The Ruby Brooch (The Celtic Brooch Trilogy) (38 page)

John shuffled his feet.

Fear struck Cullen square in the solar plexus. “Tell me she’s alive.”

Henry nodded but avoided eye contact. “Alive and unharmed.”

Alive and unharmed.
Henry wouldn’t lie, but he would withhold information. Cullen had no doubt he was doing exactly that.

“Let’s walk over to camp. Get a cup of coffee. We’ll talk.” Henry said.

Had those damned bastards killed his baby? Was that what Henry hesitated to tell him? Whatever had happened, he and Kit would recover from the tragedy together.

Cullen spotted Sarah the moment the men arrived in camp. She stood at the cook stove stirring a steamy pot just as he had seen her do a hundred times before. Where was Kit? He looked around the circle. Another shot of fear coursed through him, burning hot as the bullet that had pierced his skin.

“Where is she, Sarah?”

She dropped her spoon, her eyes unnaturally wide.
“Cullen.”

“By God, somebody better tell me where she is before I rip this camp apart.”

Tears welled in Henry’s eyes. “No need for that.”

“Tell me where she is.
Now.
”

Sarah squeezed his arm. “She started bleeding and cramping—”

“We followed the river for miles. Couldn’t find any sign you came ashore,” Henry said.

“I don’t have any memory of being shot or of falling. There were three dead men on the cliff. Who killed them?”

“The one who shot you fell and hit his head. The other two bled out.”

A small hand tugged Cullen’s shirtsleeve. He glanced down at Frances and saw wide, faith-filled eyes. “Miss Kit went home. Can you bring her back?”

Went home?
He raised his eyebrows in a silent question.

A sob broke from Sarah’s lips. “Kit had symptoms, same as me. She didn’t want to lose the baby. She went home five days ago. Back to where she came from.”

Cullen slumped against a chair; his heart lurched in his chest. “She lost faith in me,” he said in a tormented whisper.

Henry shook his head. “Kit wanted to believe you were alive, but she needed a doctor to save the babe.”

Cullen walked away from his friends and headed into the forest, carrying his silent screams. He breathed deeply of the scented pine, drawing air into his lungs, holding it while he listened to the sounds in the conifer woods. Even the trees seemed to know Kit’s name. He took another breath. This time the scent he breathed in wasn’t pine, but vanilla. And the magical sound echoing through the trees wasn’t chipmunks and songbirds, it was her laughter living in the music of the forest. It was the beauty of her smile held in the glint of the afternoon sun. It was the tender touch of her hand gliding through the whispering wind.

He stumbled over twisted roots and fell into dark shadows, upon a wall of pine needles and heavy underbrush. He had no reason to get up and begged for unconsciousness to rescue him once again. But sleep wouldn’t come. He rode a plunging angry wave, approaching the beach with tremendous velocity.

And he broke.

A guttural sob forced its way up from deep inside his gut and hung in the back of his throat for one long tormented moment before bursting through his lips. The sobs kept coming each more ferocious than the last until he had no voice left, and his heart beat without purpose against the pine-covered forest floor.

CULLEN WOKE SEVERAL hours later, heartsick over his failure to keep Kit safe. If he added in his four failed attempts as a ghost, he had quite a history. Then he remembered Kit’s ghost sighting the day she left her time. Why did she have a vision of him at Thomas MacKlenna’s gravesite? That never made any sense, now even less so.

Or did it?

Cullen tensed for a moment then sat straight up. What was today’s date? He wasn’t sure. The second week in August, possibly. He rubbed his temples, hoping to assuage the pain in his head. Thomas MacKlenna would die in five months—January 25, 1853. Cullen thought through possibilities. What connection could he have with MacKlenna? None that he could think of, but Kit
did
have a vision of him. Suddenly, he had a real sense that he would find the answer to Kit’s return at MacKlenna Farm, but only if he arrived before Thomas died.

If he was going cross-country again, he had no time to waste.

His plan sent a shiver of anticipation coursing through him. Now, filled with purpose, he rushed back to the Barretts’ campsite.

“Coffee’s hot,” John said.

Cullen poured a cup and sat at the table.

“’Bout to go look for you,” Henry said.

Cullen sipped his coffee. “Had some thinking to do.”

Henry puffed on his pipe. “You going to San Francisco?”

“Going there first, then on to the MacKlenna Farm.”

“Must have a pretty good reason for making your fourth crossing in two years.”

Cullen shrugged. “All I know is that I have to go.”

“A man knowing what to do is enough reason for me. I’ll go with you?”

The moon offered faint shafts of illumination in the forest, enough to cast a pale of light across Henry’s determined face. His salt-and-pepper hair had turned mostly salt during the journey.

“Appreciate the offer, but there’s no need. I’m sailing east this time. Soon as we get the wagons down the hill, I’m going to San Francisco to talk to Braham. Then I’ll sail on the first ship leaving port.”

Henry didn’t say anything. He just calmly knocked the dottle from his pipe with a single hard tap.

“Can you get her back?” John asked.

“Probably not in this lifetime.” Cullen’s voice sounded oddly out of place to him, as if perhaps he already was the ghost of MacKlenna Farm.

Chapter Forty

TWO WEEKS LATER, Cullen arrived in California amidst the salty air and the rumble of wagons rolling over the plank streets. He had travelled all over the Far East and Europe, and while his Highland home surpassed every place he’d ever been, the sparkling bay and the seven surrounding hills made San Francisco one of the most beautiful landscapes in the world.

With some impatience, he dodged the men thronging the streets wearing their plaid shirts and miners’ boots. Although he had visited the emerging city only a few months ago, in his absence, buildings had sprung up and new businesses had opened. San Francisco had grown and changed like all living creatures. And he had, too.

He pressed his fingers against his throbbing temples. Almost three weeks after the attack, headaches, blurred vision, and nausea still plagued him, and his memory remained hazy. All four ailments probably resulted from hitting his head when he fell. Other than taking Tylenol when the pain became unbearable, the only cure was time.

Time was also his enemy.

He rode past the docks and theaters and churches toward the Adams & Company Building on Montgomery Street. Upon reaching his destination, he tied his horse and pack mule to the hitching post, and glanced up toward the stylish second-story law offices of Matthews & Phillips. Cullen would never forget his and Braham’s excitement during their first visit to Phillips’s office. They were determined not to leave until they had offers of employment. Not only did they get lucrative offers, but they also received an invitation to a soiree to meet the firm’s clients.

Cullen paused at the first landing to steady his legs then slowly made his way to the top floor. Underneath the Matthews & Phillips Counselors at Law sign was Braham’s full name. Cullen winced, not at the sight of Braham’s name, but at the absence of his own.

His hand shook as he opened the door and walked into the well-appointed office filled with John and Thomas Seymour chairs and sofas and straight-legged Hepplewhite tables. On previous visits, he had reveled in the accoutrements of wealth and power, but after weeks of listening to Kit extol the creative genius of eighteenth and nineteenth-century furniture makers, he had a new appreciation for objects he’d once viewed and used for their utility alone.

The heady fragrance of China roses filled the room. The fragile petals of a yellow bloom reminded him of Phillips’s garden where he’d stolen a kiss from Abigail. He felt ashamed of the way he had used women. He’d even set out to seduce Kit simply for the pleasure of enjoying her body, only to discover the true pleasure was her mind and her heart—fragile petals of a blooming rose.

The firm’s secretary stopped in mid-stride halfway across the room. Wide-set, intelligent eyes discreetly perused Cullen’s dusty trousers and muddy boots. Then, he said, “Mr. Montgomery, I wasn’t expecting you today.”

Cullen scratched his whiskers. “I’m not here to see clients. In fact, if there are any in the office, don’t introduce me.”

The secretary gave a nervous laugh. “May I show you to your office?”

Culled waved him away. “I know where it is.” Instead of opening the door bearing a brass plaque with his name, he knocked and entered Braham’s office.

His friend looked up from reading a large volume spread open on his desk. His jaw dropped in surprise. “Hell, didn’t expect to see you so soon.”

Cullen met him as he rounded the desk. They embraced, slapping each other’s back. Some of Cullen’s tension drained away.

Braham stepped back and searched Cullen’s face. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Where’s Kit?”

Cullen headed for the sideboard. “I need a whiskey.”

Braham blocked his path. “Tell me where she is and you can drink all you want.”

“She’s gone.”

Braham clenched and unclenched his fists.

Cullen pushed against Braham’s arm. “No need to beat it out of me, I’m going to tell you everything. Just give me a damned drink.”

Braham splashed generous amounts of single-malt scotch from a decanter on the mahogany sideboard into two crystal goblets. They toasted, then emptied their glasses in a single swallow. Cullen held out his glass for a refill. Braham raised an eyebrow, then poured more of the golden liquid. After downing the second drink, Cullen sat in a straight-back chair in front of the desk and helped himself to a cigar from the oak-and-brass humidor.

Braham handed him a match. “I thought you quit.”

“I thought you did, too.”

Braham set the whiskey bottle on the table as he took a seat. “Tell me she’s not dead.”

“She’s not.”

“Where is she?”

“Home.”

“That’s a relief.”

Cullen sighed. “Her home. Her time.”

Braham sank deep into his chair. “Why?”

“She thought I was dead.”

Braham picked up the bottle of whiskey, frowning as he swirled the liquid. “We don’t have enough to drink, do we?”

Cullen shook his head.

“You probably haven’t eaten either. Come on.” Braham grabbed Cullen’s arm as he rose to his feet. “I bought a house on Rincon Hill off a banker heading back east. It came furnished with plenty of whiskey and a decent Chinese cook. Plus, I have a right of first refusal on his brother’s identically furnished house, if you’re interested.”

“Not now, but if it’s a good investment, hold on to it.” Cullen allowed Braham to drag him upright. Blood rushed from his head. He staggered and dropped his glass.

“You can hold your whiskey better than that,” Braham said.

“It’s not the whiskey.”

“Then you need to see a doctor.”

Cullen leaned against the edge of the desk. “There’s nothing a doctor can do.”

“Let’s get you some food, a bath, and a good night’s sleep. See how you feel tomorrow.”

“Doesn’t matter how I feel. If there’s a ship leaving for Panama, I can’t miss it.”

LIGHT FROM THE gas street lamps and a full moon filtered through the windows and added to the warm yellow glow cast by the brass chandelier’s fourteen tiered candles. Braham and Cullen pushed away from the drop-leaf dining table and carried cigars and brandy to the library where bookshelves lined two walls and overflowed with richly bound volumes. Cullen perused the titles and authors.

“This is an impressive collection—Defoe, Pope, Swift, the entire works of Robert Burns, a complete set of Shakespeare, plus the Greek philosophers. The previous owner was very well read.”

Braham smirked. “Or wanted to be.”

Cullen took in the rest of the room with an eye toward what Kit would notice. The tall case clock had a deep, two-inch scratch at the bottom, but was otherwise exquisite. The Brazilian Rosewood grand piano had a cracked leg, needing extensive repair. The Victorian reading table snuggled in the small space before the window faced south, limiting the afternoon sun. The Persian carpet, although beautiful, hid the wide-plank oak floor, and she’d much prefer a patterned fabric upholstery on the leather sofas and winged chairs. God, when and how did he come to know her so well?

He imagined her in the room though, reading and listening to music. Regardless of what Henry had said, she would listen to Bach and play the guitar again. Music was enmeshed with her soul.

“This is a beautiful house.”
Kit could be happy here with the music and the stables and gardens he’d seen earlier.

Braham sat in a wing chair next to the fire, crossed one leg over the other, straightening his trouser leg. “There has to be a way to get her back.”

“What do you suggest? That we write her a letter? Dear Kit, I’m alive. Come back. Should we mail the letter to MacKlenna—“

“Stop it. You’re acting like an arse. Self-pity doesn’t become you.”

Cullen’s face heated. He tipped back his brandy, then set the empty glass on the mantel. A red-gold fire danced in the hearth. “Do you remember Kit’s vision of me selecting Thomas MacKlenna’s gravesite?”

“The ghostly appearance that didn’t make sense.”

“I’m going to Kentucky.”

“You think that will bring her back?”

“I believe there’s more to the vision than picking out a gravesite.” He poured another drink from the bottle of brandy Braham had set on table next to his chair.

Neither man spoke for several minutes then Cullen asked, “Have you identified the man in the portrait?”