The Sunstone Brooch : Time Travel Romance by Katherine Logan (i am reading a book TXT) 📕

“Did you wear a pith helmet like Sir Stanley?”

“Of course.” He laughed. “The bird fauna of the Nile is extraordinary. The air is thick with them—larks, doves, herons, kingfishers, and flocks of snow-white cattle egrets, dozens of different varieties of ducks. And, Mrs. Fraser, I could see them all with my new spectacles.”

“Would you mind calling me Ensley? Mrs. Fraser is my mother-in-law, and it’s way too formal for the Badlands.”

His eyebrows pinched together, and he tilted his head. “Mr. Fraser wouldn’t appreciate such informality.”

“He’s not here. And if he were, trust me, he wouldn’t mind.” It was so strange. Here she was with a man her age whom she just met but knew more about his life and passions and loves than the man she’d recently dated for months.

“I’ll call you Ensley unless others are around, and please called me Teddy.”

Teddy Roosevelt just told me to call him Teddy. Be still my heart.

“How was your asthma while you were on the Nile?”

“Vanished,” he said.

“And you became Natty Bumppo on the Nile. Or maybe Rube Rawlings, Captain Reid’s version of Natty.”

“I was Humboldt on the Orinoco, seeing new worlds with the eyes of science.”

“Sounds like you had a headlong, harum-scarum quality that was more Don Quixote than Humboldt. I can see you with your big spectacles and the great gun slung over one shoulder charging off astride a small donkey, ruthlessly chasing whatever object you had in your sights.”

“I was dangerous. The donkey was often out of control, and my gun bounced every which way.”

She laughed and suddenly knew what kind of book she wanted to write. She reached for her cell phone to call Susan to pitch her story, only to be shocked back to reality.

There was no Susan, no former employer, no running group, no yoga class, and no job waiting for her return, and she slumped in her saddle.

“Are you tired?” TR asked. “We can stop.”

“No, it’s just my sore hip. I’ll be fine.”

Tesoro looked back at her with those huge brown eyes that could see into her soul, and he knew she was lying. He could see the truth, and he wanted to warn her to brace for the crash and steel herself for the fall.

Don’t worry about me, Tesoro. It’s just one more thing to dump on the stockpile of lost love and regrets.

30

Chicago, IL (1885)—James Cullen

After enduring long layovers and godawful food from Medora to Minneapolis, JC bought a seat in a Pullman sleeping car with access to a dining room. If Ensley had been with him, he would have leased a Pullman luxury car just for them, but he couldn’t justify the expense for one passenger. The older he got, the more his brother’s responsible spending mantra had an impact on him.

As the train neared northwest Chicago, he quit reading the collection of Shakespeare’s plays—the only book he packed—and spent the rest of the time gazing out the window at the stretches of flat, open prairie. Two-story frame houses stood in open fields with rows of telegraph poles stalking the surrounding areas.

He’d made regular trips to Chicago in the past couple of years. He loved the city and would move here if his business didn’t keep him tied to DC. To see the city as it once was made this side trip completely worthwhile. As much as Ensley wanted to be with TR, he knew she’d also love Chicago. As soon as he could, he’d send a telegram to let her know where he was.

He continued gazing out the window as trains rumbled by going in the opposite direction, clacking along the rails. When his train crossed the Chicago River, the brakeman slammed open the door and shouted above the clang, “Chicago! Chicago!”

JC popped to his feet, kicked his legs to straighten his trousers, and reached for his saddlebags in the empty seat. Instead of crowding the door as other passengers were doing, he remained at the rear of the car. He continued to watch the people, taking in details and body language cues for signs that anyone was paying attention to him, just as he’d done during the entire trip. So far, no one seemed overly interested, except a few women whose shy glances he politely ignored.

Call him paranoid, but now that the Illuminati knew about him, they could find him again, regardless of the century or the continent. They wanted information, and under extreme interrogation and torture, JC could reveal enough to destroy the clan. He’d come close and still had bruises and burns to remind him he might not survive another round with its sadistic, indoctrinated members. Without the skills he learned from the monks in the Himalayas, he wouldn’t have survived.

“Chicago!” the brakeman called again, drawing out the word. The train moved at a snail’s pace now as it pulled into a shadowy train shed teeming with cars and passengers, and he watched with interest at the tide of people pouring out of the depot. They pushed against the horde of new arrivals who hurried in the opposite direction.

JC needed to switch trains here and buy a ticket on the Cincinnati, Indianapolis, St. Louis & Chicago line for the next leg of the trip. But while waiting in line to buy a ticket for a train leaving within the hour, he decided to stay overnight and enjoy an evening in the city.

So he bought a ticket for the train departing tomorrow afternoon at two o’clock and made arrangements for Mercury. While chatting with the agent about the luxury sleeper car, JC asked him for a hotel recommendation.

The agent reached for a piece of paper and handed it to JC. “I recommend the brand-new Hotel Richelieu. It’s Chicago’s most luxurious hotel. It fronts Lake Michigan and caters to a discerning clientele who demand high-end Parisian cuisine.” The agent repeated everything written on the flyer.

JC raised his eyebrow. “French food? What about the rooms?” He waved the flyer. “Should I