“Kirk?” Cassandra asked, her hand tight on his arm.
“He just wanted to watch.”
Ten minutes later Kirk opened the door of the Land Rover, and was about to help Cassandra in when he saw a Twin Rivers’ envelope lying on the seat.
Reaching down, he picked it up and read the names on the envelope—Mr. and Mrs. Kirk North.
“What is it?” Cassandra asked.
Kirk handed her the envelope and waited for her to open it. He saw a frown crease her brow. She handed him the note from her father. Cassandra’s eyes misted as she read the short statement.
My deepest wishes for a wonderful marriage. Please accept this gift to start your life together. Cassandra, you’ve made me very proud. I love you.
“From Father,” she said in a low, surprised voice.
Kirk read the short note that Gregory Leeds had penned and glanced at the oblong yellow slip attached to the note before looking back at his wife.
“What do you want to do about this? Do you want to accept it?” he asked as he held up the check her father had given them as a wedding present.
“That’s up to you,” she said, her voice as level as possible.
“No, ma’am! This decision is all yours.”
“All mine?” she asked.
Kirk handed it to her. Cassandra stared at the check. “It would more than cover the down payment on a ranch and leave us with all your savings and the money I saved from my salary.”
“It would,” Kirk replied.
“Yes, it would,” Cassandra said as she lifted up the check in the amount of one-hundred-and-fifty-thousand dollars and tore it into quarters. Then, smiling back at Kirk, she flung the pieces of paper into the air and watched them scatter in the soft Arizona breeze.
“We can do it by ourselves, Mr. North,” she said.
“Yes, we can, and we will, Mrs. North,” Kirk replied as he drew her into his arms and kissed her deeply, passionately, and lovingly.
~~~~~~~~
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From the author
Dear Reader,
Thank you for reading Silken Threads. I hope you have enjoyed it, as much as I did when I wrote it, and I would love to hear from you about your reading experience.
If you like this book, and would like to lend me your support and help, please spread the word about Silken Threads. Please tell a friend and share it with the world by writing a review on the website where you purchased your book. Nothing fancy, just say what you think—even just a sentence or two.
Reading your reviews, and receiving emails from my readers is important to me and I have included some convenient links for you below.
Thank you,
Monica.
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eMail: [email protected]
Website: http://www.monicabarrie.com
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About the author
Monica Barrie is a multi-published author of contemporary and historical romances. She is also geriatric social worker, wife, and mother. She lives in New York with her husband David Wind, a multi published author himself.
Monica is re-releasing many of her Contemporary and Historical romance novels.
***
For more information about Monica Barrie, please visit www.monicabarrie.com
Currently Available Novels
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CRY MERCY, CRY LOVE
By Monic Barrie
ONE
The clay felt soft and pliable in her fingers as Heather Strand began to work it. The clean, earthy scent filled her senses completely, almost overpowering the other scents around her. The smells of horses, hay, feed, and sweat, mixed with those of the dewy morning, left her, replaced by the smell of the moist clay.
“Ready, Gregg?” Heather asked. A boy of eight stood next to her. His straight wheat-colored hair fell across his forehead, and his small mouth was set in a half-smile. Enormous eyes watched her hands as they worked the clay.
“Yes’m,” Gregg replied.
“Have a seat,” Heather said as she placed the reddish clay on her work pedestal and began to round it into a rough shape. Gregg watched her work as he moved to the stool and once again looked his father’s boss over.
In his eyes, Heather Strand seemed more like one of his friends. Gregg was tall for eight, almost five feet. Heather stood only four inches taller. She was dressed like him too—washed-out jeans, boots, and a checked flannel shirt. Her light brown hair was under a straw hat, but Gregg could see the long hair that spilled from beneath it, falling softly past her shoulders.
“Are you comfortable?” Heather asked.
“Yes’m,” he replied.
“Gregg, I swear you’re starting to sound just like your father.”
“Yes’m,” Gregg said again, but this time he smiled.
He hoped he sounded like his father; he wanted to be like him when he grew up. Gregg’s father, Tom Farley, was the best horse breaker on the ranch, and Gregg wanted to be the best breaker in the world.
“Polaris?” Heather called. A low bark was her response as the German shepherd came up to her and rubbed along her leg. “Good boy,” she said as she wiped her left hand and scratched the dog behind its ear. “Call him, Gregg. He’ll keep you company while I work.”
The boy called the dog and Polaris obediently went over to sit next to him. Polaris put his head on Gregg’s lap, moving his dark brown eyes upward until he stared directly into the eight-year-old’s face. Smiling, Gregg began to stroke the dog’s head.
“Miss Heather?”
“Yes, Gregg?”
“Pa says that you’re the best sclup...I mean, sculterer...”
“Sculptor.”
“The best...sculptor in the world,” he finished.
“Why, thank you, Gregg. I do wish I were, but I’m not. What I am trying to do is what I love best.”
“Yes’m.”
“Gregg, you can move around as much as you want, but just hold still when I tell you to, okay?”
“Okay,” he said with a smile as he looked into Heather Strand’s soft blue eyes. This was the first time Gregg Farley was going to be Heather’s model. Do a “sittin’,” his father had told him. He was both excited and puzzled. He was not sure how she could do what she did, but he also knew what she did was beautiful. As the thought ran through the young boy’s mind, his eyes fell on the sculpture of Polaris, the German shepherd. It was on the other side of the studio, and even as he petted the living dog, he thought he saw the statue smile. Gregg had never seen a sculpture that looked so lifelike.
Then he watched as Heather came over to him and smiled at him. Gregg smiled back as he felt her fingers begin to trace along his face.
~~~
Reid Hunter pulled the Land Rover off the road and stepped down from the front seat. The sun beat down and Reid felt the early spring warmth fill him. His eyes wandered around as he took in the countryside. The tall interlocking mountains displayed their deep emerald green slopes. The land was a mixture of grass and earth that seemed to bid him welcome. Finally, his eyes settled on the fence that stretched for miles on the level valley floor. Reid had a good feeling as he climbed back in his vehicle, a better feeling than he’d had in years. This was good land, peaceful and bountiful, and held no memories.
“All right, Miss Strand, you’re about to meet your new foreman,” he said to himself as his eyes roamed over the mountains again.
Reid had wanted to be the first person interviewed for the job. He’d known it when he’d picked u
p the Sunday paper last week and had seen the ad. It had drawn his attention as nothing else had in weeks. The advertisement had been short and to the point—just what he was looking for.
FOREMAN/G.M. Wanted for
25,000-acre Nevada ranch.
Must handle every phase of ranch.
Send resume and references
TIMES-BOX 721836R
Reid smiled to himself at the memory. When he’d seen the ad, he’d responded quickly. Two days later, he’d taken a chance, knowing, no matter what, he wanted that job or one like it. G.M. positions on small ranches were not overly available.
The Tuesday after he’d read the ad he’d called the newspaper. It had been a good ploy and it had worked. He’d gotten the classified operator to divulge the name and address of the advertiser, and he knew he would have the first interview. Again, Reid thought of his ploy and of its success.
“Phoenix Times, Classified,” the operator had said.
“I was wondering if you could help me,” Reid had begun, letting authority fill his voice as he spoke. “I placed an ad that ran Sunday. Could you tell me if there’s been any response?”
“Box number and category?”
“Seven-two-one-eight-three-six-R, Help Wanted.” The operator had put him on hold and three minutes later came back. “There have been five responses, Mr. Strand, and we will be sending these to you on Thursday.”
“Wonderful,” Reid had replied enthusiastically. “Oh, I just thought of something. Did I give you the ranch address or the postal box delivery?”
“Strand Ranch, Box Two Thirteen, Gardnerville, Nevada.”
“Right. Thank you,” Reid had replied as he hung up the phone. From there it had taken only three things to accomplish the rest of his plan: the first was the drive to Gardnerville, which was just a few miles outside of Lake Tahoe; the second was to locate the ranch; the third was to call the Strand Ranch and make an appointment.
Today he had the appointment. Reid started up the Land Rover and listened to its powerful engine break the silence of the morning. Ten minutes later Reid drove through the front gate of the Strand Ranch and pulled to a stop in front of the main house. As he reached the ground, a tall, gangly cowboy dressed in work clothes strolled over to him.
“Help you?” he asked.
“I’ve got an appointment with Miss Strand,” Reid informed him. “Reid Hunter,” he said as he extended his hand.
The cowboy looked him over critically for a long moment before taking his hand. When he did, Reid felt power within it.
“Tom Farley,” he said as he nodded. “Miss Heather’s in her studio, workin’.”
“Working?” Reid asked with an uplifted eyebrow.
“Go around the main house—you’ll see the studio behind it.”
“Thank you,” Reid said as he started toward the house.
“Hunter,” Tom Farley called. Reid stopped and turned to face the cowboy. “You the same Hunter that worked the Pegasus, in Wyoming?”
“Same one,” Reid acknowledged.
“Heard ’bout you. Good luck,” Farley said as he turned away and started walking to the corral.
“Did you now?” Reid whispered to himself as he continued.
When he reached the back of the main house, he stopped. A small, partially hidden building stood about fifty feet behind it, looking more like an adobe Indian shack than part of the ranch. The walk itself made Reid pause. It was a five-foot-wide fieldstone pathway, but what made him stop was what lined the fieldstone—Sculptures positioned every few feet. Small likenesses of various types of trees and birds stood on pedestals, intermixed with two dogs and other small animals. Reid surveyed each one critically and acknowledged that if they had the color of their living models he would not have been able to tell they were sculptures.
Near the adobe building were two more sculptures, which were not like the others, but rather more abstract. Reid gazed at them, confused at first, until he let his mind free and stopped trying to put a tag on them. They almost defied description, with curving lines that blended into strong angles. Reid didn’t know what they were, but he did know that whoever had made them had created something both breathtaking and beautiful.
When Reid reached the building, he paused. The door was open and as he stepped into its frame, his eyes quickly adjusted to the low light and he searched within. His eyes settled on two figures.
Reid watched silently as the woman worked with the clay. A young boy sat on a stool, his face turned to watch the woman whose fingers molded the clay, as one of his hands absently stroked a large dog. Reid saw the back of Heather Strand. She was not tall, perhaps five four. She had a slender frame, and Reid was appreciative of the way her hips flared in the snug-fitting jeans. A straw cowboy hat hid her hair, but what fell to her back caught the light and reflected softly back at him.
As Reid stepped inside, the dog lifted its head and emitted a low growl.
“Don’t be shy. If you want to come in, come ahead,” Heather instructed. She was used to the people at the ranch coming by when she worked. It seemed to fascinate them, watching her work, and Heather enjoyed the company. If they wanted to talk, she would talk with them: watching was fine with her too. Her art was almost her whole life, and because it was, she was willing to share it with everyone.
However, her dog’s next low growl warned her this visitor was different. The dog knew everyone, he would only growl this way with a stranger.
“Hush,” Heather ordered. Her fingers were molding the ridge of Gregg’s chin. To her, the clay was only an extension of the boy’s real skin. As she worked, she spoke to the visitor. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, ma’am, I’m Reid Hunter. I’ve an appointment with you today.”
“Mr. Hunter,” Heather said as she dipped her hands into a basin of water and then began to dry them. “Come in,” she said. But to Gregg, or anyone else who might have heard, her voice sounded different. Heather spent more time drying her hands than was necessary as she tried to concentrate. Reid Hunter’s voice had struck something within her. The depth of his voice—the strength of it—resounded within the chambers of her mind. It shook her strangely. Heather took a deep breath and turned.
Reid walked toward Heather Strand as she dried her hands. When she turned, he was only two feet away. Reid saw her hand held out and automatically took it within his own. As his fingers closed on it, he looked into Heather’s face and his breath caught. Her eyes were the softest blue he had ever seen, and her face was itself a work of art. Her cheekbones were high and Reid knew there was Indian in her blood. Her lips were soft peach and her teeth were an even white that just peaked between her lips. Heather Strand’s skin was tanned dark, and laugh lines creased the corners of her eyes. Reid knew that Heather Strand was a rancher, and one of the most beautiful he’d ever met.
“A pleasure, Mr. Hunter,” Heather said as she let go of his hand, giving a silent thanks that her voice had held out. Then, pushing away the strength of her reaction to his voice and the feel of the power in his hand, she smiled.
“I hope I’m not interrupting you,” Reid said as he looked at the clay she’d been working on. He could already see a likeness of the young boy on it, and he now knew who had created the beauty that lined the pathway to the studio.
“Of course you are,” Heather said with a laugh. “Anything stopping me from working is an interruption, but I do have a ranch and it comes first.” Heather’s smile was infectious, and Reid smiled with her. He watched her eyes as they darted randomly around, never really stopping, and never holding his own gaze after her initial greeting. Then she turned toward the boy and dog. “That’s it for today, Gregg. We’ll try again during the week, okay?”
“Yes’m,” replied the boy as he stood and gave Polaris one final pat. With a smile to Reid, he ran from the studio.
“Boy’s in a fearful hurry,” Reid commented.
“Wants to watch his father break the pony he’s getting next week for his birthda
y.”
“I’d be running too,” Reid agreed.
“I didn’t expect you so early. Most people don’t get to moving around here until afternoon. Saturday night’s a big one for the local cowboys,” Heather said.
“Yes, ma’am. I came early to get a look around, see what you have here.”
“Do you approve?” Heather asked as she went back to the pedestal, took a wet cloth from the basin, and covered the form of Gregg’s bust.
“It’s a nice spread.”
“Mr. Hunter, this ranch has been owned by my family for seventy-eight years. We’ve always run it well and we’ve always turned a profit. I’m the last of the Strands, unless I have children, and I intend to keep up the standards which have always been a part of this ranch.”
Reid was good at understanding what people were saying without listening to their actual words. Heather Strand was saying something, but the way she said it told Reid she meant something else. Moreover, Reid was certain her words were more a challenge than a statement.
Ranching was hard and for a woman even harder. Few women were able to cope with the enormous demands of running a ranch, and those who could were usually harder than the men who worked for them. Heather Strand did not seem to fit into that mold. Reid heard the determination in her voice and saw it echoed on her face as she turned back to face him.
“I can understand your feelings, Miss Strand.”
“I don’t think so... But, if you do come to work here, you will. Shall we go to the house and have some coffee while we talk?”
“After you,” Reid responded.
“Polaris!” Heather called. The shepherd came from the stool and went to Heather. A quick scratch under his ear was his reward as Heather began to walk.
Reid watched Heather walk with smooth, confident steps, but he also saw that the dog kept his side pressed against her right leg. As they came out into the daylight, Reid came alongside Heather. Squinting his eyes against the harshness of the sun, Reid looked into Heather Strand’s face. Her eyes were still fully open. She was not squinting against the powerful noonday sun. With a sudden shock Reid understood why her voice had sounded challenging.
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