Sean’s head jerked back, brow furrowed, and he became tight-lipped and pale. “Are ye ill, then?”
Braham rolled the tip of the cigar along the edge of the ashtray and tapped it gently to let the ash fall. The plan he easily concocted suddenly seemed impractical to implement. “It seemed the best place to disappear. I can die here in peace, and that will be the end—” He blinked hard for control. “The end of Braham McCabe.”
Sean puffed smoke out through his lips in genial disbelief. “Ye’re intending to go to Charlotte’s time, then?” He pointedly fixed Braham with a look Braham returned undaunted. If Cullen had been unable to convince Braham to stay, Sean didn’t have a prayer.
Cullen ambled over to the bar, refilled his glass, and then took a long gulp. “After I settle Braham’s estate, I’ll convert all the cash into gold. The gold will then be shipped here to be buried in Braham’s casket.”
“So I’m to dig up the coffin months later and bury the gold.”
“I know it’s a lot to ask,” Braham said.
Sean waved him off, laughing. “I’ll be able to say, ‘Braham McCabe died and took his gold with him.’ Based on yer reputation, no one would doubt it. Of course, we’ll have to bury the gold in secrecy, or I’ll have treasure hunters digging up the entire cemetery.”
“If the timing doesn’t matter to ye, I thought we’d go for a ride tomorrow. My plan is to be thrown from a horse and break my neck. Since there’s no family to inform, there’s no reason to delay the funeral. It might seem heartless, but Cullen could explain he’s following my wishes to dispense with a wake and bury me immediately.”
“Ye’re sure this is what ye want? There’ll be no coming back.”
Braham smiled at him in an attempt at confident reassurance. “I don’t intend to come back.”
“If ye’re set on this course, we’ll bury ye tomorrow, but tonight I think we should drink and sing a few ballads. We’ll give ye a proper Scottish wake tonight before ye break yer neck.”
The next morning the men saddled their horses and left on Braham’s “fatal” ride. And that afternoon, on a cool, crisp fall day with the fiery yellows of beech trees and the vibrant reds of maples providing a glorious backdrop, Kit, Cullen, Sean, and Lyle Ann laid to rest Colonel Michael Abraham McCabe, war hero, lawyer extraordinaire, California senator, and philanthropist, who would be missed by those who loved him.
After the minister departed, Kit and Cullen joined Braham beneath the sycamore tree, its brown-yellow leaves forming a canopy over the small cemetery.
Braham hugged Cullen tightly, seeing their lives flash behind his closed eyes. “I’ll miss ye, Cul.”
Cullen wiped away tears but more came. “Saying good-bye to ye is ripping out my heart. The only consolation is I know ye’re not dead and will have many happy years to come.”
“I’m sorry I left ye on the trail all those years ago.”
Cullen grabbed him around the neck, pulling him close. “Ye’ve more than made up for it.”
Kit wrapped her arms around Braham. “I can’t imagine life without you. There will always be an empty chair at our table.”
He kicked at the pile of red and gold leaves at his feet. “I think it’s my cue to go.”
In spite of Kit’s distress, she laughed. “When I thought I’d lost Cullen, and had to go home to save my baby, it nearly broke my heart to leave the Barretts and Henry. A saying of my grandmother’s saw me through the heartbreak: ‘The day will come when you believe everything is lost, but in fact, it will be a new beginning.’” She took a deep breath and nodded to him.
“Live a full life, Braham. Love Charlotte with all the love you have to give, and never look back. You’re going where you’re meant to go. Now go with God.”
Kit took Cullen’s hand. Together they walked away. Braham followed their fading silhouettes until they disappeared over a small knoll.
The time had come. He opened the ruby brooch and whispered the Gaelic words he had first heard one night years ago in Chimborazo. “Chan ann le tìm no àite a bhios sinn a’ tomhais an gaol ach’s ann le neart anama.”
99
MacKlenna Farm, Lexington, Kentucky, Present Day
When the fog evaporated, Braham found himself standing in the middle of MacKlenna Farm’s driveway. Several vehicles lined the curve in front of the portico, with signs on the doors identifying the drivers as electricians, florists, party planners, security providers, and caterers. The front door of the mansion stood wide open, and dozens of people marched in and out like a well-organized army. Braham half expected to see General Grant on the porch, cigar in hand, ordering the troops about.
Braham cautiously entered a foyer redolent of flowers, dodging men carrying boxes and crates. Of the dozens of people rushing past, not one offered assistance.
Until the event concluded, maybe he should make himself scarce and wander the rolling green hills seamed with plank fences and enjoy the horses.
Or he could hike over to the cemetery and visit his gravesite.
He squeezed around a large metal box on wheels caught on the threshold and escaped to the portico, out of the way of the troops. Hanging baskets filled with velvety blooms of rich purple draped the porch, seeming to turn even darker under the warm sun. The all-powerful Elliott Fraser must have specially ordered the cloudless blue sky. Braham leaned against the corner of the house, crossed his feet at the ankles, scraped his whiskers with his fingers, and watched men set poles for a large white tent.
A man jumped up on the porch and plowed right into him.
“Oh, jeez, excuse me,” the man said, grabbing Braham’s arms to keep them both from falling. When they straightened and looked at each other, Jack Mallory’s face split into a wide grin. “I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in my entire life.”
