The Ruby Brooch (The Celtic Brooch Trilogy) (41 page)

Tate bounded down the hallway, barking a path for Tabor to follow. Elliott held open the front door. They ran out and jumped on top of the four trunks he’d lashed together with an old hemp rope. “Looks like you’ve got everything you need now.”

She looked at her pets, shaking her head.

“They’d be miserable here without you.” As if to prove Elliott right, Stormy rounded the corner of the house at a trot, stopped when he saw her, and walked up the porch steps as if he did it every day.

“You jumped the fence?” She rubbed her hand through his mane and breathed into his nostrils, showing him how much she loved him.

“You’re stuck with them all.” Elliott laughed. “Look, his ears are forward. Can you hear what he’s saying? Where to now, Kemosabe?” When Elliott produced a shank from his back pocket, Kit knew Stormy’s gate had been unlatched.

Elliott tied the horse to a trunk’s end strap, stepped back, and took a farewell picture with his cell phone. As he stared at the small screen, more tears rolled down his face. “Don’t go.” His soft plaintive words ripped through her heart.

Elliott had taught her to ride. He’d bandaged her knees and wiped her tears. He’d found her in the pasture with a broken back and held her hand as they stood over the graves of her parents. He’d changed her diapers and picked out her prom dresses. And he’d lain helpless and bleeding while Wayne attempted to rape her.

She and Elliott had danced and laughed and drank whiskey together, and in the late-night hours he’d picked her off the floor where she’d dropped exhausted from her grief. He’d been her support for her entire life, loving and protecting her, and now, much as a bride is given away by her father, it was time for him to let her go.

Time for her to let go of him.

She kissed his wet salty cheek, picking up a whiff of his signature scent that always made her think of a big leather chair in a field of cloves. “My soul is telling me I’m making the right decision. My destiny lies somewhere behind, not forward. Let’s be joyful in the midst of our loss because we choose to be.” She gazed into his eyes. “I love you, Elliott.”

He pulled her into his arms, rested his chin on the top of her head. “I love you too, my wee lassie.” After a few shuddering moments, he climbed into his Suburban and drove away.

Look back, Elliott.
He stopped at the end of the tree-lined drive.
Please wave. Let me know you’re okay.
He stuck his arm out the window and gave her a thumbs-up. Then he was gone. She released the breath she was holding.

Tate barked.

“What? Are you ready to go?” The sight on the porch was laughable—four trunks, a cat, a dog, and a horse. The scene reminded her of landing in Independence the first time. Cullen had been there, but he wouldn’t be there now. Her knees knocked beneath her green brocade dress. She fluffed out the skirt, whisked away a bead of sweat trickling down her cheek, and plopped down on the trunks. Tabor squatted in her lap.

“Everybody ready?” She squirmed to get comfortable, but couldn’t. Something was haywire about her plan. What was it?

Take a gut check
.

She did, and knew the answer. Not only did she have to say goodbye to Elliott, but she had to let go of the animals, too. A knot formed in her throat.

She kissed Tate’s and Tabor’s heads. “Y’all can’t go this time.” Tate tucked his tail and turned his head away. Tabor curled into a ball. Stormy neighed, and she laid her cheek against his nose. Memories of their rides across MacKlenna Farm’s rolling hills flooded her mind—no saddle, no bridle, just the two of them racing into the wind. “We’ve been through a lot together, but it’s time to let go of you, too.” She blew into his nostrils again. “Sire those stakes winners. Make me proud.”

Elliott would circle the farm and come back. He’d understand why she left them behind.

She stepped
away
from them—from the cat and dog her mom had loved and spoiled, and from the horse who had grown into a magnificent, powerful animal.

She stepped away from the trunks packed with trappings of her century.

She stepped away
from MacKlenna Farm because she had the strength to do it.

With the carpetbag in one hand and the ruby brooch in the other, she repeated the magic words and stepped into the rest of her life.

Chapter Forty-Five

MacKlenna Farm, November 5, 1852

KIT REALIZED SOMETHING had gone terribly wrong.

She had repeated the magic words and traveled the interweaving turns and twists toward flickering amber light, but she was still standing on the east portico of MacKlenna Mansion. Had she used up her quota? Were there no more trips through the turnstile of time? She leaned against the railing, and her anguish flowed like water from a pierced vessel.

A strange quietness she’d never noticed before hung over the farm. She glanced out across the bluegrass-covered pastures. What happened to the concrete drive, the cars, and utility poles on Old Frankfort Pike? Stormy was gone. Tate and Tabor were gone. The trunks were gone.

Adrenalin raced through her bloodstream, heightening all of her senses.

She sniffed back her tears and inhaled the crisp scent of fall. What happened to the lazy-day heat of summer? She was on MacKlenna Farm all right. But what year? She closed the brooch and pinned it to her collar.

Her gaze swept left to right, taking in as much of the landscape as possible. If there were no cars or trucks, it had to be before 1920, probably much earlier. How would she ever find Cullen? Find him? Crap. If she found him now, he’d be an old man. Her heart crawled up her throat, and she struggled to breathe. Wasn’t she supposed to be in Independence? Why was she here? And who was living in the house? Whoever was in residence had to be one of six Sean MacKlennas. Her father was born in 1950—that ruled him out. His father was born in 1926—that ruled him out. There was only one thing left to do. Knock and see which one answered.

Before she could put knuckles to wood, she noticed there weren’t any bullet holes in the oak door. The Civil War hadn’t happened yet. That meant the year had to be earlier than 1861. Cullen would still be a young man. As she processed that, a servant, dressed in a white shirt and black tie, opened the door. “Can a help you, miss?”

“Is Mister MacKlenna home?”

“They both a home. Spec you want a see Mister Sean?”

He opened the door wider, and she stepped across the threshold, handing over her carpetbag. She breathed in the scent of the house—old as time and lemon polish. The side cabinet stood in the same location in the hallway. Upholstery woven in golden stripes covered the straight-leg Hepplewhite chairs stationed on either side. She loved both the color and the fabric.

“You’n wait in a parlor.”

Kit entered the large front room, and stopped, taken aback by the change in color scheme. The green stripe and small floral fabrics were gone. The settee’s upholstery bore a large blue floral design, and the walls painted in natural earth tones gave the room a golden tint. Floor to ceiling sapphire-blue silk draperies covered the two windows. She ran her hands up and down the luxurious panels and checked the underside to find silk stitches and a lighter blue lining.
Nice detail work.

The sound of boots clicking across the hardwood floor pulled her attention from the drapery. A handsome man, his chin clean-shaven and pink, entered the room and halted when he saw her. “I dinna know such a bonnie lass was here. I’m Sean MacKlenna.” He stepped toward her, captured her hand, and bowed.

Kit needed no introduction. She’d studied the brush strokes the artist used to paint the first Sean’s portrait so often she recognized him immediately. “I’m Mrs. Montgomery.”

“What can I dae for ye, lass?”

Immaculately dressed in a loose-cut, dark-brown suit that matched the color of his hair and eyes, a starched cravat, and a horizontal bow with a high collar, the first Sean made a striking figure of a man. Her breath caught when she noticed the gold watch-chain dangling from his vest pocket.

“What time is it?”

He pulled out the watch engraved with the initials STM on the case’s cover. She shivered with a tactile memory. The paramedics had removed
that watch from her father’s pocket the night of the crash and slipped it into her hand in the emergency room. Except to take a bath, she hadn’t let it go for weeks.

“Eleven-fifteen.” He snapped the case shut, tucked the watch back into his vest pocket, and gestured toward the settee. “Won’t ye sit down?”

Kit sat on the cushion’s edge, and he sat in a wing chair opposite her, crossing one elegant leg over the other. “Now, tell me. Whatna brings ye to MacKlenna Farm, Mrs. Montgomery?”

She glanced at her hands, the bric-a-brac on the tables, the paintings on the wall, anything to avoid eye contact. “I didn’t know I was coming. I guess you could say I was dropped here accidently.
”

“
Who
would leave a bonnie lass alane?”

She fingered the brooch at her neck. “This is a beautiful room. I love what you’ve done with the place.”

“That’s a lovely piece o’ jewelry.” He leaned back in his chair and interlaced his fingers. Kit saw a glitter of intensity she hadn’t noticed before. “Where’d ye get it?”

She had to get out of the house and wait for Cullen somewhere else. These people were going to think she was crazy. “From my mother.”

The servant walked into the room. “Mister Thomas come downstairs.”

“Did ye tell him we had a guest?”

“No suh. Nobody tell him. He already know she here.”

“My father’s not well and usually didnae leave his room.”

“This might sound like an odd question but…what’s the date?”

“First the time, then the date.” Sean raised an eyebrow. “It’s the fifth day of November, 1852. Why?”

“How did your father know I was here?”

“Father has…shall we say, a gift.”

Gift?

“You said your mother gave ye the brooch. Tell me about her.”

“I think she died when I was a baby.”

A pained look crossed his face.

“Is something wrong?”

“Here comes Father now. He’ll sort this out.”

Thomas MacKlenna shuffled into the room, his weight bent on his walking cane. A head full of white hair and well-defined wrinkles on his face spoke to his age, but they could not obscure his powerful presence the artist had captured in his portrait. Thomas’s warm brown eyes were clear and focused, expressing the depth of intelligence and passion that informed his reputation and business acuity

Kit jumped to her feet and rushed to his side. “May I help?” She took his other arm, guided him to the sofa, and sat beside him. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir.” She couldn’t believe she was sitting with the family patriarch—a legend in Thoroughbred racing. She had a thousand questions for him. Where would she start?

Before she could ask even one, his cool hand patted hers. “I’ve waited twenty-five years for ye to come home, Kitherina.”

Did he just call me Kitherina? No. I misheard him. The amber light messed with my hearing.

His warm hand squeezed hers. “Are ye wondering how I knew yer name? Ye my granddaughter.”

Time stopped as if from the press of a thumb on a stopwatch. She sat motionless for several moments until a flutter in her belly restarted the clock. She heard her father saying, “I found you on my doorstep. I searched for your identity. I don’t know who you are. You may not have been born a MacKlenna, but you are one. The ninth generation…”

She shook her head. “I don’t know who I am, but I’m not your granddaughter.”

Sean’s keen eyes challenged her. “Yer wearing my sister’s brooch. A one-of-a kind stone with the proclivity to whisk ye off into the unknown. Where’d ye get it?”

Sensing accusation in his tone, she clutched the brooch, hiding it from him. Her heart beat in double time. “I arrived with it.” She turned to Thomas. “When I was a baby. It was pinned to my dress.”

Thomas and Sean looked at each other. Then Thomas’s eyes glistened with tears. “I gave yer mother the brooch on her wedding day.”

Kit’s mouth went dry.
Brooch. Mother. Wedding day. Impossible
. She needed to pace and think, but Thomas gripped her hand.

Think.
There had to be an explanation.
Okay. What did she know for sure? Only that she had the brooch as a baby. She just assumed it belonged to her birth mother. Could her birth mother be Thomas MacKlenna’s daughter?

None of this made sense.

“When I gave ye mother the stone I told her the secret my grandmother had told me.
‘The stone will take ye to a world unknown, through amber light to a time not yer own, to the one of yer heart, and the truth ye’ll be shown.’”

“Was your daughter’s fiancé not the one of her heart?” Kit asked.

“Aye, your mother was very much in love,” Thomas said. “Sometimes the one who holds the brooch is not the one intended to receive the gift. Tell me, lass, hae ye met the one of yer heart, the one ye couldna have found without the help of the stone?”

“My father, the sixth Sean MacKlenna, also found the one of his heart.”

Sean’s eyes widened with surprise. “The
sixth
? Then ye went to the wrong time so he could use the stone, and now ye have come home.”

“Home? Wait a minute.” Now she really needed to pace. “You’re telling me—I’m a real MacKlenna?”

“We’d be happy to claim all of ye, but we must share ye with the McCabes.”

“McCabe?”
She grabbed the seat cushion with her free hand and bounced her legs.

“Donald McCabe was yer father, lass,” Thomas said.

She let go of the cushion and pulled the portrait miniature from her pocket. When she had dressed an hour ago, her hands shook so badly she couldn’t clasp the chain’s hook. She wouldn’t be able to do it now either. Handing the portrait to Thomas she said, “I had this with me as a baby.”