more slowly. He didn’t want to miss any of the strange objects. Kit had worked in a hospital. Was this the one where she had worked? Did the surgeon know her? Braham absolutely must not tell anyone about Kit. When she left the present to live the rest of her life—married to Braham’s best friend, Cullen—in the nineteenth century, she had told everyone she was retiring to the Scottish Highlands to live in seclusion at her family’s estate. He couldn’t destroy her cover the way someone in Richmond had destroyed his.
A woman entered the room. “Are you in pain? We can give you drugs to make you comfortable.”
“Who are ye?” His voice sounded scratchy, as if he hadn’t spoken for several days.
A brighter light came on behind him. “Charlotte Mallory.”
He blinked several times as his eyes adjusted to the bright glow. Now he knew he was truly dead because his angel of mercy stood at his bedside. Blond curls framed an oval face with a gently rounded chin. A slim and delicate nose with high cheekbones gave her the timeless beauty of sculptured masterpieces. His eyes lingered on her kissable lips for a moment before moving up to her almond-shaped eyes, bluer than blue. They were like drops from an April sky. His heart skipped a beat and then another, and he shivered.
“You’re cold? I’ll get you another blanket.” She left the room, and when she returned, she spread another thin blanket over him which embraced him with radiating heat from toes to neck. She tucked the blanket under his shoulders. “This should warm you up.”
“Ye have eyes like the surgeon who rescued me.”
She leaned in close and whispered, “I am the surgeon.”
“Aye. An illusionist?” He gave a weak chuckle and waved his left hand slightly. “Then all this is an illusion, too. Ye’ve cast a spell to mask my reality. I’m still a prisoner, but have no chains.”
She raked her fingers through the hair hanging limp on his forehead, pushing the rough whorls away from his face with startling tenderness.
“You’re no longer a prisoner. When you’re more awake, I’ll explain what has happened. You’re safe now. No one will recognize you. No one will hurt you. Rest and get your strength back.”
“Answer a question, and I’ll wait for the rest.”
She held up her finger. “One.”
“When can I go home?”
A smile flickered at the corners of her mouth. “You wouldn’t believe how many times a day I get that question. No one wants to stick around here.” She put the finger to her cheek in a thinking pose. “Must be the food.”
“Ye didn’t answer me.”
“You’ll be in the hospital for a few days. Afterward you’ll need time to heal.”
His eyes focused on a card attached to a cord strung around her neck with her picture and name. “How did I get here, Doctor Mallory?”
“That’s two questions.” She adjusted the cords on his arm. “Gaelic words and a sapphire brooch. And before you ask, I don’t understand how it works or why. I only know it did.”
He gave a small grunt of amusement but lay still. A magical brooch was one thing he did understand, but he didn’t intend to tell the doctor about Kit’s ruby brooch or where it had taken her.
Another woman wearing the same type of shirt and pants entered the room. “I have his six o’clock meds,” she told Doctor Mallory.
His angel moved aside, and the other woman wiped off the cord to his arm before sticking something into it. She wrote on her hand as she left the room.
Doctor Mallory leaned over him again and tucked his arm back under the blanket, and he breathed in the sweet fragrance of her skin.
“Your doctor’s name is Ken Thomas.”
“I thought ye were my doctor.” He reached out a finger and traced the curve of cheek and chin. A fetching pink bloomed in her cheeks.
“This isn’t the hospital where I work. Ken knows you’re from 1864, although I’m not sure he believes it. My brother, Jack, will be here soon. He’ll believe it, although not right away. He won’t leave you to fend for yourself. I’ve got to go back to my hospital in Richmond, but I’ll return tonight to check on you.”
“If we’re not in Richmond, where are we?” Kit’s brooch had taken her back and forth in time, and to different locations. Doctor Mallory’s must work the same way.
“Winchester, Virginia.”
She turned to leave but he caught her hand. “Thank ye for saving my life.”
She smiled. “You’re special to some very important people. The nurse just gave you some pain medication so you can rest. When you wake, Jack will answer your questions.”
Braham drifted off to sleep, dreaming of magical brooches and his angel of mercy.
10
Winchester Medical Center, Winchester, Virginia, Present Day
Braham was awakened sometime later by a plain-looking woman peeling the sticky patches off his chest, along with most of his chest hairs.
“Ouch. Do ye have to take all the hair, too?”
She pushed her glasses up her nose, smiling. “I’ll try to leave you some.”
Another woman standing on the opposite side of the bed said, “We’re moving you into a private room, Mr. McCabe. You’re doing so well Doctor Thomas thought you were ready to get out of ICU.”
Both women wore identical green pants and shirts. They pushed the bed, with him still in it, out of the room, through a set of double doors, and down a long corridor lined with a dozen numbered doors. In a few of the rooms men and women wearing similar shirts to his shuffled in and out, pushing poles with hanging clear bags also connected to their arms. There were no guards or men in uniform, which eased his mind considerably.
The women guided the bed into room 214. “Here we are—your new room.”
A large window was covered with vertical hanging slats which allowed streaks of sunlight to filter into the room. Outside, far off in the distance, gold- and red-leafed trees clustered between buildings with oddly shaped roofs.
Sitting in a chair next to the window was a man with neatly trimmed golden hair. He was concentrating on a rectangular, thin black box in his hand. A purple chambray shirt stretched over muscular arms and shoulders, and the sleeves were rolled to the elbows. He wore odd-looking trousers, and his black boots looked supple from frequent use. And he hadn’t shaved recently.
Braham stroked his chin, listening to the faint rasp of his whiskers. Neither ha
d he.
The man climbed to his feet, setting the black box on the windowsill. “That was quick.”
“We just had to unhook a few wires,” the woman said, attaching Braham’s remaining wires to another box. “The floor nurse will be in shortly,” she told him. “Do you need anything before we go?”
“No. Thank ye,” Braham said.
After the women left, another odd, melodic noise had him searching the room to find the source. It wasn’t coming from the box on the wall.
The man pulled a smaller thin black box from his shirt pocket and poked it with this finger. Then he put the black box to his ear and said, “Hey, sis…at the hospital…yes, they just moved him…what’s up?” He went to the door and looked out. “They’re not here yet…thanks for the warning.”
The man poked at the box again and returned it to his pocket. From what Braham could see, it was similar in shape and size to Kit’s iPod.
The man looked completely blank for an instant and then he grimaced. “The police will be coming to talk to you some time this morning.”
The man’s chest lifted as his breathing deepened, and his brows drew together in thought. He wasn’t pleased with the news. But why? And why would the police be interested in Braham?
Braham kept a wary eye on the obviously distressed gentleman. “Doctor Mallory said her brother would be here. Are ye Jack?”
The man paused at the end of the bed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yes, I am. My sister thinks you need watching. She told me a wild story. If it’s true, I’d advise you to tell the police when they get here that you have no memory of who you are or what happened to you.”
Braham cocked his head with interest. “Are ye telling me to lie?”
Jack dropped his chin slightly to hide a smile. “I would never advise a client to lie to the police. But in this case, they would believe the truth was a lie, so it’s best not to say anything.”
“Should I hire ye to represent me?”
“You could,” Jack said, shrugging. “I have a law degree from Harvard, but I don’t practice.”
“I have one from Harvard, too, but haven’t practiced for a few years.”
The Sapphire Brooch Page 7