The Sapphire Brooch (The Celtic Brooch Trilogy Book 2) (3 page)

Occasionally, though, she did want to smack him. She yanked at his arm. “Come on. Let’s stop arguing. Hang out at the medical tent today.”

“And do what I do every day but without the medical advances of the past century? Would you really like to go back and practice medicine the way they did then?”

“We’ve had this debate before.”

“And we’ll continue to have it.” He focused on something in the distance. Probably a beautiful woman in the crowd. “You’re coming over to spend the night, aren’t you?”

“I brought my cot, but I’d rather stay in your guest room.”

He gave her a brief, distracted glance. “We’ll talk tonight over a good steak and a bottle of wine. I’ve got some ideas.”

“Now, Ken—”

“I’m not asking you to do anything you don’t want to do. Just listen.”

She compared two uncomfortable situations: listening to Ken pitch the virtues of a few single men, or sleeping on a hard cot in the chilly night air. If she went to Ken’s, she’d get a nice dinner with wine and she’d sleep in a comfortable bed.

“What kind of steak?” she asked.

“Ribeye and wine.”

“Since you went to all that trouble, I’ll listen, but I won’t commit to anything more. The last time you fixed me up, the evening was a disaster from the get-go. Then it took weeks to get rid of the guy.”

“I’m not saying another word until you’ve had a couple of glasses of wine.”

“So I’ll be what? More amenable?”

He grinned as if he had her cornered already. She would never again go out with a guy he recommended, but she was willing to listen. Half-heartedly.

When they reached the field hospital, he ducked inside the tent and brought out a small valise. “I have a surprise for you.” He opened the valise, lifted out an envelope, and handed it to her.

“Greenbacks?”

“Your tailor gave me a lead. Turned out to be a good one.”

She leaned in and kissed his cheek. “Did I pay you enough?”

“To the dollar.”

She opened the envelope and fanned the neat pile of bills with her thumb. “There’s a lot of money here.”

He rolled his eyes. “They’re greenbacks, Charlotte. You can’t spend them.”

“Oh, shush. You know what I mean.” She stuffed the envelope inside the haversack with the mysterious box. “This is Jack’s birthday present. He’ll be thrilled. Thank you.”

Ken pulled up two folding chairs and straddled one with his arms crossed on the back. “And how
is
Castle?”

“Argh.” She plopped down in the other chair and l0eaned forward with her forearms on her thighs, her hands clasped. “The more popular the TV show gets, the bigger his head gets. He thinks he’s the real life Richard Castle.”

“He looks and acts like the character.”

“He thinks he’s invincible like the character, too. One of these days his research is going to get him killed.”

Ken smoothed his mustache with a fingertip. “Why isn’t he here today?”

“He’s in the mountains finishing up his edits. Then he’ll probably go to Washington to meet with his agent. He spends more time with her than he does in Richmond. He should move there.” Of course, if Jack ever moved, Charlotte would be devastated. He was the only family she had, and she depended on him. They talked or texted every day, and had dinner one night a week. Most weekends, unless she was on call or he was out of town, she hung out with him at the plantation.

“He won’t give up living at Mallory Plantation,” Ken said. “It’s part of his author brand. When’s the next book coming out?”

“Early summer, I think. Now he’s looking for his next project.” She got to her feet, gesturing toward a group of men approaching the battlefield. “There go the safety marshals.”

“Good. Let’s get this show on the road.”

A conversation on her right caught her attention. Although the voice was familiar, the long-jawed private wasn’t anyone she recognized. He was marching with a group of schoolchildren around the battlefield’s perimeter, toward Belle Grove Plantation, as part of the day-long living history activities.

“This was the most dramatic battle reversal in the entire Civil War,” the soldier said, “and ultimately ended the Confederate presence in the Shenandoah Valley.”

“My dad’s in the Second Corps, Army of Northern Virginia,” a boy in the group said, standing taller as he spoke.

“Mine, too,” another boy said.

“My dad’s in the cavalry,” a little girl added.

Charlotte whispered to Ken, “Those kids probably know more Civil War history than most adults.”

Another little girl looked up at Ken. “Are you a general?”

He stood and doffed his hat. “Yes, ma’am. Major General Stephen Dodson Ramseur.”

“He got killed,” the first little boy said. “My dad said the General got two horses shot out from under him. Then he got killed riding the third. My dad said he was a sitting target.”

The group moved on, leaving Charlotte laughing and shaking her head. “Precocious kids.”

“Glad I don’t have any,” Ken said.

“Doesn’t the new woman in your life have a child?”

His grin tilted to one side. “And that’s why she’s no longer the new woman in my life.”

“If you rule out women with children, the dating field will get smaller and smaller, especially at
your
age.” She slapped her forehead. “Oh, silly me. Your field is ten years younger than mine.”

His grin was at odds with his hard, penetrating stare. “I haven’t seen
you
go out with a man who had children.”

She widened her eyes for emphasis. “Well, I might if I was asked. I like children. I want one of my own someday.”

He rolled his eyes, sighing. “You’re thirty-eight. Unless you’ve frozen eggs, it might not happen.”

“Well, thanks.” It wasn’t a topic she had ignored. In fact, she’d recently spoken to the Chief of Fertility at VMC about freezing her eggs, which she should have done ten years ago. She had decided to wait until the first of the year before scheduling egg retrieval. Then if her soul mate didn’t show up by the time she turned forty, she’d use donor sperm. She already had a list of physical, personality, and interest attributes, along with health and educational requirements.

“And don’t forget, I’ll be your ‘Mr. Goodsperm’ any day, merely say the word. After all, I’m your fallback guy.”

“I changed my mind since we had that discussion. You don’t fit my new requirements. You have red hair, you’re not an athlete, and you can’t sing a note.”

“At least you didn’t say little dick or some other derogatory identifier.”

“You call me skinny and flat-chested. I don’t fit on your list either.”

His eyes brightened, and he rubbed his hands gleefully. “But I can fatten you up and a plastic surgeon can add some nice, big boobs.”

She took a hefty swig from her canteen, then wiped drops of water from her lips with the back of her hand. “I don’t want boobs the size of the women you date. They’d get in my way when I operate.”

He straightened his double-breasted frock coat and reclaimed his valise. “They wouldn’t get in mine.”

She puffed out her cheeks then slowly expelled the air. “Go meet your troops. This conversation is degrading fast.”

“It always does.” He wiggled a pretend cigar while bobbing his eyebrows Groucho Marx-style. “I’ll see you at dinner unless you find someone interesting on the battlefield.”

She wiggled a pretend cigar in return and chuckled. “That’s not going to happen either.”

3

Battle of Cedar Creek, Virginia, Present Day

D
uring a lull
in the afternoon battle, she grabbed her haversack and canteen and settled in the shade of a tree to study the puzzle box, determined to unlock its secrets. She discovered two sliding parts in one end. When she moved one end piece, the opposite end moved slightly, unlocking a side panel and allowing a new piece to be shifted. The top partially unlocked. She closed it and started over by reversing her moves. On the sixth try, the top panel slid open. After a moment to savor her victory over the box, she opened the lid completely. “
Wow
.”

Inside was an antique brooch, which looked Celtic in design, with the bluest sapphire—as clear as ice—embedded in the center. She studied both sides of the brooch, awed by the intricate metalwork. It appeared older than jewelry designed in the eighteenth or nineteenth centuries. She wasn’t an expert, but her great-grandmother had been, and had given Charlotte several exquisite pieces. Since then she had developed an appreciation for antique jewelry.

She teased and stroked the brooch, tracing the design with her fingertip. For someone accustomed to saving lives by paying attention to intricate details, the hairline seam around the circumference of the stone was easy to spot. She knew it opened. But how? There had to be a clasp. She retrieved her MacGyver knife from her haversack and picked at the brooch until she found the problem. A tiny piece of the clasp had broken off. She used tweezers to pinch the silver tracery, and a cleverly constructed spring popped the top half of the sapphire open. She ran the tip of her finger over an inscription etched into the center of the stone. Hmm. Gaelic?

“
Chan ann le tìm no àite a bhios sinn a’ tomhais an gaol ach’s ann le neart anama.
”

As she stammered through the last word, a groundswell of heavy fog smelling oddly of peat gathered around her. She climbed to her feet and tried to jump out of the fog, but it followed her. A vortex formed and swirled up her legs, creating a funnel of dense air. She edged forward, then back, dodged left, then right, but she couldn’t shake off the fog. The funnel reached her chest and pressure squeezed from all sides.

The fog completely engulfed her until she couldn’t breathe. Nothing existed beyond the gray, cottony cloud surrounding her. The jackhammer beat of her heart was deafening, louder than the cannons, which had roared throughout the day. She had entered a maelstrom of chaos and its bitter taste of terror.

4

Battle of Cedar Creek, Virginia, October, 1864

M
uffled cannon fire,
high-pitched screams, and clanging swords penetrated the fog. As the peat-scented mist thinned, the sounds of battle resurged in a clap of thunder.

Her head swam, and her heart raced in panic. A battle waged around her. “What the f—”

“
Run
,” a soldier yelled, pushing her. “
Move or die
.”

A line of men, sweat beading their faces, hurled themselves forward aiming bayonets and muskets. The roar of a passing train couldn’t have been any louder than the rumbling artillery caissons. She inhaled fetid air seething with Minié balls and screeching shells. Barefoot and blood-soaked soldiers fell thick and fast amid the reek of loose bowels and searing flesh.

This wasn’t a reenactment. This was a damnable
real battle
. How had this happened? Paralyzing fear rose from her gut, burned her throat, and a vile taste exploded in her mouth. Her feet became leaden as if ancient roots had erupted from the ground and entangled her feet. She couldn’t move, but she had to get to safety. How she came to be here wasn’t as important as surviving it.

She tucked the brooch into her pocket and snagged the arm of a soldier dressed in gray with blood dripping down the side of his face. “Where’s the field hospital?”

He shook off her hand. “’Bout half mile ahead.”

If the Confederate Army was running toward the field hospital, it meant they were retreating. Hundreds of soldiers ran past her, through the smoky blur of gunfire, bleeding from open wounds on their heads, arms, and legs, and leaving a trail of blood in their wake.

She edged her way over to the tree line, tasting the gun powder-laden smoke. Soldiers trying to dodge the main rush of men crashed through the bushes. Battle conditions altered how things looked, but how could this possibly be worse? Dead and dying were lying in the shifting shadows of the maple trees. She was a doctor, and the wounded needed attention. There was no one else around to do it. If she ran for safety, these men would die. They needed her. Now.

The first soldier she reached was dead. The next had been shot in the arm, which hung limply at his side. A look of desperation clouded his eyes. She ripped off the bottom part of his shirtsleeve and fashioned a pressure dressing to stanch the bleeding.