Silent Signals

By Linda Carroll-Bradd

After losing half his cattle herd in the Great Blizzard of 1886, rancher Konrad Windsor needs a way to keep his cattle contained. Tomboy Anora Huxley, age 24, daughter and granddaughter of sheep ranchers, trains the Australian Shepherds and Kelpies that run the family's herd. What Konrad doesn't need is for Anora to tell him how to run his operation while in the middle of the mercantile.

At later encounters, the pair learns they have common interests and draw closer. A threat to Anora's ranch is overheard, and Konrad rides out with a warning, and a crew, to offer protection. Through the tense situation, they share confidences. Although torn about honoring her grandfather's dislike of cattlemen and listening to her own heart about Konrad's request to court her, Anora's heart is swayed by Konrad's grand gesture at the Christmas Eve church bazaar and is compelled to obey his silent signals.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Prism CW
• Release date: Nov 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781943104802

Linda Carroll-Bradd

After years spent in the administrative support field, Linda decided to exercise another part of her brain and write a novel. She loved reading romance and figured that's what she'd write. Easier said than done. After years of workshops and RWA chapter meetings, she finally saw her manuscripts place in contests. Twelve years after her first writing class, she sold a confession story. From that point on, she couldn't be stopped and is always pleased when her sweet contemporary and historical stories find homes. With interests as widespread as baking, crocheting, watching dog agility matches, and reading thrillers by Swedish authors, Linda is the mother to 4 adult children and grandmother to 2 granddaughters. She currently lives in the southern California mountains with her husband of almost 34 years and their two spoiled dogs.

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Silent Signals

Linda Carroll-Bradd

Copyright 2016 Linda Carroll-Bradd

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Cover Art by Joan Alley

Editing by Jacqueline Hopper

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are the product of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Published by Prism Book Group

ISBN-10:1-943104-80-8

ISBN-13:978-1-943104-80-2

First Edition, 2016

Published in the United States of America

Contact info: [e-mail]

http://www.prismbookgroup.com

DEDICATION

To my Tustin Plot Group who always helps me shape and deepen a story.

CHAPTER ONE

December, 1887

For the third time in what felt like the same number of minutes, Anora pulled her elbow from the burly man’s grasp. I possess the ability to walk unaided, Mr. Swinton. Thank you. She stepped along the wooden boardwalk, keeping her focus away from her granddad’s foreman who hovered on her right. Cold air nipped at her exposed cheeks, and she tugged her woven scarf tighter on her neck.

As she walked, she noticed the small ridge of dirty slush along the outside edge of the planks. So far, this December in Aspen, Colorado, the snow depths hadn’t come close to those from the previous year’s harsh blizzard. The memory of the long cold spell sent an irrepressible shiver through her body. She’d seen a newspaper article that dubbed the storm The Great Blizzard of 1886.

Anora, I’ve asked you several times to call me Nyle. The thick-bodied man leaned close and nudged her arm. I’m escorting you like your grandfather would want.

I think not. Pawing me in public is closer to the truth.

Huh. Granddad would never doubt my ability to walk unaided from the wagon to the mercantile.

Now, don’t get snippy. You know my intention is to keep you safe.

Straightening, she took a longer stride. I can handle myself. She pitched her voice low to avoid drawing what her granddad would consider undue attention. Probably the same reason he treated her more like a grandson, encouraging her to dress in dungarees or split skirts and loose-fitting coats. She glanced ahead at the dozen or so pedestrians within sight on this chilly Wednesday morning. Unfortunately, she spotted no one familiar whom she might hail and engage in conversation. If she met up with someone, then maybe the ranch foreman would give her ten minutes’ peace. And he’d get the message she was not interested in his attentions.

Let’s cross here.

Knowing what was coming, she sidestepped his attempt to again claim her arm and glanced toward the painted window to her left.

Stitches In Time. The dressmaker’s shop.

Mr. Swinton, I need to stop here. You go on to Toussaint’s Mercantile, and I’ll be there in a short while.

He frowned, which only emphasized how his bushy eyebrows jutted over his pale blue eyes. Your grandfather didn’t inform me about this stop. We should stick together.

Biting back a sigh, Anora planted her feet in front of the shop’s door. I wish for a few moments to discuss… Must I truly have this conversation? Heat rose in her cheeks, and she averted her gaze. Um, unmentionables with the seamstress.

Swinton cleared his throat and shuffled his boots on the boardwalk. In that case, ten minutes. He gave a curt nod.

Her back stiffened. Why would he think he could dictate a time constraint? She stared into his eyes, barely lifting her chin to meet his gaze across the space separating them. When I’m done with my discussion, I will meet you. I can see the mercantile from here and am sure no harm will come to me on the short journey. She reached behind her for the knob, turned it, and stepped inside. The click of the closing door echoed with her relieved sigh.

Repetitive clacking came from the rear of the shop.

Time to herself was rare for Anora. She glanced around at the unfamiliar sights of feminine fabrics, ribbons, laces, clothing, and accessories. What struck her first was the variety of colors—like a rainbow from the palest of peaches to vivid purples. And the delicate weights of some of the fabrics allowed sunlight through. The faint scent of lemon and roses tickled her nostrils.

Approaching footsteps resounded on the plank floor. Good morning. I’m Celina Toussaint. How may I help you today?

The auburn-haired woman who stood opposite appeared heavy with child, rosy color high in her cheeks. Anora stepped to the glass case displaying several pre-made items. Morning, I’m Anora Huxley. She’d never ordered this type of feminine necessity before and didn’t know the process. Would samples be available from which to choose? I’m in need of garments for my f-female assets. Embarrassment again shot heat to her cheeks, and she ducked her chin. Her gaze widened at the sight inside the case of such fineries which she hadn’t known existed. Inside the case were delicately embroidered cuffs, collars, and handkerchiefs, but no garments.

The petite woman dressed in a lavender shirtwaist with quilted cuffs in a deeper shade edged with ruffles and a plain black skirt gestured toward the case. I only display what is appropriate to be viewed by mixed company. Rustling sounded as she rested a hand on the case then stooped out of sight. A latch unclasped. What would you like to see? I have a few ready-made chemises, under-bodices, and night rails.

The names flew through her mind, but Anora couldn’t conjure an image connected to each. She leaned over the case and glanced at the garments in the woman’s hands. Too loose fitting. I need a garment with more support, shall we say?

Support? Like a stomacher? Mrs. Toussaint looked up, her brows crinkling into a frown.

Anora looked over her shoulder to be sure they were alone before she spoke. She caught sight of the brim of Nyle’s hat at the edge of the window and tensed. He’s spying? Is there a place with more privacy?

Of course. Standing with a whoosh of expelled breath, Mrs. Toussaint swung an arm toward a wooden, tri-fold partition set across the far corner of the shop. Back there is the changing area.

Rounding the end of the display case, Anora walked between standing wire forms displaying ready-made skirts and blouses. She paused next to a garment with a pin-tucked bodice set into a belted calico shirtwaist dress. For a moment, she tried to imagine herself in such a dress.

Hi, a small voice piped up.

Anora glanced down at a young blonde girl seated at a pint-sized table with short chairs. Oh, good day. The girl arranged a variety of buttons into several piles. The story of this little girl’s grave illness the previous winter that was passed around church circles popped to mind. Anora glanced at the shop owner. How nice to have your daughter close by.

Resting a hand on her protruding stomach, Mrs. Toussaint