The Ruby Brooch (The Celtic Brooch Trilogy) (37 page)

Several moments of silence passed between them while she picked at her ragged nails. “Cullen was an incredible man. If anyone could have survived the shot, the fall, and the rapids, he could, but there were no signs he came ashore. Can I live with that? I don’t have any other choice. I can’t go back.”

“Why not?”

“In my heart, I believe I went back in time to be with him. The brooch was the vehicle to meet him, love him, and have his child. Maybe this child, if he survives, will go back one day and finish the search.”

“So what do you do now? Are you going to sell your condo in town and live here permanently? ”

“I’m not ready to sell, but I don’t want to live there right now. There’s a gaping hole in my heart and if it’s ever going to heal, it’ll happen here.”

“MacKlenna Farm is your child’s legacy, too. And you both deserve to be happy,” Elliott said.

“Sarah Barrett was a remarkable woman. One of the many things she taught me was that life isn’t just about being happy. It’s about being joyful in spite of your circumstances. Cullen’s child deserves a joy-filled life.”

“If someone hadn’t left me behind, I would have met your friend.” Elliott’s tongue pushed against his cheek.

“I’ve apologized a half dozen times already.”

“At least if I had gone, the animals wouldn’t have come back in such rough shape.”

Kit looked down at the empty food bowls in the corner. “Where are they? I haven’t seen either of them since we got back.”

“Tate and Tabor are at the vet’s. They’ll stay a few days to get checked out and prettied up.” Elliott put on his cap and walked to the door. “You know what you should do?”

“Besides put my feet up and wait?”

“Go to that fancy spa in California. Get your skin and hair looking pretty, then go see your psychiatrist. You have a few issues to work on before your baby arrives.”

“Well, tell me how you really feel.” She looked around for something to throw at him that wouldn’t break and settled on the empty tissue box.

He caught it and tossed it in the trash. “Call your travel agent. The pampering will do you good.”

“Sounds tempting.”

“Take the corporate jet.” He grabbed an apple off the counter and left her sitting at the table thinking of ten reasons why she shouldn’t leave town again. None of them seemed that important. She scrolled through her phone’s contact list and called her travel agent who booked a reservation at the Meadowood in Napa Valley, and then she called the farm’s pilot.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

ELLIOTT MET KIT at the airport, following her four-week stint at the spa. She spotted his parked vehicle on the tarmac, then she saw him walking out of the executive terminal.
Why do men get more distinguished as they age?

He was dressed in his usual uniform: pressed khakis, light green polo shirt with the MacKlenna Farm logo, Italian loafers, and perfectly styled thick gray hair. He was as handsome as she’d ever seen him.

He gobbled her up in a monster hug. ‘You look gorgeous.”

“You look rather handsome yourself.”

He smiled, showing perfect white teeth. “Stress lines are gone. For once in my life I wasn’t worrying about you.” He grabbed her bags. “Just these two?”

“I have a crate, too.”

“Paintings?”

She nodded. “The spa manager wanted to buy one of my Chimney Rock paintings, but I couldn’t sell it. Not even for a free week.”

“You passed up several thousand dollars.”

“I’ll never sell any of my Oregon Trail paintings.” She looped her arm into his. “I’ve been buffed and polished, and had several appointments with the OB/GYN Dr. Olson recommended. The baby is fine. Now tell me what’s been going on. How are my animals?”

“Stormy’s recovered most of his weight. But I had to send the damn dog to obedience school and thought about sending the cat too. You turned them in to wild animals.”

She climbed into the truck and buckled up. “It wasn’t all my doing. I had two little helpers.”

“Don’t get maudlin on me.” He walked around the front and climbed in the driver’s seat. “You look good—rested and more relaxed than I’ve seen you in a long time.” He turned on the blinker and eased into airport traffic. “Matter-of-fact, you look really good. Pregnancy becomes you.”

“I think that’s part of the deal. You get fat and feel ugly but you have a radiant glow that makes you look beautiful. Go figure. But I’m back now and ready to go to work.”

“Not on that damned fire truck.”

She patted her belly. “No more fire trucks. I think I’m giving up on the idea of med school too, at least for now. I don’t want to do anything that will take time away from this little guy. I’ll help out on the farm and paint. I might not know where my roots are, but I know where I’m rooted.”

AFTER A MONTH, Kit’s expanded waistline demanded she shop for maternity clothes. She’d been born without a shopping gene and hated going to the mall. Now loaded down with packages, she walked through the front door and without thinking, tossed her keys on the side cabinet, then cringed when they slid across the marble top and fell off the back.

She dumped her packages on the staircase and pulled the table away from the wall. There were enough dust bunnies to fill an Easter egg basket. There was also an envelope from the Bank of San Francisco.

“Yikes. I hope the bank followed up by now.” With the envelope in one hand, keys and cell phone in the other, she walked into the office, plopped down on the sofa, and kicked off her strappy sandals before scrolling through the fifteen emails on her phone.

While reading an email from the CFO, she dug a letter opener under the envelope flap and pulled out a sheet a paper. Her eyes did a back-and-forth-dance between the email and the letter.

She dropped the phone and sat transfixed, unable to breathe.

Oh my God.

Clipped to the letter was a brittle yellow envelope, addressed in an ornate script to:

Kitherina MacKlenna Montgomery

MacKlenna Farm

Lexington, Fayette County, Kentucky

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Deschutes River Crossing, August 6, 185
2

THE BULLET SLICED through the fleshy part of Cullen’s upper arm, igniting a searing pain that spread through his chest. He grasped his arm and hot, sticky blood oozed between his fingers. He weaved as a belly spasm threatened to double him over. Sweat streamed from his forehead and dripped into his eyes. Jess’s fist plowed into his chest, cracking his ribs and sending him tumbling backwards. He teetered on the cliff’s edge. His hands flailed for a branch, a ledge, anything to grab, but only air slipped through his fingers. He flipped end-over-end, hitting the water on his upper back. The impact drove the breath from his body.

Death held him in its embrace.

Thousands of images flashed like shooting stars in a monolithic review of his existence. His life compressed into seconds. All went dark. A single point of light flickered, then turned brilliant. A light not of this world.

Cullen, take my hand. Swim to me brother. I will help you.

Kristen? I’m caught in the vines.

Take my hand.

Cullen pulled himself from the river and collapsed face down on the bank. He rolled over, wincing with pain and knew no more.

THE SUN HAD dimmed to an eerie glow in the western sky by the time Cullen groaned into consciousness. Had his head and a sledgehammer collided? His stomach reared and spilled its contents in violent spasms. What the hell happened? Where was Kit? Jumbled thoughts couldn’t push past the pain in his head and trying to sort out the situation only increased the pounding.

He surrendered and sank back into blackness.

Hours later, he opened his eyes. Smooth moonlight formed a canopy over his hideaway in the bushes. He heard lapping water nearby. Wherever he was, he was cold, damp, and bleeding.

He tried to sit, but the slightest movement drove spikes of agony deeper into his brain. Then somewhere in his broken memory he recalled Kit’s Tylenol. She always used the round, white tablets to ease pain. He rummaged in the backpack he’d slipped off his shoulders when he climbed ashore, brushing aside waterproof bags of bandages and creams until he found the small bag with a bottle of pain medication. He took two pills, bandaged his arm, then closed his eyes.

Consciousness arrived with the sun. The head pain remained. Even though he didn’t want food, he knew he had to eat. He also had to clear his head so he could remember what happened. He sat and leaned against a tree while he ate an MRE labeled
beef stew
. It was the worst tasting food he’d ever put in his mouth, but Kit had said it would give him the nutrients he needed. Five minutes after he finished, he vomited again. The pain in his head intensified. He swallowed two more Tylenol and fell asleep.

The sun rose, set, and rose again and maybe it rose for a third day or even a fourth. He lost track of time. Lost track of everything except pasty food and little white pills.

And then the dreams started. Kit was manhandled. He was shot.

Panic and fear squeezed his mind with large deadly hands. Heat rushed through him in surges of liquid fire. Kit was in danger. Her terror-filled eyes flashed before him. He had to find her. With excruciating effort, he pulled himself to his feet, but his legs wouldn’t support his weight. He fell to his knees, jarring his head. Agonizing screams scared the birds and squirrels. Exhausted, he fell into unconsciousness until the sun rose again.

How long had he floated between two worlds? He remembered the cliff, but not much more. He sensed Kit was in danger and that he had to find his way back. He scratched the whiskers on his face—probably three days of growth.

Where are you, lass?

If he had to crawl back to the cliff, he would. He packed up his few supplies and rose to his knees. He put one foot on the ground, grabbed the tree, and pushed to his feet, swaying. Dizziness made him nauseous. He’d never been this sick or in as much pain.

The bright sunlight stabbed into his eyes with knife-like precision. He had no hat and tried to shield his eyes with his hand while he studied the surrounding terrain. How in the hell did he get on the opposite side of the river? He had no memory of crossing. Finding his way back would take time. Time he didn’t have. He took his first step, unsure of where it would lead or what he would find. A quote by
Lao-tzu, the Chinese philosopher came to mind:
A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step
.

WEARY AND CAUTIOUS, Cullen approached the cliff where he had last seen Kit. The smell of rotting flesh roiled his stomach. He steeled himself and prepared to find a scene worse than South Pass. As he stepped free of the trees, the stink of decomposing bodies hit him with redoubled force. On the ground lay three blood-soaked, maggot-covered men.

What happened here?

Although he didn’t remember, relief swept through him like a hard, swirling wind. Kit wasn’t there. Tears welled in his eyes, and he wept unashamedly. Her face flashed before him and he heard her scream his name. Although he was far away, he heard anguish in her voice.

He searched the ground for tracks and found several, mostly trampled over each other, but there was one clear set—Henry’s horse, Charley.

If Henry came looking for them he would have found Kit and carried her off. Cullen studied the ground again looking for signs she had fallen or been dragged, but found nothing. He stood at the cliff’s edge for an unmeasured time, squeezing his temples to relieve the pressure in his head. The breeze rippled through the pine, whispering a single word,
hurry
. He’d delayed too long. The confrontation occurred, three maybe four days ago. That would put Kit at least two days ahead of him, assuming she and Henry spent time looking for him. With the way he felt, he wouldn’t be able to walk fast enough to catch them. His only hope was to find a fellow traveler willing to sell him a horse.

If Kit believed he was dead, she would go to San Francisco as soon as she arrived in Oregon City. No matter where she went, he would find her. He didn’t believe she would go back to her time, not before talking to Braham. She would take a stagecoach from Oregon City. Astride a good horse, he could catch her en route.

With a cold sweat streaming between his shoulder blades, he set out to find his bride.

FIVE DAYS LATER, as the afternoon sun filtered through the grand firs towering overhead, Cullen caught up with his wagon train camped at Laurel Hill. He could have purchased an entire herd for what he had paid for the sorry looking horse he bought off a family he’d met on the trail, but without the nag, he wouldn’t have caught up with his friends for another week.

He found John and Henry at the top of Laurel Hill’s first drop, a two-hundred-forty-foot vertical descent. Leaning against a tree trunk, arms folded, the sole of his boot flat against the bark, Cullen watched the two men study the deeply eroded trail.

John stared down the hill’s scree-covered chute. “Don’t care what you say, Henry. Damn near impossible to do this.”

“We’ll lock the wheels and anchor the wagons with ropes. Plenty of folks have done it before us.” Henry pointed to several trees lining the chute. “Look at the rope burns.”

Cullen cleared his throat. “How’d you get anything done without me?”

John and Henry spun around, flashing raised brushy brows.

Henry lunged forward with open arms. “Where the hell have you been?”

Cullen eased back, his good arm extended, protectively. “Don’t give me one of your bear hugs.”

Henry stopped mid-stride.

“I’m pretty beat up,” Cullen said.

Henry settled for a handshake.

“Where’s Kit?” Cullen asked.

“Come on. Let’s head back to camp. You can tell us what happened to you,” Henry said.

“As soon as I kiss my wife, I’ll tell you.” Neither John or Henry spoke, but color slipped from their faces. “You got something to say. Spit it out.”