The Ruby Brooch (The Celtic Brooch Trilogy)
The Ruby
Brooch
A NOVEL
Katherine Lowry Logan
The Ruby Brooch
Copyright 2012 by Katherine Lowry Logan
Kindle Edition
Cover Art by Steena Holmes
Virtual Design Artist at The Authors Red Room
Oregon Trail Map
U. S. Department of the Interior
Bureau of Land Management
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles reviews.
Website:
www.katherinellogan.com
In Memory
of my late husband,
Tom H. Pierce
,
who believed in me and this story.
1949-1997
And
Dedicated to
my five grandchildren who love their Kake and love to read.
Charlotte Lyle Duffy
Lincoln Thomas Hicks
James Cullen Duffy
Henry Patrick Duffy
Meredith Lyle Hicks
Prologue
Independence, Missouri, April 4, 1852
IN A SUNLIT corner of the cluttered Waldo, Hall & Company freight office, Cullen Montgomery sat tipped back on a chair’s spindly rear legs reading the newspaper and scratching a rough layer of morning whiskers.
Henry Peters slumped in a leather-reading chair and propped his legs, covered in faded cavalry pants, on a crate marked textiles and bound for Santa Fe. “What you learning ‘bout in that gazette?”
Cullen chuckled at what little real news the paper printed. Since he no longer lived in Edinburgh or Cambridge, he needed to lower his expectations when it came to the local press. Every word of the
Independence Reporter
had been read and reread, and although he couldn’t find mention of a scientific discovery or notice of a public discussion with a famous poet, he knew Grace McCoy had gotten hitched last Saturday. Reading the paper’s recitation was unnecessary. He’d escorted the bride’s widowed aunt to the nuptials and knew firsthand that the bride had swooned walking down the aisle. Virgin brides and widows. The former didn’t interest him, the latter lavishly entertained him.
He gave the last page a final perusal. “There's no mention of our wagon train pulling out in the morning.”
The old soldier took a pinch of tobacco between his thumb and forefinger and loaded the bowl of his presidential-face pipe. “We ain’t got no more room anyways. No sense advertising.”
The day had turned unusually warm, and Cullen had dressed for cooler weather. Sweat trickled down his back, prompting him to roll his red-flannel shirtsleeves to his elbows. “Mary Spencer’s not going now. We can take on one more family.”
Henry dropped his feet, and his boot heels scraped the heart-of-pine floor. “Dang. Why’d you bring up that gal’s name?”
“It’s not your fault she disappeared.” Although Cullen hadn’t said anything to his friend, he believed the portrait artist he’d seen making a nuisance of himself at the dress shop had sweet-talked the porcelain-skinned, green-eyed woman into eloping.
“Maybe, maybe not.” The joints in Henry’s bowed legs popped and cracked as he stood and stepped to the window.
Cullen pulled out his watch to check the time. Before slipping the timepiece back into his vest pocket, out of habit he rubbed his thumb across the Celtic knot on the front of the case. The gesture always evoked memories of his grandfather, an old Scot with a gentle side that countered his temper. Folks said Cullen walked in his grandsire’s shoes. He discounted the notion he could be hotheaded, with one exception. He had no tolerance for liars. When he unveiled a lie, he unleashed the full measure of his displeasure. “We can’t worry about yesterday, and today’s got enough trouble of its own.”
“Rumor has it John Barrett needs money. Heard you offered him a loan.” Henry wagged his pipe-holding hand. “Also heard he got his bristles up, saying he wouldn’t be beholdin’ to nobody. Got too much pride if’n you ask me. You get down to cases with that boy and straighten his thinking out.”
God knew Cullen had tried. “If I can’t find a compromise, our wagon train could fall apart before we get out of town.”
“You’re as wise as a tree full of owls, son. You’ll figure it out.”
The newspaper had served its purpose so he tossed the gossip sheet into the trash. Then he stood and stretched his legs before starting for the door.
Henry rapped his knuckles on the windowsill. “Where’re you goin’?”
A queue tied with a thong at Cullen’s nape reminded him that his shaggy hair hadn’t seen even the blunt end of a pair of shears in months. “To the barber. Afterwards, I’ll figure out how to get your wagon train to Oregon. There’s a law office with my name on the door waiting at the end of the trail. I don’t have time for more delays.”
Henry’s bushy brows merged above his nose. “There’s more than work awaitin’ you.”
“To quote an old soldier: Maybe. Maybe not.” With the picture of a San Francisco, dark-haired lass tucked into his pocket alongside his watch, and the keening sound of his favorite bagpipe tune playing in his mind, Cullen left the office to solve today’s problem before it became tomorrow’s trouble.
Chapter One
MacKlenna Farm, Lexington, Kentucky, February 10, 2012
KIT MACKLENNA TOOK the brick steps leading to the west portico two at a time. When she reached the top step she slipped on a patch of black ice. Her arms and legs flailed rag-doll like, giving her some kind of weird location never intended for a human body. Forward motion ended abruptly when she collided with the farm’s marketing manager exiting the mansion wearing three-inch heels and her signature pencil skirt. Tucked under Sandy’s rail-thin arm was Thomas MacKlenna’s 1853 journal. Both women screamed. Sandy’s arms went up and the book hit the floor. And for the second time in less than thirty minutes, Kit landed on her ass.
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” Sandy helped Kit to her feet. Then she picked up the leather-bound journal, brushing ice crystals from its cover.
“My fault. I wasn’t paying attention.” Kit rubbed her sore butt. “That’s old Thomas’ journal, isn’t it? Did you read the proclamation to the staff?”
Sandy’s normally animated face brimmed with heartfelt concern. “The forty-day mourning period is officially over. But I’m not sure it will make your life any easier.”
Kit unbuckled her helmet and tugged on the dangling chin strap. “I woke up believing I’d feel better today, but I guess that’s my character flaw.”
“What is?” Sandy asked.
“Believing the impossible is always possible.” Kit slipped her hand into the pocket of her plaid bomber jacket and fingered a crumpled letter. “Every once in a while, impossible is just what the word means.”
Sandy squeezed Kit’s arm. “I know it’s hard, but you’ll get through this, too.”
Kit removed her helmet and shook her hair, pulling out a few long blonde strands and a clump of mud. “Days like today make me wonder.”
Sandy gave her another reassuring squeeze. “I wanted to ask you something.” She opened the journal and pointed to a line in the proclamation. “This mentions a great-grandson born on the fortieth day? Do you know his name?”
Kit read the line above the marketing manager’s manicured nail. “There’s no record of a birth. Daddy said old Thomas was senile when he died. He probably imagined a grandson.”
“I wonder why no one ever made a notation in the journal.” Sandy snapped the book shut. “Whatever. Oh, by the way, I left the sympathy cards that came in this morning’s mail on the table in the foyer.”
A salty tear slid from between Kit’s eyelids and down her face, leaving behind a burning sensation on her wind-chapped skin.
Sandy pulled a tissue from her pocket. “Here, take this.”
Kit wiped her face and silently cursed that she no longer had control over her emotions.
“Everyone on the farm misses your parents and Scott. We’re grieving with you.”
“I know.” Kit blew her nose. “It’s made the last six weeks easier.”
“Well, call me later if you want to go to lunch or talk or cry. I don’t have broad shoulders like Scott, but I can listen.”
“I miss him bugging the crap out of me.” Kit scratched the scar on the right side of her neck, something she often did when she thought of her childhood friend.
“I can bug you, if you want. Since I don’t have your dad to pester, I feel sort of useless.” Sandy grasped the railing and made her way down the stairs. “Hey, what happened to your stick?”
Kit stooped and picked up her broken whip. “Stormy went one way. I went the other.”
Sandy cupped one side of her mouth as if sharing a secret. “Don’t tell Elliott. He worries about you enough.”
“The way news spreads around here, I’m sure the old Scotsman has already heard. He’ll find me soon enough and ream me out.”
“Don’t let anyone hear you call him old. That’ll tarnish his reputation.” A crease of amusement marked Sandy’s face. “Hey did you hear what happened to his latest fling?”
Kit covered her ears. “TMI.” Half of Lexington’s female population gossiped about the sexual exploits of the serial dater. The other half made up the membership in the Elliott Fraser Past & Present Girlfriends’ Club.
Sandy eased her long legs into an electric cart, depressed the accelerator, and then gave a beauty-queen wave goodbye.
Kit mimicked the wave.
The former Miss Kentucky and marketing guru laughed. “A bit more wrist, sweetheart.”
