by Sierra Rose
Chapter Two
“I’LL BREAK HER FOOL neck,” said Ben amiably, without heat. “She did this all on her own, without consultin’ any of you? Doesn’t the girl realize what kinda men there are in this world, just waitin’ to prey on innocent people?”
“Well, you were a mail order husband,” Camellia pointed out, “and you turned out all right.”
“O’ course I did.” Grinning, he puffed out his chest just a little, like a peacock strutting for its hen. “You got the pick of the crop when you chose me, darlin’.”
Now feeling comfortable enough in their marriage, and sure enough of his prize, to take all sorts of liberties, he pulled her close, tucked under the good arm (the bad one, so grievously wounded in the Putnams’ gun battle, still ached on occasion, and he was careful how he used it). This was the perfect position, snuggled together in the front porch swing, to steal a few engaging kisses from cheek and throat and lips and snatch a few surreptitious caresses from territory still kept so enticingly under wraps.
With a sigh, almost purring in content, Camellia let her hand trail down the front of his shirt, slowly undoing a few buttons to play with loosened tendrils of chest hair. If she had a chance to think things over, it was clear she was becoming quite hedonistic.
“Huh. I’m likin’ that. Real—fine... But you seem kinda distant to me, like you’re still considerin’ somethin’ else. Anything wrong?”
Good man. He was definitely beginning to rightly read and gauge her moods. Perhaps the fact that he had been able to do so, at the moment, was balanced by the fact that he had erred so dramatically this morning—when he was looking to find a pair of missing socks, and she had only culinary tasks on her mind. A few not-so-friendly words had been exchanged.
“No. Well—other than my worry about Molly. But—no...”
A lifetime of walking warily around an emotional minefield prevented Ben from entering into the free and easy discourse that he desired with his bride. But he tried. He would always try. “Are you happy, Cam?”
Even in the soft shadows of a summer twilit evening, her smile beamed with blinding radiance. “Oh, Ben! I am blissfully happy!” She lay her head against the shoulder she had learned could hold and shelter her with such gentle strength.
Crickets were chirping their night song in the tangled grasses all around, and thousands of fireflies were flickering here and there to rival the few stars starting to show themselves overhead. The heat of the day had burned away, leaving only coolness behind, as if the whole world had drawn in a collective deep breath of Juniper Creek’s damp freshness and slowly released it.
Now, shortly before bedtime, husband and wife were quietly communing with nature before seeking their well-deserved rest. Or, given the spark in Ben’s eye, rest as an eventual goal. Clearly he had other, more enjoyable pursuits that would be taken care of first.
Fortunate Ben had happily, and without an ounce of pride, finished off all the noontime leftovers. His compliments had led them to the front porch for a peaceful hour of conversation and canoodling.
“But you’re still feelin’ a tad concerned about Molly,” he made a shrewd stab at the possible problem.
“Yes, absolutely. I never dreamed she might declare her independence by following in my footsteps. She simply has no idea what she could be getting into.”
Using one stockinged foot, Ben eased the swing gently back and forth. “Nothin’s been carved in stone, has it? I mean, she ain’t gonna run away and elope right off the bat?”
“She says not.”
“Reckon the best thing is, then, to wait till this Hennessey character gets here, and we can look him over, see what’s goin’ on. Will that work for you?”
“I suppose it will have to.” Dissatisfaction tinged Camellia’s voice. “The last six months or so of being in St. Louis was so hard. It was emotionally draining, and physically demanding. So I just assumed that my marriage, and settling down with you in Turnabout, would be all smooth sailing from here on.”
The man tilted his head back to laugh loud and long, while Camellia was caught up by an involuntary admiration of those strong muscles and that smooth brown throat. She had fallen deeply, madly, unashamedly in love with her husband, and she didn’t care who knew it.
“Honey, you ain’t never gonna have smooth sailin’,” he continued to chuckle, like a bubbling coffee pot, “unless you plan to be a hermit on some desert island. That’s people, and that’s life, and you just gotta deal with whatever comes along.”
Straightening, she reached up to frame his dear rugged face with both hands. “I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry. For what?”
“For bringing my whole family with me. When you agreed to our marriage, you expected you would be getting one woman. And, instead, you ended up with four of us.”
“Well, I must admit to bein’ a tad kerflummoxed, just at first. But, then, when I got to know you, I realized you couldn’ta done anything else. I don’t think you’da rested easy, if they’d all stayed b’hind in St. Louis, and you were here frettin’ and worryin’ about ’em. You, Camellia Forrester, are just plain too responsible. So,” his shoulders moved in a small shrug, “I got me a package deal.”
“Oh, Ben.” Her eyes filled with tears. “When I think of the kind of man I might have yoked myself to... How did I get to be so lucky in you?”
“Well, now.” Gazing down at her with a benevolent smile that quickly turned roguish, he touched a gentle thumb to the wetness. “Reckon I can think of a few ways you can show me how grateful you are.”
Chapter Three
THE NEXT SEVERAL DAYS followed the usual routine all four Burtons had come to expect. Nothing out of the ordinary; rise willingly (or not) with the crow of someone’s energetic rooster, wash and dress, break the overnight fast, plan for what would come along.
For Camellia, that meant feeding her husband and sending him off to the mercantile with a little pat and a lingering kiss. After that, there were always dishes to wash and meals to prepare, the laundress to contact (she had not yet resigned herself to heavy-duty washing and hanging on a line), the rooms to restore to pristine condition. Sometimes, depending upon schedule, she wandered over in early afternoon to work a pleasant shift at Forrester’s; sometimes she actually took a book onto the shady front porch and lost herself between the pages of some thrilling adventure.
As one of the up-and-coming young matrons in town, Camellia was already realizing that she might play an active role in improving community spirit. Turnabout showed a definite lack in sponsoring any social events and impromptu gatherings. Oh, there was the rare barn-raising, from what she had been told, and an occasional dance held for the public at Calico Bar (once the tables and spittoons had been cleared away to make space). And a church picnic, once in a while. But never anything definite, that residents and outliers could look forward to.
A committee could be formed to plan some sort of monthly function, and a calendar listed in The Turnabout News. Time to broach the idea to Ben, so that a suggestion could be brought forward at his next council meeting, and, hopefully, acted upon.
How exciting to be on the forefront of great change for the better, and a bright future!
Her hours were full, which was just the way she liked them.
For her sisters, not so much.
Hannah’s tentative employment as waitress at the Sarsaparilla Cafe, which she had earlier mentioned only with the greatest reluctance, had failed to succeed. She had tried. Oh, indeed, she had tried, for all of four hours during one breakfast shift.
But the patrons were in a constant rush, and impatient. The owner and short-order cook, Wilbur Knaack, who assumed she possessed average intelligence, lost his temper when he realized she was exhibiting none; that, actually, instead of helping to lighten the work load, his new waitress was making matters worse. During the constant dash back and forth, her rich black hair fell out of its updo to tumble enticingly around her shoulders. Several of the lumber yard
employees, delighted to find such a lovely creature in their midst, insisted upon making lewd comments while they pawed at her skirts for attention.
Worst of all, her feet hurt unbearably.
Embarrassed by her lack of stamina, feeling an utter incompetent, she had slunk back to the boarding house and collapsed in a frenzy of weak tears upon her bed.
The terrible thing about leaving a place of employment so ignominiously was that she would never dare show her face in this town again!
Her sisters immediately disabused her of that notion. And comforted her, all at the same time. She had certainly done her best, hadn’t she? Wilbur Knaack had no sense of appreciation for a lady of such high caliber; of course this work was menial, and far beneath her efforts! She must wait until something better came along. If she were even inclined to do so.
When her equilibrium returned, she dusted off her pride, donned a much-worn, rather shabby shirtwaist and skirt, and set off for Camellia’s back yard. There, wearing a huge floppy straw hat and a stout pair of gloves, she had begun the arduous work of whipping the flower garden into shape.
Camellia was astonished to find her there. She had stepped out onto the back porch to fling a wet tea towel over the railing to dry, only to discover Hannah crouching in the bushes like a felon.
“Hen! What on earth are you doing?”
Hannah, her face slightly reddened by incipient sunburn (and dampened with a most ladylike “glow”), straightened her aching back to stand erect.
“You really should take better care of your roses,” she scolded. “They are in desperate need of trimming, pruning, and watering. And lots of attention. This is the wrong time of year to put in new plants of any kind, but I can look into doing that this fall. And, for heaven’s sake, do a bit of weeding now and then. These flower beds are pathetically overgrown.”
“I admit I enjoy the results,” agreed Camellia. “There’s nothing like the fragrance and color of rosebuds to perk up a woman’s mood. But I’ve never claimed any skill in getting them to produce.”
Aiming a pair of gardening shears toward the border row of tall, majestic iris (already way past their first blush), Hannah pointed out the visible flaws ranging from dimpled hollyhocks and sweet peas to purple pansies and stately phlox and brilliant red salvia. Plants with curled brown leaves. Root bound plants. Plants whose blooms had dried into husks.
“Give me time,” said Hannah, “and I shall make this a showplace for the town.”
“That’s fine and dandy. But, first, come in and have some raspberry shrub while you tell me all about this mad desire to go digging in the dirt.”
She was feeling so much at loose ends, Hannah explained, once seated in Camellia’s cool, homely kitchen. Having long admired anyone with the talent to create and maintain a lovely flower garden, she had decided to take her sister’s neglected plots—both front and back—in hand.
“It’s a lot of hard work.” Camellia’s response, as she poured two full glasses, was noncommittal.
“Well, of course. But that’s true of anything worthwhile, isn’t it?”
“And knowledge.”
“My dear sister,” said Hannah loftily, “we have a library, with a book or two on local flora. I’ve already done a bit of research.”
And a handy handyman / groundskeeper who was happy to share tips, advice, and, in a pinch, his strong muscles, would be a helpful addition.
“I met him during my—um—brief foray into the restauranting business,” she confessed. “I overheard him talking to a friend over breakfast about certain plants, and so on, and I asked a few questions.”
Overhearing, and asking questions, and bothering a patron, which had gotten her fired.
“Fired!” Camellia was aghast. “You didn’t tell me that. You said you and Wilbur had simply parted ways. Amicably, I assumed.”
“No. He left me go. I doubt,” Hannah, brushing a few beads of condensation off her glass, said thoughtfully, “that he will provide me with a job reference in future.”
“And so your next project is to tear apart everything that’s growing on my property?”
“No, Cam. Pruning. As I explained, pruning. It’s quite satisfying to go chopping out deadwood. Next year I can start a wonderful vegetable garden for you; I’ve already begun laying out the plots. And Amazin’ Adam Hayes has agreed to be my mentor.”
“And you’re doing this without even asking my permission.”
“Well.” Hannah shrugged. “I thought you wouldn’t mind. I am improving the homestead’s appearance, you know. And its value. I’ve even considered forming the very first Turnabout Ladies’ Gardening Club, to see who might be interested in joining.”
They were great organizers, these Burton girls, once they got up and activated.
Difficult though it was with this exasperating but lovable individual, Camellia managed to work her expression into severe lines. “Not exactly the sort of thing at which you might earn an income. At least, that is your purpose, is it not—to provide a living for yourself?”
Hannah considered. “Surely it would be worth something to boast about owning the finest garden for miles around. I thought—I assumed—this might become a paying endeavor.”
“Oh, Hen!” Won over, Camellia laughed and patted her sister’s free hand. “Now that’s an interesting proposition. I’ll talk to Ben, all right?”
Well, that would be fine. Ben, still foundering in the throes of enthralling first love, would probably be willing to jump over the moon if his wife requested it. Hannah felt fairly hopeful he would be persuaded to take her on as a dependent, albeit one who would labor long and mightily on the Forresters’ behalf.
While Camellia was busy in her role of housewife—which included still helping to direct (manage) the younger Burtons’ choices in life—and Hannah was out finding herself amongst the angel-wing and sapsuckers, Letitia had chosen to walk an entirely different path.
At nineteen, Letty, a girl possessing all the beauty and suppleness of figure as her siblings, had been perfectly content to while away her days. Her time was spent in changing from one fabulous frivolous costume to the next: for morning visits, for afternoon teas, for afternoon visits, for family dinners, for gala balls and society events. What had begun in St. Louis some years ago had continued here, in Turnabout—although without the involvement of an active community circle. More just for her own amusement, to keep the boredom from escalating.
She trailed exquisite lawns and laces from her boarding house bedroom to the verandah, where she draped herself upon an appropriate wicker chair and sipped at cool drinks, slowly wielded a feminine ivory fan, and sporadically scanned the library’s latest offering. Idly contemplating, in between, any passersby or traffic on Main Street.
Such indolence did not escape Mrs. McKnight’s critical eye. Their landlady quite happily accepted each month’s fee that paid for extending her largesse, in the form of clean linens and substantial meals, but being reimbursed for a service rendered could not shut off the spigot of gossip.
Within the first month of the Burton girls’ arrival, word had spread fast and furiously about the fragile but luxurious state of their undergarments and their slothful habits that expected everyone else to wait on them hand and foot.
Washin’ their hair so often, and takin’ baths more’n a single soul needed to in this lifetime. Puttin’ on airs, like as not; thinkin’ they was better’n anybody else.
Letitia was no stranger to such hurtful talk. She had survived similar female spite during several years of enrollment at Miss Harrington’s Private School for Young Gentlewomen. What could not be ignored must—and would—be confronted—in her own time, at her own convenience.
She had given much consideration to her plight, both while lounging on the shady front porch (when certain busybodies assumed her to be mindless and feckless) and in her quiet bed at night. Short of finding a decent man to marry—and those, in this town, were few and far between, she had discovered during thos
e hours of porch sitting; nary a decent single one in the bunch, with most either already married, or too old, or too decrepit, or just too blessed ornery to make a match—she must surely find a way to support herself. The proceeds from the sale of her jewelry would last just so long, and she wasn’t about to become a burden to Camellia and Ben.
All three of the sisters had tried to leave the newlyweds alone as much as possible, waiting for an invitation to visit instead of, in normal fashion, just dropping by. It was important to give the young couple some privacy, and let them settle into their own routine. Especially after their somewhat rocky beginning.
Such consideration, however, belied the closeness generated over the years, and left everyone feeling a bit lonely and neglected. Even somewhat prickly.
The weather continued hot and airless, with an unusual sense of tension all around. Like the sort of invisible electrical current that radiates through the atmosphere, just before a storm hits, where nerve endings stand up and take notice as would frazzled cat fur; and it had townspeople edgy and snappish.
Nevertheless, Letitia put on one of her prettiest summer dresses, pulled her heavy hair up and away from an unaccommodating neckline, and gathered her frothy parasol and embroidered reticule. Time to set out on the particular errand she had in mind.
Her path took her along board walks and across sod to Main Street, and the windows of various establishments which would have attracted the interest of any serious shopper. Since Letty had already explored every reputable business ad infinitum, she passed on by. She was on a mission. Unstoppable.
The bell over the glassed-in door tinkled as she walked in.
“Hello?” she called through the empty room.
“Back here, be there in just a minute.”
She could hear a muted rumble of voices, then silence, then another rumble, slightly louder. The sudden wail of a child, either frightened or in pain—or both—startled her enough that she began to briefly reconsider her original plan. Especially since the weeping continued, intermittently and fortunately with less force.
