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  Journey to Turnabout

  Book One: Camellia Burton / Spring

  Sierra Rose

  Copyright 2016 Sierra Rose

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Journey to Turnabout | Camellia Burton: Spring | Synopsis

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  The End

  Don’t miss the summer bride next!

  Journey to Turnabout

  Camellia Burton: Spring

  Synopsis

  WHEN NATHANIEL BURTON, notorious gambler, is murdered in the middle of a poker game, it leaves his three daughters and niece not only bereft but destitute. None of the young women have been educated to support themselves; and, with their luxurious lifestyle suddenly torn away, they are desperate to gain some sort of financial security before they end up in the street.

  Camellia, as eldest and most responsible, explores various options but can find nothing suitable. Until she comes across the Mail Order Brides section in her local newspaper. She applies to marry one Ben Forrester, he accepts, and the deed is done.

  Within a few months, the Burtons have left behind their St. Louis mansion to the bank’s foreclosure, hired a wagon train and drivers, and set off for a place in northeast Texas called Turnabout. There, Camellia discovers that her intended is kept quite busy, running a mercantile store and serving as mayor.

  So many adjustments must be made. Transferring from large bustling city to small compact town. Moving from sumptuous living to Spartan surroundings. Transforming from blushing maidenhood to blushing wifehood.

  And engaging in arguments.

  Ben and Camellia have been married one whole day when a rousing quarrel flares up out of nowhere. He is obstinate; she is opinionated. Inevitably, the two clash, and Ben leaves on a business trip before the matter can be resolved.

  After an unprovoked and unforeseen attack by outside forces, survival itself is left in question. Both realize they need to re-think their values, and decide what is most important in life.

  Chapter One

  “I’ll see your bid and raise you twenty.”

  THE FAINT MUSICAL TINKLE of chips being tossed onto a pile, already collected atop the green baize table, drew no extra attention from five players intent upon their game. A thick haze of cigar smoke hung in the air, and the near-emptiness of liquor bottles and assortment of heavy crystal glasses arranged upon a sideboard attested to the amount of drinking being done.

  Including by Nathaniel Burton. He could swear he was keeping his wits about him, despite the late hour and the liberal doses of good Kentucky bourbon sweetly warming his belly. It was just a friendly little gathering.

  Well, no, he could somewhat fuzzily imagine himself explaining to his irate daughters, I don’t know my fellow participants very well. Actually, not at all. Certainly not to speak to in the street.

  But one flash of wallets well filled with greenbacks, several winks of diamond rings and staunch gold pocket watches, a reminder of the financial hole into which he was rapidly sinking, and Nathaniel was hooked.

  Their venture into five-card stud was supposed to have taken place in one member’s home, which should surely have kept everything above board and honest instead of slightly on the sleazy side. And Nathaniel had certainly handled enough of the sturdy little Parnell cards in his lifetime to have gained the experience and expertise necessary to know the difference.

  However, the group, sousily met in one of St. Louis’s better-known watering holes, had decided to follow their pursuits in a private upstairs gaming room. Oh, it was well arranged. Clean. Comfortable. Cozy, even, with its endless supply of alcoholic beverages, its dark paneled walls, and a turkey-red carpet underfoot. If one were to take in the surroundings, instead of concentrating on the stakes being held in one’s hand, it could only feel satisfying to be so richly accoutered.

  Of course, a goodly amount of money was being passed back and forth across the table. First one of the gentlemen—a well-dressed, bearded fellow named Henry Dinkins—took the pot; then, as the cash reserves built back up, another. Nathaniel had won a small amount—just enough to salve his pride, and more than enough to keep him interested in staying in the game. But he had lost too much to even the odds.

  Actually, he was in the process of, as the saying goes, losing his shirt.

  And then some.

  Because, as he was finding out, he was being played with as much slippery ease as the cards themselves. But he couldn’t quit. He had to continue trying, despite being past the point of no return.

  The room had been built (probably deliberately) without windows. Thus no outdoor light, that might cause a distraction, could intrude upon the indoor scene, nor no noise enter. It counted for naught; the December weather belonged typically to St. Louis: cold and icy, with several inches of new snow heaped onto the streets, and a thin layer of ice beneath that. Could anyone but hear it, a hard wind was lashing down from the bitter Arctic, rattling frozen bare branches and sending any loose papers skimming into the gutters.

  “I call,” said the host of this impromptu party, with a great deal of gratification. His grin said it all, as he spread open his holdings of a Royal Flush: the Ace, King, Queen, Jack, and Ten, all in Hearts. A beautiful hand, and one created through pure luck. Or chicanery.

  Nathaniel, having acquired the proverbial poker face through many years of practice, was usually able to contain his emotions. But at this revelation, and his opponent’s smug raking in of the chips, he couldn’t restrain a small grimace.

  This evening’s adventure was fast going against him. Deep under every other thought came the sinking feeling that this time, this time, no matter how long this game lasted, he would not be able to recover from his losses. He was simply in too deep.

  Another round was dealt. There was no sound other than the muted slap-slap of cards being passed out, and an occasional shift of body weight in the chair or soft sizzling puff of a cigar. Someone murmured, “I see that, and I raise.” Another murmured something negative: “Too rich for my blood; gotta fold with this one.”

  At this point, Nathaniel decided to take his lumps and reconsider what choices might be left. “Gotta excuse me a few minutes, boys.” He carefully returned what had been given to him and rose, somewhat stiffly, as does one of more mature years who has been stuffed into a tight position for too long a time. “Need to make a visit.”

  Afterward, while he was re-buttoning his wai
stcoat and washing and drying his hands, he thought about what was going on this cold, dark night. A gambler’s intuition was rumbling in his gut, telling him that all was not right. Whatever had been happening behind the scenes, he was being taken for a ride by experienced sharps. He was definitely out of his league.

  Nathaniel peered more closely into the mirror, smoothed his gray mustache, brushed back his center-parted gray hair. Something niggled. He was, unhappily, reminded of an occurrence in 1832, some forty years earlier, during the heyday of riverboat gambling.

  Four men, settled on a Mississippi steamboat, were engaged in the throes of a hot and heavy game of poker. Three were professional gamblers, playing a rigged setup. The fourth was a young man from Natchez, too naïve to be let out on his own. Shortly he had lost all his money. Distraught, he wandered up on deck, planning to throw himself over the side and let the river solve his problems.

  Instead, he was rescued by a man who took pity on the situation in which this hapless traveler found himself trapped, and decided to do something about it. The stranger joined the card game. With a high stakes draw going on, he caught one of the “sharps” cheating, and pulled his knife.

  “Show me your hand!” he yelled. “If it contains more than five cards, I shall kill you!”

  It did. Six cards, in fact.

  There was no murder done. Instead, the stranger took the $70,000 pot. He returned $50,000 to the man from Natchez, and kept the remaining $20,000 for himself.

  Mightily relieved, yet shocked by the ferocity and cool courage of the stranger, the young traveler stammered, “Who the devil are you, anyway?”

  As he tucked away his winnings, the stranger pushed back from the table and returned his knife to its sheath. “I, sir,” he said, “am James Bowie.”

  Perhaps that was the problem. Something, somehow, had alerted Nathaniel to the possibility of his playing partners involved in a massive cheat, and he was the gullible victim.

  It was absolutely essential, he mused, upon his return to the gaming room, that he remain alert. Thus far he had managed to persevere, by the skin of his teeth. But if he couldn’t recoup his losses, and walk away from the table with substantial winnings, he would never dare walk through the front door of his own home later on.

  Another hour passed. Gradually the air filled with tension, as this one took the pot, or that one took it. Too rarely did Nathaniel. His markers mixed in with the chips that the other players were greedily eyeing.

  He had ignored all his own rules throughout these games.

  Recognize when the cards are against you, and when a hand isn’t worth playing.

  Don’t stay in just because so much has already been bet on it.

  No alcohol.

  Stop when you’re overtired.

  Pay attention.

  Bluffing is not always a good thing, especially when the stakes are high.

  And so on, and so on.

  So here he was, watching his opponents for their betting patterns and any signs of shallow breathing or flushed complexions or too much blinking, listening for the sounds of sighs or hard swallows. Nothing. These were experts, and Nathaniel was finding himself bested.

  “Wait just a minute, there, Mr. Woodson,” Nathaniel suddenly interrupted, slapping his palm down flat on the table. “You’ve marked the deck.”

  “Oh, I hardly think so. You’re imagining things, sir. Let me just continue to deal.”

  “Not at all. That’s called cheating in any language, and I’ll have no more of it.” Livid, Nathaniel surged to his feet. “You’ve been cheating all along, haven’t you?”

  “Stolen? Cheating?” Woodson, a burly man in a gold embroidered vest, frowned. “Those are harsh words to be throwing around, Mr. Burton. It’s the same as calling all of us liars. Perhaps you would like to retract your accusations?”

  “I won’t retract what’s true!” snapped Nathaniel. “I was blind not to have seen it earlier. What other tricks have you been pulling? Cards up your sleeve? Or under your belt?”

  “Oh, calm down, Mr. Burton,” urged one of those off to the side, fanning his own cards. “No point in causing a disturbance. We wouldn’t want any trouble here.”

  “No, I’ll just bet you wouldn’t. But, at this point, I just want all my money back. Simply return what you’ve stolen from me, and we can call it quits.”

  “Now, now, this has just been a nice little game so far,” Subtle John Jones (or so he had been named) soothingly intervened. He reached out for an easy pat on the arm, meant to calm. It only further infuriated.

  Standing erect over the table, with as much power and authority as he could muster, Nathaniel drew himself together. “I shall take my cash, my chips, and my chits from you now, sir, and then I shall take my leave.”

  Woodson, with a lit cigar smoldering away, narrowed his eyes. “That, Mr. Burton, sounds very much like a threat.”

  “No threat at all. It’s fact. I’m sure the sheriff might be interested in what kind of game you’re running in this room, Woodson. And how many other players you’ve fleeced.”

  It was as he stretched down across to bundle up his markers, and the rest of the hefty pot, that the derringer, slipped out from under his vest, appeared like a flash in Woodson’s be-ringed hand.

  “You’ll leave, Mr. Burton, with your coat and nothing else,” he said coldly. “You’ve lost. Now let me see the back of you, on your way out the door.”

  “Or you’ll what? You’ll shoot me?” Nathaniel, staring down his opponent, demanded with scorn. “Then you’ll have something far more serious to deal with than mere cheating at cards, won’t you? You’ll have—”

  The shot snapped out without warning. There was the smallest hint of discharge, a puff of smoke, and utter surprise on the face of the victim. And then he was struck by a second shot.

  Nathaniel’s eyes widened as realization hit with the force of each bullet that rocked him back on his heels. He’d never even seen it coming.

  He glanced down. A small red stain had begun to spread over his powder blue waistcoat. Oh, man. Cammy would throw a hissy fit over that.

  Oddly enough, there was no pain. Not yet. But his fingers tightened over the back of the chair as he struggled for balance. Although the room seemed suddenly darker and colder, he clearly heard Woodson’s chilling announcement.

  “The man’s done for. And we have what we wanted. Get rid of him.”

  “Get rid of him?” repeated one of his startled cohorts. “Where?”

  “You fool, I already gave you your orders. Take the back way out, and dump his body in the alley two doors down. Anyone stumbling across him will think he’s been set upon by pickpockets and thieves.”

  Nathaniel had enough time for one astonished thought, I wish I had just gone straight home.

  And then he crumpled slowly, without grace, to the floor.

  Chapter Two

  “OH, MY DEAR MISS BURTON, I am so sincerely sorry for your loss. What a shock to everyone.”

  With a small grimace of distaste for the circumstances, Camellia Burton turned to face one of Lukas Street’s very tony widows, dressed to the teeth in sumptuous weeds. “Thank you, Mrs. Dillard. It was good of you to come and pay your respects.”

  “Tell me,” the lady went on, in a lowered voice that conferred more intimacy upon the moment than it deserved, “is it true your poor father was actually found face-down, shot through the chest, in an alley behind a row of—well, you know...what they call the dens of iniquity?”

  She was a purported sympathizer, a professional mourner, calling at the funeral parlor to express her regrets—or exhibit her raging curiosity. Mrs. Persephone Dillard, unfortunately a neighbor situated amongst all the others throughout their upper-class retreat, could not easily be snubbed. Her position in society and her superior attitude forbade any such behavior.

  “Thank you for coming, Mrs. Dillard,” Camellia offered once again, with her chilliest expression. Still polite, of course. Must be polite, at all
costs. “All of us appreciate your stopping by.”

  “And I heard,” the tone fell even softer, as its speaker leaned in, “that there was—oh, my... gambling involved, and possibly—possibly—opium?”

  Camellia’s jaw set into an unlovely line. “You mustn’t believe everything being bandied about, Mrs. Dillard.”

  “Oh, but, of course, I wouldn’t dream of it, my dear Miss Burton.” The elderly lady bridled a little, like a restive horse. “In my years upon this earth, I have certainly been forced to ignore much of what people are discussing. Although, I do wonder—well, do you know if there is any hope of catching the murderer, and finding justice?”

  “I understand the police are doing their best. Which is all that we can hope for.”

  “Oh, certainly, certainly. A most sensible attitude. And then there are your sisters to be considered, in addition. What on earth will you girls do with yourselves? Will you be able to maintain your lovely house? How is everyone holding up?”

  Nosy old hen! As if I would confide in you any of the worries that are weighing me down! “As well as can be expected, I should say. If there’s nothing else at the moment, pray excuse me, I have a few other people to see...”

  Making a smooth but determined escape from the clutches of this harpy in shoe leather, Camellia found her way to a deserted anteroom where she could catch her breath. She didn’t need the glimpse she caught of herself in the gold-framed hall tree mirror to realize how unbecomingly unpresentable she looked in heavy mourning.

  Making no bones about it, she appeared, in fact, like a moldering old crow. With her shining black hair dulled by the net of a cumbersome veil, and her complexion whitened to mask-like pallor, and her fine blue eyes slightly swollen and reddened from grief, she presented a picture that no one would want to see. Let alone deal with.

  “Cammy. Here you are.”

  “Yes, indeed. Here I am.” Furtively she brushed at a few tears that had collected. Tears not, unhappily enough, for a departed family member, but tears of weakness and nervous tension.