The Ruby Brooch (The Celtic Brooch Trilogy) by Katherine Logan Page B

pieces. A few shards landed on their table, pinging against Mrs. MacKlenna’s glass.
    “Ah,” a collective gasp erupted from the diners in the crowded room.
    Cullen shook his head, feeling pity for the waiter who would lose his job. When he returned his gaze to the widow, he stiffened at the sight of fear-glazed eyes. Then he noticed a tiny scrape on her cheek, and he reached out to touch her.
    “Please, get me out of here.”
    Her whisper stayed his hand. He stood, knocking his chair against the wall.
    “I can’t breathe.” She grabbed the table’s edge, stood, and then leaned her trembling body against him.
    “We’ll get some air.” He took hold of her arm and threaded a path between the tables, escorting her toward the front of the hotel. The cooler air in the lobby seemed to revive her. The rise and fall of her breasts returned to their hypnotic rhythm, and a pink flush colored her face.
    “Thank you. I’m not sure I could have walked out on my own.” Her small hand with trimmed nails fiddled with her diamond-encrusted gold wedding band.
    Was she reliving her husband’s death? Regardless, she needed something to settle her. “Could I offer you a glass of sherry?”
    “No, thank you.” Her tight voice held remnants of the fear he’d seen in her eyes. “I think I’ll visit Stormy before it gets dark.” She walked away from him with a slight wobble in her step.
    He grabbed his hat from the rack before hurrying after her. “Allow me to escort you. You’re not steady on your feet.” He shoved open the door, and as they crossed the threshold, he took her arm once again.
    “You keep coming to my rescue.” The evening air relaxed her face, allowing a semblance of a smile.
    He settled the hat on his head. “Stormy must be the Thoroughbred, or else you’ve given a stowaway a new name.”
    “He’s my mighty steed, oh lad o’ Callander.”
    Cullen chuckled, delighting in her sense of humor and recall. “Your steed must have belonged to your husband. He’s more horse than you need. If you’re interested in selling him, I’d be happy to assist in finding a buyer.”
    “I—” she said, puffing her small frame, “—raised Stormy. And if you’d like to race, I’m up for the challenge.”
    “My Morgan would give your Thoroughbred a good run. But I wouldn’t want to be responsible for your death if you came off your horse.”
    “Ha.” She poked his arm with her finger. “It would probably be you coming off your horse, not me. And I wouldn’t want to be responsible for your death either.”
    The imprint of her finger lasted in his mind much longer than on his arm. He studied the widow closely, puzzled by her forwardness and unconventional beauty. She appeared to be quite different from the lovely Abigail Phillips of San Francisco who would never ride a spirited mount.
    The racing challenge died on the balmy breeze blowing in from the river as they strolled down the rickety sidewalk in silence. By the time they reached the end, the western sky had turned lavender with approaching dusk.
    “In Scotland they call the meeting of the day with the night—”
    “The gloaming,” Kit said. “Do you believe the time of two-lights is mystical?”
    He lifted his eyebrow. “According to Scottish folklore encounters between the visible and invisible worlds occur then.”
    “That must be why ghosts sometimes appear at twilight?” Her eyes were as dark and full of mystery as they had been when he first met her.
    “And dawn,” he added. “That’s the time of day I saw the lady riding her mighty steed—”
    “Excuse me, Mr. Montgomery,” Mr. Nieland, an older member of the wagon train stepped to the sidewalk and motioned Cullen to join him at the railing.
    “Give me a moment.” He released Kit’s arm and joined Nieland at the edge of the walk.
    “I wanted to let you and Mr. Peters know that Mrs. Nieland and I decided this trip’s too risky. We’re going back home. We‘re much obliged for