The Sapphire Brooch by Katherine Logan (reading eggs books .TXT) 📗

Stormy then checked out the other stallions standing stud at MacKlenna Farm. “Braham’s been a spy for four years. He’s learned to play his cards close to his chest, for survival if for no other reason. I doubt you’ll get much out of him.” Jack handed the iPad back to her. “Beautiful stallions.”

She set the iPad on the coffee table along with the charger and her car keys. “I wish I could do more to help him.”

Jack gave her a hug. “You’ve done a lot for him already. Give him time. He’ll find his way. If you’d let him back on a horse, he might feel like he had a bit more control of his life.”

“I’d rather give him a watch. I learned the hard way that not knowing the time of day makes you feel even less in control over your circumstances. I didn’t like it at all.”

She rinsed out her glass at the bar and left it in the sink. “You know, two weeks ago, Braham was almost dead. He’s making a remarkable recovery, but he’s not healed yet. Let’s see how he’s doing next week. If he promises not to go galloping around the farm, he can probably ride. But not until then.”

Jack grinned. “We don’t have to gallop to go hunting.”

Charlotte’s mind spun with worst-case scenarios. “I only hope he doesn’t go off hunting on his own.”

19

Mallory Plantation, Richmond, Virginia – Present Day

An hour after Jack left with the car service, Braham carried a change of clothes and a sack of food out to Charlotte’s Range Rover. If he was going to leave, it had to be now. Earlier he had read the driving manual on the iPad. He’d watched videos on YouTube, and he knew the rules of the road. The real question now was could he drive a car Jack said could drive itself?

He started the engine and entered his destination in the GPS device. At seventy miles an hour it would take six hours to reach Lexington, Kentucky. He had calculated gas mileage, and driving at a constant rate of speed he could make it on one tank of gasoline. If he had to buy more fuel he would use some of Jack’s pizza money. He hated leaving without an explanation, but even if he had tried again to explain, he knew they wouldn’t have understood.

He had called MacKlenna Farm and been told Elliott and his wife, Meredith, were at the farm until the end of next week. If Braham didn’t leave now, he would miss the Frasers and the only means of returning to his time. The plan he had formulated might not work, but he had to try. Although he’d never been behind the wheel of an automobile, he dismissed it as insignificant. He would learn on the way and pray a traffic officer didn’t stop him. He understood the traffic laws and how much trouble he could get into without a license. But he didn’t think they would shoot him or hang him, and hopefully jails had improved a wee bit since the mid-1800s.

He adjusted the seat and mirror as he had seen Charlotte do the day before. Then he put the car in gear. Before pressing the accelerator, he took a steadying breath. The moment he touched the accelerator, the car shot forward.

Braham slammed his foot on the brake and his chest hit the steering wheel. “Damn.” He had forgotten to buckle up. He left his foot on the brake, put on the belt, put the car into park, and sat perfectly still.

While the car remained in park, he pressed the accelerator with a much lighter touch, listening to the roar of the engine. Obviously, he couldn’t master driving techniques simply by reading instructions. He put the car in gear again and pressed on the accelerator. The car shot forward, but this time he didn’t use the brake. Instead, he lifted the foot on the gas pedal a bit and the car slowed. He continued to practice both braking and accelerating until he felt familiar enough with how acceleration worked.

Feeling more confident, he followed the farm road and circled the plantation. Then he circled again. By the third time, his confidence had increased dramatically until he looked down at the speedometer. He was only traveling at five miles per hour. He stopped the car and pounded his palms against the steering wheel.

At this speed, he could get to Lexington faster riding a horse. He blew out a long breath and drove more circles around the farm, increasing his speed with each loop. When he felt comfortable at forty-five miles per hour, he ventured out onto the lane leading to the highway. As the first stop sign came into view, he stopped, and inched his way up to the sign. A car was coming from his right. He cringed, waiting for the impact he knew would come. The car zoomed by, and he relaxed. If he was going to panic every time a car came toward him, then he might as well turn around and go back to the plantation.

He pulled out faster than he intended and didn’t turn the wheel as far as necessary, which put him close to the edge of the pavement. To avoid hurling off the road, he cut the wheel too sharply, causing the car to swing. He then yanked the wheel in the opposite direction. The rear end swerved from side to side, and he ran into the grass. He hit the brakes and threw the car into park.

“Damn.” He slammed his palms against the wheel again, breathing heavily. This might be the hardest task he’d ever undertaken. He should practice more before he set out, but he had no time to lose. He took a moment to regain his composure then pulled out onto the highway. By the time he reached the I-64 West exit, his palms had stopped sweating.

He watched the gas gauge needle creep toward the halfway point