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

“I haven’t been inside any of the rooms, but I’ve heard they’re elegant.”

“And the wine cellar? Should I believe this?” JC read from the flyer, “‘The finest assortment of choice wines to be found in any hotel or restaurant in America.’ That’s a lofty claim.”

“I don’t have any personal knowledge, but from what I hear—”

“Guess I’ll have to find out for myself.” JC returned the flyer to the agent. “Sounds like just what I’m looking for.” He gave the agent a coin. “Thanks for your help.”

He had exchanged one of his smallest gold nuggets for cash at the hotel in Medora. He knew he got ripped off on the exchange, but he needed cash for a ticket, food, and tips.

He turned to leave but paused and asked one last question. “Is there a bank you can recommend?”

Without missing a beat, the agent said, “First National Bank of Chicago. It’s on the northwest corner of Dearborn and Monroe.”

“Great. Thanks.”

“And you need to have your horse loaded an hour before departure tomorrow.”

He gave the agent a thumbs-up.

JC now had names for an upscale hotel and a bank. Before he headed in that direction, he picked up Mercury, then stopped at Western Union to send a telegram to Ensley, hoping the Medora agent would do as he promised and get the message to her, wherever she was.

The bank was his first stop after leaving the station. He opened an account and deposited his gold, giving him access to cash and a checking account. He emerged with a full wallet, a checkbook, and a recommendation for a men’s clothing shop—the precursor of Hart, Schaffner, and Marx—Hart, Abt, and Marx on State Street.

He purchased a complete wardrobe at the shop, including evening attire, and paid handsomely for a twenty-four-hour turnaround. While the tailors made minor alterations to a suit they had in stock, JC went down the street to the Palmer House Barber Shop for a bath and shave.

Two hours later, he left the clothing store looking like the wealthy gentleman he was. And while he appreciated Paul finding him a set of clothes, JC was pleased to wear a fashionable suit when he entered the upscale hotel.

He almost felt guilty for being clean, wearing new clothes, and preparing to dine on French cuisine while Ensley was filthy, chasing cows, and probably eating bacon and beans. But who knows? Maybe she was having as much fun as she expected.

As he mounted Mercury, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and he experienced the same chill of alarm he had in Asia. He didn’t turn around, but he knew someone had eyes on him.

His unease rode with him down State Street and didn’t let up until he stood in front of the hotel’s double doors. He handed Mercury’s reins to a boy wearing the hotel’s uniform.

JC flipped the boy a coin and then flipped another one. “The second coin is for a proper brushing and fresh oats.” Then he flipped the kid one more coin. “And this one is to hire you to take Mercury to the Cincinnati, Indianapolis, St. Louis & Chicago train, leaving for Midway, Kentucky at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon. But he has to be there an hour before the train departs. Can you do that?”

The boy’s eyes lit up. “Yes, sir! He’ll be on the train in plenty of time.”

JC hated waiting for trains and planes. This way, he could take his time getting there and still have a few minutes to check on Mercury before boarding.

Over the hotel entrance stood a six-foot white marble sculpture of the famous Cardinal Armand Jean du Plessis, Duke de Richelieu. Alexandre Dumas depicted Richelieu as the lead villain in the 1844 novel The Three Musketeers.

JC wasn’t sure why, but he sensed the sculpture had some meaning for him, but at the moment, he had no idea what that could be.

The Three Musketeers?

He shook off the thought and strolled through the lobby, more than ready for an evening of indulgence in fine whisky, a full-bodied cigar, and today’s edition of the Chicago Daily News.

There was a slight echo as he walked across the almost empty lobby toward the registration desk. Then it stopped, but he kept walking while glancing around. He didn’t see anything unusual, but the itch at the back of his neck had returned.

He registered, took the key, and asked about where he could get a drink.

The receptionist nodded toward a corner bar.

“Thanks.”

He walked up the sweeping staircase, found his room on the second floor, and dropped his saddlebags without paying much attention to the room’s décor. He was just glad he didn’t have to sleep on a train tonight.

When he returned to the lobby, he walked down the hall toward the bar, and the back of his neck still itched. He stopped to look at a display case full of grainy photographs taken during the hotel’s construction, and he used the reflective glass to scan the hallway behind him. No one was there. But they could have ducked into one of the four rooms that opened into the hall.

He entered the saloon—lit by a gas chandelier and wall sconces—and strode to the end of the bar, where he took the last of several empty stools, passing four men on his way there. The location provided a view of the door and the protection of a wall at his back.

The men glanced at him when he sat down, and he nodded, acknowledging them. All four immediately broke eye contact and returned to what they were doing—drinking and reading the Chicago Daily News.

While the bartender conversed with one of his patrons, JC scanned the shelves to find Jim Beam, among other Kentucky whiskys. He smiled when he noticed the labels on the American bottles. The fonts resembled those used on “Wanted Dead or Alive” posters.

Then he spotted a bottle of Old Highland Whisky. That would do. But before he placed his order, he saw a bottle of The Glenlivet and