by Mia Sheridan
Dane’s Storm
A Sign of Love Novel
Mia Sheridan
Dane’s Storm
A Sign of Love Novel
Copyright © 2018 by Mia Sheridan.
All Rights Reserved.
Permission by the author must be granted before any part of this book can be used for advertising purposes. This includes the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Table of Contents
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
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Epilogue
This book is dedicated to Darcy, my sweet butterfly, my purple rose.
The Cancer
Fiercely protective and passionately loyal,
the cancer will go to great lengths to defend those he loves.
PROLOGUE
Flynn Purdom stood at his kitchen sink rinsing his coffee cup and watching as snowflakes gathered at the corners of the window in front of him, falling from a clear dusky sky. He’d used his ham radio to access the national weather system frequency, and it’d informed him a storm was likely coming in the next few days. A couple of storms had already passed through, but by the time they’d reached his cabin, they’d only caused a small dip in temperature and a few inches of snow. A quick glance up as he’d been out checking his traps suggested that the higher altitude was where the storm was exercising its fury.
Nature’s wrath could be a bitch, but he’d much rather deal with her than with the evil that ran rampant through the United States government. His family had said he was crazy to move here alone, but why care what they thought? They were all idiots. When the government started rounding them up, they probably wouldn’t even notice; they’d be too busy staring at the latest Hollywood gossip on their cell phones, or reading a social media site about what some kid they barely knew in middle school ate for dinner. Damn sheep. Being led straight to slaughter. Not him. No, siree. See if they called him crazy then.
Yawning, he dried his cup and placed it on the counter next to the dinner plate and utensils he’d washed and dried hours ago. It was early, but he woke early, too, and his bed was calling.
Just as he was turning from the sink, a fluttering of bright blue in the corner of the window displaced some snow and caught his eye, causing him to turn back. He leaned closer, but as quickly as it was there, it was gone. Huh. The tip of a mountain bluebird’s wing more than likely, but it had him staring out the window again toward the woodshed. Well damn. If that storm hit here tomorrow, he’d hate to have to trudge outside when he could stay warm and cozy in his cabin. Sighing, he walked to the door and put on his coat and boots.
Stars were just appearing overhead as the landscape dimmed a darker shade of gray. Flynn collected an armful of firewood from the shed and was walking back toward his cabin when they emerged from the trees. He stopped. What the? A surprised grunt burst from his throat, and one log fell from the top of the pile and landed at his feet.
It was a man, his eyes wild, skin flushed and shiny with sweat, and cradled in his arms was a woman. Flynn’s shocked gaze moved to her. She was clearly already gone—her skin as white as the snow, her body stiff. As Flynn stared, the man made an agonized moaning sound and fell to his knees, still clutching the woman’s body.
Flynn dropped the firewood and ran for his radio.
CHAPTER ONE
Audra
My car rounded the corner, the mountains in the distance coming into view. Somehow, the majesty of that vista still elicited an internal sigh that went straight to my bones. Magnificent. Solid and unmoving. Something I knew I could always count on in a world where little was certain.
My work parking lot only held a scattering of cars at nine in the morning, mostly vendors who had an office or retail space in the brick warehouse I was transforming into a one-stop wedding mall.
Pulling into a spot and hopping out of my car, I opened the trunk and removed the large packages of flowers and branches I’d purchased that morning at the flower mart. My eyes closed as I inhaled the sweet, heady fragrance of lilies. I closed the trunk with my free hand and headed toward the building’s entrance.
Seven years ago, I’d sold the few things of value I owned—my grandmother’s wedding ring, a couple of antiques from the attic—and opened a floral business named Thistles and Thatch. At the time, I barely made enough money to pay the electric bill, but the building itself was paid off. I’d inherited my father’s home when he passed away, so with no mortgage, I made ends meet, waiting patiently for my fledgling business to grow as I honed my craft and found my style.
Initially, with little money for supplies, I was creative and used things like burlap, old grain sacks and twine to wrap my bouquets, marketing the look as freshly farm-picked. I’d mixed and matched unique combinations like sugarbush and eucalyptus, even adding the occasional fruit-laden branches. I used things other florists might have considered weeds, things I thought looked wild and dreamy when paired with more traditional flowers. I’d also hand-drawn each tag, giving every bouquet a unique and personal touch. My arrangements had caught on through word of mouth, and business had grown. Some days I was in my shop all morning putting bouquets together, and out all afternoon and evening delivering them. After a while, I’d secured a few parties and realized that weddings and events were where the money was. So I began putting most of my profit into advertising in bridal and local social magazines.
When brides began regularly asking me for references for other vendors, I’d thought, why not use the extra space I had to rent out to wedding professionals? We could all recommend each other and in essence, a bride need only go to one spot to check off all her vendors. The building was on the outskirts of Laurelton, Colorado where I lived and normally, didn’t bring in a lot of traffic, but if customers could come to one location to fulfill a variety of needs, it would be perfect. Or so I hoped. I was banking on it—literally.
I’d rented out the one usable space to a photographer, and with that rent, had begun to slowly create more offices and studios. The Bridal Gallery now included the original photographer, a videographer, a custom stationer, a bridal gown shop, and soon, Pastries by Baptiste, which required a space outfitted to accommodate a chef’s kitchen that would be finished in the next month or so.
I’d eaten peanut butter sandwiches for what felt like every meal for the past two years, hadn’t bought a stitch of new clothing, and had thrown every last penny of profit into the construction. When I stepped through the doors, my heart burst with pride.
I smiled as I glanced around the main foyer, breathing in the smell of flowers and new paint. The building was now a gorgeous mix
ture of old and new, vintage and contemporary that had come together exactly as I’d hoped when I dreamed up the idea. The dark, wide-planked hardwood floor beneath my feet was both elegant and rustic, and the brick walls were the perfect contrast to the grand, glittering crystal chandelier hanging from the tall second-story ceiling. There were retail spaces to both the right and left, and at the back wall, a wide staircase. The upper floor was open and featured distressed, steel railings. Soothing classical music played softly through the sound system I’d installed. Directly in front of me was a round, antique table I’d found at a flea market and the huge flower display I changed each week. This week’s design featured faith roses, astilbe, fox glove, thistle, privet berries, and seeded eucalyptus. I ran a finger along a trailing stem of berries, assessing the freshness of the arrangement and deciding that it still had a few days left in it.
I smiled again as I took in the whole space at large. Once I paid off the loan I’d taken to complete the construction work, I would start funneling more money toward advertising.
“Beautiful morning, isn’t it?”
I turned my head to see Victor stepping into the doorway of his shop. “It is. They’re saying we might get some snow this week. I can already smell it in the air.”
I stepped toward him and he leaned in slightly to inhale the perfume of the lilies in my arms and sighed. “Lilies and first snowfall. It should be a perfume.”
I laughed. “It’s probably already a room freshener, but I’m sure it smells nothing like the real thing.”
He turned into his shop and I followed him. “You’re probably right. You can’t manufacture nature’s perfection, though it doesn’t stop Glade from trying—or douche companies, for that matter.”
I spit out a burst of laughter as Victor grinned. “Sick.”
“But accurate. Come check out the Bell/Larkin shoot. They won’t be in for half an hour or so.”
I set the flowers on Victor’s desk and moved to the black and white prints he had set up on his viewing table, along with the book he did for his clients. I loved Victor’s style, which was a combination of posed and photojournalistic. He took the predictable shots every bride wanted: the cutting of the cake, first dance, tossing of the bouquet; but he also managed to capture magical moments both unplanned and un-posed. Candid photos. Those were my favorites. As I perused the shots, my gaze snagged on one smaller photo off to the side. It was of the groom as he waited at the altar for his bride. In the corner of the picture, you could see the bride starting her walk down the aisle, and it was clear he was seeing her for the first time. He was young and handsome, with dark hair and light eyes. Eyes that might fill with laughter easily and often. I scoffed internally. You don’t even know him. And yet, my gaze lingered on his face. It wasn’t familiarity for that man particularly. It was the reverence and adoration in his expression that both tugged at my insides and pressed against an old bruise.
I turned to Victor. The smile I conjured felt overly sunny and slightly brittle. He studied me momentarily. “That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?” he asked softly, nodding toward the photograph with his head, but keeping his gaze on me. “We provide all the fripperies, but it all comes down to that, doesn’t it? That look. That look right there.”
I nodded before breaking eye contact. “It . . . should. Yes.” I smiled again. “It’s a beautiful collection, Victor. I’m sure they’re going to be thrilled.” I turned, gathering my flowers. “I better get these in water. And I have an appointment with a bride who could possibly be a huge account coming in at nine thirty so I . . . I better prepare.”
“I’m sure you’ll wow her. Good luck.”
“Thanks,” I called as I walked out his door. “I need it.” I climbed the stairs and headed to my shop at the front. I’d reserved one of the larger spaces for myself, one with a spacious back room where I had several refrigeration units and a couple of decent-sized work tables. It also conveniently had an elevator that led to a side door on the bottom floor so I could easily transfer my floral arrangements to my car when they were ready for delivery. Mostly, though, I’d wanted the view of those mountains through the front office window. They . . . anchored me somehow.
I bit my lip as I walked, a feeling of . . . melancholy sitting in the pit of my stomach that hadn’t been there when I’d entered the building. That photo had unsettled me, conjured up a sadness I thought was long faded, a smoky memory that had at first stolen my ability to breathe, but in time, had drifted away. So why had my lungs suddenly felt so constricted in Victor’s studio?
I frowned, my pace slowing, when I heard voices already coming from my shop. I knew my assistant, Jay, arrived at eight. But my first appointment with Felicity McMaster, the bride I’d mentioned to Victor, wasn’t scheduled for another twenty-five minutes. My skin tingled with nerves. Oh please don’t let her be early. I wasn’t ready. Selling myself was the part of this job that made me anxious. The flower designing I loved, and the artistic element filled my heart. The rest was a necessary evil. I needed to get my game face on.
That damn photograph. I felt blindsided, and I didn’t even know exactly why. As if I’d been walking through a peaceful, familiar field, and a landmine had suddenly blown up under my feet. And that hadn’t happened for so long. So, so long. Get a grip, Audra.
I halted and stepped into the doorway of the now-empty shop that would house Pastries by Baptiste soon. I took a deep breath, summoning my courage before continuing to my shop.
“Good morning,” Jay said as I pulled the door open. He stood from where he was seated at his desk, widening his eyes in silent communication that told me he was as surprised as I was that the two women sitting at the round table where I met with clients were already here. He gestured to them. “Audra Kelley, this is Felicity McMaster and her mother, Alice.”
I moved forward, smiling and moving the flowers to my left arm so I could offer my right hand to the two women. Felicity was a slim blonde with a dainty, upturned nose, wide, blue eyes, and a rock on her finger the size of Gibraltar, and Alice was an older version of Felicity. Of course, I already knew who they were. I’d seen their picture in the style pages of the local paper and looked up Felicity’s engagement photo. “It’s so nice to meet you. I’m sorry, did I misunderstand the time of our appointment? I apologize if I kept you waiting.”
“No, no,” Alice said, waving her hand. “We simply have a million things to do today and need to get out of here by nine forty-five. We didn’t think you’d mind if we came early.”
“No, of course not,” I lied. I pushed the bundles of flowers toward Jay, and he disappeared through the door to the back room, shooting me an encouraging smile over his shoulder. I slipped off my coat, putting it over the back of my chair, and set my purse on the floor before taking a seat next to Felicity.
“As you can imagine, planning a wedding with five hundred guests in two months is going to be quite the task. We need the very best vendors to help pull it off.”
I smiled. “Yes, of course.”
I already knew a little bit about the wedding from my initial phone call with Alice. If I got this job, it was going to be a huge account. A local wedding magazine was going to be showcasing the nuptials in a “winter wedding” feature, and I’d already let my mind wander to designs. A winter wedding—with a budget like the McMasters had mentioned—was a chance to do something unique and amazing. Of course, it could also be incredible publicity, free advertising. And I needed all the free I could get right now.
“I’m so honored to have the opportunity to develop designs for your wedding. May I ask how you found my name?” I’d been shocked when they’d called to set up an appointment at all, considering what a boon it would be for any vendor to work their event, and considering how small potatoes I still was.
“Actually,” Alice said, “you did the flowers for the Art in Auction event we attended a few months ago. We’d never seen such beautiful arrangements. We were surprised to hear such a no-name floral
designer did them. But we decided to meet with you anyway.”
No-name floral designer. Meet me anyway. I managed what felt like a weak, somewhat embarrassed smile. “Well, thank you. I appreciate the chance.” It’d been a lucky break to get that job, and because of it, I’d secured several other highbrow charity events. And because of those unexpected projects, I’d been able to reduce a nice chunk of the loan I owed the bank. I pulled the tablet of paper and the pen sitting in the center of the table toward me and wrote Felicity’s name at the top. “Do you want to start by telling me your vision for the flowers?”
Felicity glanced at her mother. “Peonies, roses, and tulips.” Spring flowers for a winter wedding? Ugh. Only the rich and famous believed they could bend nature to their own will.
“I realize they’ll have to be flown in from a greenhouse,” her mother added on a small laugh, “but Felicity wants what Felicity wants.” She shot her daughter an indulgent smile as if she was proud of Felicity’s apparent penchant for making decisions that were both difficult and costly. “The other five florists we’ve met with promised it wouldn’t be a problem.”
My heart dipped. Five? I nodded. “Oh, I see. Yes, you could go that route,” I said slowly, “or you could do something more . . . individual, unique. Something that speaks not only of your excellent taste, but of your love story.”
Felicity frowned and her mother looked a little shocked, maybe even confused, as if this might be the first time she was considering that her daughter’s wedding involved a love story. “My . . . love story?” Felicity asked.
My heart picked up speed. “Well”—I cleared my throat—“flowers tell a story, not only with their beauty, but with their meaning.” I pulled the pad nearer to me and began sketching a bouquet, the smooth strokes of the pen providing calm, allowing me to drift into my own head, away from the nerves assaulting me. “Timeless garden roses,” I murmured, “sensual succulents, tender paperwhites, and sweet anemones with a touch of depth at the center, speaking of those secret things shared only between the two of you.” I shot her a knowing smile, and she looked briefly surprised but then tilted her chin, one side of her mouth tugging upward. The small upward lift of her lips boosted my courage, and I continued sketching, drawing a few more flowers as I listed them, creating the bouquet on paper.