Turner's Vision Read online

  Table of Contents

  COVER

  COPYRIGHT

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  PROLOGUE

  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

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  EPILOGUE

  Other Suzanne Ferrell Novels

  Author Bio

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2015 by Suzanne Ferrell

  Cover Art by Lyndsey Lewellen

  Formatting Libris in CAPS

  Release date: March 2015

  Ferrell, Suzanne (2015), Turner's Vision,

  A Historical Romance Novel.

  Suzanne Ferrell.

  All rights reserved to the Author

  This book and parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means - electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise - without prior written permission of the author and publisher, except as provided by the United States of America copyright law. The only execption is by a reviewer who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Turner's Vision

  A Historical Romance Novel

  By

  Suzanne Ferrell

  DEDICATION

  To my aunts, Glenna and Frankie Lewis.

  Thank you for loaning me so many books as a teenager. You kept my summers filled with wonderful stories and helped me fall in love over and over again.

  May you enjoy this version of Micah and Claudia’s story as much as I did all the stories you gave me.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The Ferrell team always deserves a big thank you!

  I’d like to think my cover artist, Lyndsey Lewellen of LLewellen Designs. Your covers are making the fictional town of Westen come alive!

  My formatters at Libris in CAPS. Mitch and Alison have done such a great job!

  And my editor, Tanya Saari. Thanks for helping make my stories the best they can be!

  To my friend, Julie Benson, who years ago taught me to hate the question “Why?”, but made me think long and hard about the motivation to characters. This was the exclamation mark book!

  To my critique partner, Sandy Blair. Thanks for reading and pointing me to any big errors. It’s always fun to hear your thoughts on my characters and stories, but it’s heart-warming to know how much you hear my voice in each story. Couldn’t do this without you!

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you so much for trying my Indie published book. I understand that there are many options for you to spend your money on and am honored that you chose one of my books. For that reason my team and I strive to put out the best product we can from the awesome cover design through the entire editing and formatting process. For my part, I hope to deliver an entertaining story that keeps you wondering what’s going to happen next.

  If at the end of this book you find you simply loved the story and characters, please consider giving it a positive rating or review. In this brave new book world, the only way for a good story to find its way into the hands of other readers is if the people who loved it let others know about it. We authors appreciate any little bit of help you can give us.

  If, when you reach the end of this story, you think, “Wow, I’d love to know what’s next in Suzanne’s world of characters,” then consider joining my newsletter mailing list. I only send out newsletters a few times a year plus extra ones in anticipation of any new releases, so it won’t be flooding your inbox on a weekly basis, but will keep you abreast on any changes I may have coming.

  Also, I love to hear from readers. If you have any questions or comments, or just want to say “hi”, please feel free to visit my webpage for some extra tidbits or check out my Pinterest boards. You can connect with me via Facebook, Twitter or through my email: [email protected]

  PROLOGUE

  “Micah.”

  The soft Southern voice whispered to him out of the grey mist.

  “Micah, I need you.”

  “Patrice?”

  “I’m here. I hurt so badly.”

  “Tell me where you are and I’ll come get you,” he said, trying to walk towards her voice, but the ground beneath him kept shifting and swaying.

  “I can’t tell you. I don’t know.” Her voice broke and he suddenly saw her face. Bruised. Battered. Tears rolling down through soot, her silver eyes full of pain. “They hurt me, Micah.”

  “Who? Who did this to you?”

  “You know…” his sister said, fading back into the mist.

  “Patrice!”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Washington, D.C. 1882

  Hidden by the early-evening shadows, Micah Turner leaned against the light post across the cobblestoned street from the small library.

  As he waited for the last patron to leave, he tugged at the starched white collar of his new shirt. He’d give a twenty-dollar gold piece to be wearing his deerskin tunic, Levi dungarees and calf-high moccasins. The confines of his fancy suit, and the humidity of late May in the Chesapeake Basin, had him feeling restless. Too many buildings, too many people.

  Right now, he longed for the cool Colorado mountain air. Yet his visions—his own personal hell—gave him no rest. He must find his sister, Patrice.

  When he left the mountains six months before, he’d only had a sense of uneasiness about her. Then a vision of her crying and begging for him flashed into his mind on the long train ride from Colorado to their old home in Georgia. There, he discovered she’d disappeared while visiting an old school friend in the nation’s capital.

  A movement from across the street caught his attention.

  Sliding to the side of the post, he lifted the newspaper in his hand, and slumped even more.

  A tall, thin man—one Micah had hoped long dead, exited the library.

  What was he doing here?

  Physically, Jonathan Gibson had changed little since the war. Donning his stove-top hat, the man stroked the mustache that drooped to the sides of his thin lips, then hailed the carriage parked down the block.

  Once the carriage disappeared around the corner, Micah folded the paper and tucked it under his arm.

  The name over the library’s door read, Goldberg’s.

  He slipped his hand into his pocket, withdrew a sealed white note and read the name on the front. Claudia Davis, Goldberg’s Library.

  When he left Colorado, he’d agreed to deliver this letter to the friend of his partner’s wife. Nathan and Laura Cantrell had expressed concern that Miss Davis was mixed up in something dangerous. The letter warned her and those helping her of that danger.

  Micah didn’t believe in coincidences. Gibson’s presence here didn’t bode well for either Miss Davis or his sister.

  Crossing the street, he slipped the envelope back into his pocket. A weathered, closed cabriolet pulled to a stop in front of the library. Micah slowed his step to watch a small, dark-haired boy hop down and run to the door.

  A few minutes later, the young boy exited more sedately. He helped a stern-look
ing woman dressed in black to the waiting vehicle. At first, Micah thought the woman elderly, considering the deference the boy gave her, but a sudden gust of wind blew her hat, forcing one of her small hands up to hold onto it. When she turned her head, he saw a younger woman, whose features had been distorted to an angular sharpness by her severe hairstyle.

  Once the carriage moved up the street, Micah walked to the library door. A waft of sweet flowers permeated the doorway. Another premonition filled his mind—a redheaded woman in a green corset. Then it vanished.

  He looked back in time to see the woman’s carriage turn in the same direction as the previous one. For a few minutes he stared after it.

  The visions came and went without warning. He had no control over them. However, when they did occur, the visions always signaled some significant event in his life. Was the stern-looking woman somehow connected to the beauty in green? And what did it have to do with his sister’s disappearance, or the danger Laura’s friend was in?

  He shook off the eerie feeling and opened the library door. The musty smell of old books filled his nose. Dust floated through the last shafts of light before dusk descended. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the library’s dim lighting.

  “We are closing for the evening, young man.” A leathery voice drifted out from behind several shelves of books ahead of Micah. An elderly gentleman, with white hair and a beard, emerged from one aisle. He gave Micah a quizzical look. “Perhaps you could come back tomorrow?”

  Micah approached the older man, offering his right hand. “I am looking for someone, Mr. …?”

  “Goldberg.” He grasped Micah’s hand in his own gnarled arthritic one. “May I ask whom you seek?”

  “I hoped to speak with a Miss Claudia Davis, sir.”

  “Ah, you just missed her.”

  “That was Miss Davis, the woman who left a few minutes ago?” Micah glanced at the door once more, then back at the little man.

  The older man nodded. “Yes, it was, Mr. …?”

  “Turner. Micah Turner, sir.”

  “Well, Mr. Turner. Perhaps I could be of service?”

  Micah smiled reassuringly at him. “I am afraid my business is of a personal nature, sir. Perhaps you could direct me to Miss Davis’ place of residence?”

  “I see.” Mr. Goldberg pulled on the end of his beard. Micah watched as the man sized him up and down, deciding what he should do. “Perhaps if you told me more about this personal business, Mr. Turner?”

  “I simply wish to deliver a letter from an old friend.”

  “Then you could leave it with me. I would be happy to see she gets it.”

  Again Micah smiled, this time shaking his head. “I’m afraid I gave my word to the sender that I would deliver it in person. I can do nothing less than see the task through to its end.”

  He waited while Mr. Goldberg considered all that he said. The older man finally reached into the desk and withdrew two pieces of paper. He took a writing pen, dipped it into ink, scratched out directions and an address on the paper. This he set aside. He wrote Micah’s name at the top of the other paper, holding the pen poised above it. “You are staying where, Mr. Turner?”

  His caution impressed Micah. If anything happened to Miss Davis, he knew this man would go to the authorities immediately. Good. He could accept that plan. He represented no harm to the lady, but he couldn’t reassure the librarian any more than he already had. So he gave Mr. Goldberg his address, accepting the other note in return.

  After a final handshake Micah walked back to the entrance. He stopped briefly at the front reading desk by the large, plate-glass window overlooking the street. He flipped through several books lying on the table. His eyes surreptitiously focused on the floorboards beneath the desk. If he didn’t know better, he wouldn’t have known foul play had taken place in this very spot a year earlier.

  Promising himself a closer look later, he closed the books, nodded his thanks to Mr. Goldberg once more then headed out in search of Miss Davis’ home.

  * * * * *

  As his hired coach approached the address Mr. Goldberg had given him, Micah watched an old crone hobble down the block. A dark shawl wrapped around her shoulders, her head covered in some sort of scarf, she leaned heavily on her cane with each step.

  Micah climbed down from the cab and paid the driver. Starting up the walk to Miss Davis’ brownstone, an odd scent of old fish, mixed with garlic and the same sweet flowers from before assailed his senses. He jerked around, stepping back off the stoop to look in the direction the old woman had gone. No sign of her. The night’s shadows had swallowed her completely.

  The hairs on his neck rose. A vague image of copper hair flashed before his eyes then disappeared. Frustrated, he rubbed the back of his neck.

  Since coming east, his anxiety had increased as his visions grew more and more out of his control.

  With a shake of his head, he tried to dispel the sensations. He rapped briskly on the door twice. With more patience than he felt, he waited for someone to answer. A few moments later the same dark-haired lad who had assisted the spinster librarian to her carriage opened the door. He stared up at Micah with obvious suspicion.

  “What ‘cha want?”

  “I would like to speak with Miss Davis, if I may.”

  “She ain’t here.” The boy tried to quickly close the door.

  Micah put his foot in the doorway, preventing him from accomplishing his task. “I think I’d like to see for myself.”

  “Criminy!” yelped the boy, when Micah pushed his way through the door.

  Micah walked into the front parlor. A George II-style settee, upholstered in green damask sat opposite the fireplace. Two petit point Queen Anne chairs flanked it. The sofa table, too, appeared to be from the seventeenth century, and very reminiscent of his mama’s furniture in the parlor of their Georgian plantation before the war.

  From the end table he picked up a framed tintype of a burly man with hard, cruel eyes, seated on a bench. His gnarled hand gripped the cane handle at his side. Behind him stood a very thin, young girl—a frightened doe, with huge, wary eyes in a pale, gaunt face. Micah’s gaze was drawn from the girl’s image to the man’s grip on the cane and back again. A wave of anger rushed over him as he realized the man was her source of terror.

  He looked at the boy. “Where is Miss Davis’ butler?”

  “He ain’t here, neither.” He stood belligerently, staring at Micah from the doorway. “You can’t just come in here, ya’ know! I could call the law on ya.”

  “Somehow, I don’t think Miss Davis would appreciate you doing that to a man who simply wanted to deliver a letter from Miss Laura.” He watched the boy’s eyes grow round and his jaw drop. Hastily, the boy closed his mouth.

  “She don’t know no Miss Laura,” he said, then stared out the window. Several times, he peeked up at Micah, apparently trying to decide whether or not to believe him.

  Micah chuckled for the first time since leaving Nathan’s farm in Colorado. The boy’s loyalty obviously warred with his natural curiosity. He hoped for the lady’s sake, the lad’s loyalty would win out.

  * * * * *

  The clock on the mantle chimed two hours later. Micah sat in a large, wingback chair, watching his young, reluctant host. He held his tongue well. Micah gave him credit for that. The lad spent the time alternately peering anxiously out the front parlor window and trying to bore holes through Micah’s skull.

  The clatter of hooves on the cobblestoned street broke the silence. The boy’s eyes followed the carriage down the lane. The ragamuffin darted toward the rear of the house. Micah surged to his feet after him.

  Just as the boy exited the back door to sound an alarm to whoever had arrived in the carriage house, Micah grabbed him around the waist with one hand, covering his mouth with the other. Holding the squirming boy firmly, he stepped behind a giant fir on the side. His view of both the porch and the carriage house remained unobstructed in the clear moonlight.


  The carriage house door creaked open. Micah increased his hold on his captive. The crone from earlier in the evening hobbled toward the house.

  She leaned heavily on her cane, almost bent in half, until she stood on the dark porch.

  Slowly, she straightened, transforming from an arthritic, old woman into a tall, younger one. Setting the cane aside, she removed her shawl and dropped it into a basket waiting on the porch. Two more sweaters followed suit. Then she slipped her hands into the waistband of the skirt. One after another, she stepped out of four skirts. As each layer pulled away, the plump old woman before him turned into a slender young woman.

  When she stripped off the final skirt, his eyes wandered from the pitch-black boots up the black-stocking-covered legs. He gulped hard. Her dark shirtwaist had to be a man’s since it hung down to her mid-thigh. He could make out the gentle swell of her hip and buttocks beneath it. She grasped a robe from a hook by the back door and slipped it on. Micah watched, puzzled, as she wiggled and shook in some sort of odd dance. When another wad of black material landed in the basket, he realized she’d removed the shirtwaist from beneath her robe.

  She raised two very supple arms to remove her dark scarf from around her hair. Then she shook it loose. Moonlight flashed on its deep, russet browns and fiery reds.

  He nearly moaned.

  The boy took advantage of Micah’s distraction to sink his teeth into his captor’s hand. His resulting grunt sounded in the night.

  The woman on the porch spun around to look in their direction. “Who’s there?”

  Her voice flowed over Micah like warm honey. He let the boy slip out of his hold.

  “This crum’s been wanting to see you, Miz Claudia!” The boy scrambled up the porch to stand beside her. “He says he has a letter from Miz Laura.”

  Micah stepped from the shadows to stand at the bottom stair. The scent of spring flowers wafted over him again.