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

finally returned to its natural rhythm. He forgave Sean for almost killing him and was happy for him at the same time. He would soon see his twin sister’s daughter after believing for the past few years that he’d never see her again. The moment reminded Elliott of why they were there—to find his son. His displeasure and concerns about James Cullen’s actions almost diminished the excitement of Sean and Kit’s reunion.

“Did she bring Cullen?” Sean asked, his voice hopeful.

“Aye, she did. And they’re looking forward to seein’ ye.”

“What a blessin’.”

“And may blessings follow ye through life.”

“Aye, that’s two toasts, at least! We’re likely to come up with another reason afore we have whisky to drink.”

“What about Kit’s father? Is he still living?”

“Aye. Donald lives in Washington near Kit and Cullen’s daughters.”

“Another toast, then.”

“I’ll send my manservant to the depot in Midway with telegrams for their daughters in Washington and their son in Napa. I’m sure they’ll all want to come for a visit.”

“Aye, we’ll toast to them, too!”

Sean laughed. “I hope ye’re keeping count.”

“I think we’re at four, but we can drink to five just in case we missed one.”

They walked into a clearing with a log cabin nestled against a wall of trees and two rocking chairs on a covered porch. Elliott oriented himself and recognized the spot, but it was thick with trees and underbrush in his time. According to the farm’s log, there was a fire on the farm in the late eighteen hundreds, and a hunting cabin burned down. Soon after the fire, Sean had his lawyer draft restrictions to protect the site in perpetuity and returned to its natural state. Even if a foundation still existed, underbrush had long ago reclaimed the land.

“Is this a hunting lodge?” Elliott asked.

“No, a hideout. I come here to read, enjoy a wee dram of whisky, or visit with auld friends who are more suited to rustic settings. Lyle Ann knows when no one can find me in the stallion barn or my office that I’m here.” Sean pulled out a pocket watch. “It’s six thirty. We have an hour before she’ll send someone to fetch us.”

“I should send word to Meredith that I’m with ye.”

“I don’t have a communication device similar to what ye have in yer time. But I have a pencil and a piece of paper.” Sean removed a pocket notebook and a pencil from his jacket, tore out a piece of paper, and jotted down a note. Then he rolled it up and laced it through the horse’s reins that he then wrapped around the saddle horn.

“I believe it’ll stay put.” Sean swatted the horse’s rump, and it trotted off. “One of the grooms will get the message and pass it on to Lyle Ann. That might buy us another thirty minutes. Dinner is at eight thirty, and if we’re not back by then, we might as well just stay right here for the night.”

“I think ye’ve hit onto something. I might have to build a log cabin when I go home, or maybe we can come up with a plan to ensure this one survives well into the future.”

Elliott followed Sean into a simply furnished room with worn, wide-plank wooden floors and a big stone fireplace. A breeze from the open door disturbed a troupe of dust motes that danced in front of the sunny windows. Elliott sniffed, smelling woodsmoke and age, but not neglect.

“My grandfather built the cabin afore he sailed back to Scotland. I improved on it, adding a shingled roof and glass windows.” Sean crossed the room and opened a corner cabinet. “And a supply of The Glenlivet.”

“Pour me a double. We have a lot to toast to,” Elliott said, studying the collection of books on the bookshelf: Treasure Island, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, The Last of the Mohicans.

Elliott took the glass and swirled the contents, sniffed, and smiled. “To Kit!”

They drank their first toast.

“To Cullen!” Sean said, and they drank their second.

“To Donald,” Elliott said, and they drank their third.

“To blessings,” Sean said, and they drank their fourth before refilling their glasses. “Here’s to yer horses.” They drank their fifth toast then Sean asked. “How are yer horses running?”

“I was about to ask the same question.”

Sean beamed. “We won the eleventh running of the Kentucky Derby two weeks ago.”

Elliott sure liked the sound of that, but he had to dig back into his memory of the farm’s history to recall the first Derby winner. “Ah! With Joe Cotton. How could I forget? Congratulations.” He held up his glass. “To Joe Cotton.”

They drank to the horse’s success. “Keokuk tried to steal the race in the early going with a first quarter-mile in 25 ¾ seconds, six furlongs in 1:17 ¼—the fastest clockings in a one-and-a-half-mile Derby.”

“The track must have been fast,” Elliott said.

“It was wet, but he did a mile in 1:44, the fastest on a wet track in a twelve-furlong Derby. Joe Cotton had moved from seventh in the field of ten to fifth by that point, then unleashed a powerful run—”

“Under jockey Babe Henderson, right?” Elliott asked, following Sean to the front porch.

“Helluva jockey. By that point, even Lyle Ann was excited. Then Joe Cotton gained the lead with a little more than a furlong to run. But Bersan, who had been close to the pace most of the way under Ed West, wasn’t finished.”

Sean called the race as if it were happening now, and his voice pitched higher as it accelerated. “Bersan narrowed Joe Cotton’s lead, and Ten Booker gained ground with every stride. Joe Cotton arrived at the wire in 2:37 ¼—a dandy time on the wet track—a neck ahead of Bersan, with Ten Booker half a length behind.”

“Splendid.” Elliott lifted his glass in another toast. “Sláinte! I’ve had a few races like that, and every time I say, ‘That’s it. I’m too old to endure races won at the wire.’”

“It’s going to be the death of me, but at least I’ll go out smiling,” Sean said. “Joe