The Sapphire Brooch by Katherine Logan (best novels to read to improve english .txt) 📕

wiped her face with the heel of her hand. David pulled her into his arms and held her, and she cried until she soaked his shirt.

When the tears stopped, she said, “I’m sorry. I thought I had cried them all out.”

He reached behind him, grabbed a handful of napkins off the table next to the railing, and gave them to her. “Blow yer nose. Ye’ve been close to tears all morning. It was time to let them out.”

She did as he asked, then took several hiccupping breaths. She breathed easier now the tension in her chest had eased. “How’d you get to be so smart?”

He laughed. “Everything I know I not only learned in kindergarten, but I also learned from Elliott, especially about women.”

She threw the used napkins in the trash can, chuckling. “From what I heard about Elliott prior to meeting Meredith, I’m not sure it’s knowledge to be proud of.”

“Aye, but ye have to understand. Before he fell in love with the right woman, he fell in love with the wrong one. The first lassie caused him a wee bit of trouble. It took Meredith a while to straighten him out.”

“He reminds me of Yoda in Star Wars, building his knowledge, experience, and wisdom into others. I can’t imagine undertaking this mission without his support and”—she paused, glancing up at David—“his Jedi knight. I’d never be able to kick evil’s butt without you.”

“Where would ye like to start with yer ass-kicking?” he asked, smiling into her eyes.

“Oh, that’s easy,” she said, letting David divert her focus. “A certain kangaroo court with the power to execute. We’ll start there, then I’m going after Johnson and Stanton in the press. The Tribune, Times, Post, News and the World are five of the newspapers whose editors disagreed with Johnson and Stanton about how the trial should be conducted. I firmly believe those two men bullied Attorney General Speed into writing an opinion supporting their position.”

She stopped and slammed her fists to her hips. “An opinion is only an opinion, for God’s sake. It doesn’t have the force and effect of the law. A criminal court should have tried the conspirators, not a military court. Knowing Jack, he’s suffering more from the injustice than the torture.”

David rubbed his knuckle across his upper lip as a broad grin spread across his face.

“You’re laughing at me.”

“Nay. I’d never laugh at a lassie strapping on a gun belt, ready for battle.” The lines of his face curved in such an irresistible smile that her own laughter bubbled up in response.

“You’re damn right I am, but I have to warn you, I’m a lousy shot.”

They meandered toward the car, taking their time, listening to the trees whisper and the chatting and courting of the birds. She had become accustomed to the sounds of nature, to hearing the trills and odd yowls instead of the roar of engines and blasting music.

“I’ve changed my position since the videoconference this morning,” she said.

“To what?” David asked. “Are ye coming down on the side of the press?”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, because I can’t stand the press, but if we can’t win the trial in the courtroom, we’ll win it in the newspapers.”

“And if we can’t win it in the press?”

She opened her door and slid into the passenger’s seat. “Easy. Do you know where we can get a drone?”

“What do ye want to do with it? Fly it into the Old Arsenal Penitentiary?”

“Yep. Blast a hole in Jack’s cell and rescue him during the confusion.”

David’s mouth twitched slightly as he cast a sidelong glance at her. “I can see it all now.” He spread his hands as if clearing the way of visual obstructions. “On the left, we have the steady hands of a surgeon operating a drone’s controls. And on the right, we have a writer inciting the public to reject the attorney general’s opinion as both unlawful and a gross blunder in policy.”

In spite of her distress, Charlotte laughed. “You have a future in either politics or the theater.”

Chuckling, David put on his seat belt and started the engine. “The ancient Greeks and Shakespeare had it figured out. They combined the two and created political theater.”

“Great. If we had a script ready, we could press our case on the stage, too.”

“Thank goodness we don’t. I have a feeling we’re going to have our hands full as it is.” He tapped her on the head. “Hold on to yer hat and tell me why ye dislike the press.”

“It’s a long story.”

“It’s a nice drive back to the farm.” He pulled out onto Old Frankfort Pike for a scenic drive back to the farm. “Tell me yer story, and I’ll tell ye mine.”

“During my residency, one of my first gunshot victims almost died on the table. We worked on him for several hours. It was touch and go. By the time we finished, I was exhausted. Several reporters were waiting for an interview. They reached me first and caught me off-guard. I said, ‘He coded on the table…’ Before I could complete the sentence to add the patient was resuscitated by the anesthesiologist, the reporters were spreading the rumor he was dead, upsetting the family members sitting nearby. I caught hell from the hospital administrator and the chief of surgery. And it’s the last time I’ve ever talked to the press.”

“And now ye want to use them?”

“Better to use them than be abused by them. So what’s your story?”

“A reporter in Afghanistan asked me what it felt like to be a hero. Another reporter shouted over the question, asking me what I was going to tell the widow of one of the men I’d rescued. I hadn’t known he had died.”

Charlotte squeezed his arm. “I’m so sorry.”

“I was, too, but my sorry didn’t warm her bed at night.”

77

MacKlenna Farm, Lexington, Kentucky, Present Day

Charlotte propped her foot on the bottom rail of the white plank fence surrounding the paddock adjacent to the MacKlenna mansion. A