How to Knit a Love Song
A Cypress Hollow Yarn
Rachael Herron
For my mother,
Janette Frances Herron,
who always believed.
Contents
Chapter One
Abigail gave the metal latch a giant twist, shoving all…
Chapter Two
This is your house?”
Chapter Three
Cade had heard of people being too mad to see…
Chapter Four
Abigail put the key to the cottage in her pocket…
Chapter Five
This was awful. Horrible. Disgusting.
Chapter Six
Cade had already finished the morning chores with Tom by…
Chapter Seven
Abigail was getting good at acting like she was strong.
Chapter Eight
What was she doing to him? He was behind in…
Chapter Nine
An hour later—three other wheels set up on the porch…
Chapter Ten
Abigail spent the next week settling into a routine. The…
Chapter Eleven
Cade heard Abigail calling his name, and it sounded frantic.
Chapter Twelve
Abigail got the animals inside the fenced shed area. They…
Chapter Thirteen
It was a good morning for a drive: clear and…
Chapter Fourteen
She was a good follower, he’d give her that much.
Chapter Fifteen
There were two bathrooms in Cade’s house. Abigail had been…
Chapter Sixteen
The next morning, when Cade opened his eyes in the…
Chapter Seventeen
Abigail stood, her knees aching. She’d been sitting in this…
Chapter Eighteen
His arm was killing him. And his back hurt. Why…
Chapter Nineteen
Janet’s black town car crunched up the driveway. By the…
Chapter Twenty
Abigail called Clara, who dragged herself out from behind a…
Chapter Twenty-One
Cade hadn’t been to this hospital since Tom had called…
Chapter Twenty-Two
Abigail was filthy. She could still smell the dirt from…
Chapter Twenty-Three
Cade’s first thought, after he woke, was about blueberry muffins.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Two weeks later, Cade drove up the county road, toward…
Chapter Twenty-Five
Days later, Abigail still hadn’t seen Cade even once.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Six hours later, everyone was exhausted.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
He’d never been treated as such an object in his…
Chapter Twenty-Eight
What had gotten into her? She didn’t make out with…
Chapter Twenty-Nine
He drove fast, speeding through town. He took curves ten…
Chapter Thirty
He didn’t understand how this had happened again, how he’d…
Chapter Thirty-One
Abigail opened her eyes slowly. Where was she? These weren’t…
Chapter Thirty-Two
Five or ten grand. Five or ten thousand dollars.
Chapter Thirty-Three
When Abigail heard Cade calling her name, she had no…
Chapter Thirty-Four
He knew she’d had customers yesterday, but had she had…
Chapter Thirty-Five
Without warning, he was kissing her.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Abigail gripped the steering wheel tightly. She hated this part…
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Cade hadn’t seen Tom yet this morning. While he waited…
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Outside Tillie’s, Abigail hugged Janet good-bye and went to get…
Chapter Thirty-Nine
On his way up the driveway, Cade tried to slow…
Epilogue
On a cool Tuesday morning one year later, Abigail turned…
A+ Author Insights, Extras & More…
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
Sometimes the hardest part is the first stitch. When you don’t know what you’re doing, the very thought of starting can be terrifying. Put down my book. Refer to it only if you must. Cast on bravely, now.
—E.C.
Abigail gave the metal latch a giant twist, shoving all of her body weight behind it. Her hand slipped off it at the last moment, and her whole arm slammed through the bars in the gate.
“Damn it!” That hurt. She pulled back her arm and rubbed the elbow that would probably be black and blue tomorrow.
The gate was still closed.
Abigail would get this thing open if she had to use her teeth to do it. It was the front gate, she was pretty sure, and it looked like the only way up the dirt drive. There weren’t any locks, and she could get the long bolt to turn halfway, but she didn’t know how to jam it over and out of the way. She sweated in the late October sun and felt her hair starting to curl against the nape of her neck.
She stood straight and took a deep breath. Her hands burned. Her red pickup idled behind her, mocking her attempt to drive it through the gate. She should have turned the engine off, at least.
A man sat on horseback on the brown ridge above her. She could just see him under a cluster of eucalyptus trees, far enough away to make out that he was male but not much more. Was he watching her?
No, he couldn’t be. He probably couldn’t see her clearly from up there. If he could, he’d have come down, at least to see what she wanted. Instead, he must be looking over the valley, down to the ocean behind her.
Abigail was covered in sweat and panting. This wasn’t quite the way she wanted to meet anyone, but she wished that cowboy would come down and help her with this stubborn gate. If sheep ranches even had cowboys. What did they call them?
She looked up the hill at the man. He gave every impression of watching her, so she summoned a smile and gave a cheery wave.
No response.
She waved again, this time a little more frantically, although she tried to keep the desperation out of her body language.
She had to drive through this gate.
Abigail hopped a little and circled her arms in wild motions. He couldn’t miss it.
Could he?
The cowboy’s head turned, and the horse started to turn, too, and it looked as if they were headed uphill and away.
“No! Please!” Abigail yelled, as loudly as she could, all shame now tossed to the ocean wind. “Come back!”
She didn’t think he’d be able to hear her, but his head swiveled back toward her. Then the horse’s body followed that motion.
Abigail rubbed her now dirty, scraped hands on her brand new Wranglers. She hoped a little dirt would take that new-jeans sheen off of them. As he got closer and closer, she could tell the cowboy riding at her was the real deal, the kind that might have opinions about jeans that weren’t broken in. She rubbed her palms one last time against her thighs and then waved.
“Well, howdy!” she called.
As soon as the words left her mouth, she wanted to take them back. Howdy? The shape of the word in her mouth hadn’t felt right and she could tell by his pained look that it hadn’t sounded right either.
He was striking, in the way that anything carved from nature is. His cheekbones looked chiseled, high and tanned. His eyes were as green as the grass
on the hill behind him, and the long planes of his body seemed as strongly muscled as the horse he rode.
Abigail’s mouth opened, but her voice only squeaked.
Then she managed, “Wow! You’re real!”
And she realized that there was, indeed, a worse thing to say than howdy. “Umm. I mean, hi.”
She stuck out her hand, and then realized that not only was he still ten feet away, but the fence and gate still separated them, not to mention that he was still sitting on the horse, and she was standing on the ground.
She shook out the offending hand, as if it hurt and she was trying to loosen the muscles in it. Then she stuck it in the pocket of her jeans that might be a smidge too tight.
“Do you work here? Do you think you could help me open this? Is it locked and I didn’t see it? Is this the front entrance? Is there another way I should go?” Abigail paused. “Is that too many questions in a row?”
She smiled, and waited for a similar response.
Nothing. The cowboy’s eyes widened at her barrage of questions, but he didn’t smile, nor did he attempt to answer a single one.
Instead, he pulled the horse up to the gate, and leaned over. With one hand, he flipped the offending latch. The gate swung freely and fast, directly at Abigail.
“Hey!” she scrambled backward. “Okay! I’m out of the way now, thanks.”
She jumped in her idling pickup, drove through the gate, and hopped out to close it.
The cowboy just sat and watched.
She swung the gate, heavier than it looked, back into place, and slammed the latch home. The metal had taken off several layers of skin and she knew that her palm was probably bleeding, but she didn’t look at it, just smiled up at him and said, “Thank you.”
She got back into the truck and was about to head up the gravel driveway when he said loudly, “What is that, anyway?”
She took the truck out of gear and stuck her head out the open window. “What is what?”
“That thing you’re driving?”
Abigail didn’t understand the question. “It’s a Nissan?” Was that what he wanted to know?
“Is it supposed to be a truck?”
Great. He was going to be a jerk. Maybe she and the other owner could fire this guy, as soon as she got her bearings.
“It’s my truck. Got a problem with it?”
“Kind of a silly-looking little thing. What does it haul?”
“It’s my silly-looking little thing, and it’s always done the job. I’m sorry it offends you.”
“No, really. Have you ever put anything in the back? Besides grocery bags or your friend’s couch, I mean?”
“It suits me just fine, thanks.” The words came quickly and for that she was grateful, but she felt small and disappointed. She had driven up here, her feelings a huge balloon of happiness and excitement, and he’d pushed a pin into them.
Well, forget him. She put her beloved red pickup back in gear and shot up the driveway, spraying gravel. She didn’t want to startle the poor horse that had to carry him, but she hoped that she scared the guy a little. What an ass.
But now! Now was the time she’d been waiting for, now she was going to see her brand-new home, her brand-new start.
She drove up and over the low hill, past live oaks and more eucalyptus, past flocks of sheep—real, live sheep! They dotted the hillside as if they were part of a perfect painting, placed there just for her. She passed a small pond that looked more picturesque than useful, but really, what did she know about living in the country? Nothing, that’s what.
All that was about to change. Right here, right now.
Abigail caught her breath when she saw it. A two-story 19th-century wooden ranch house, painted white with dark green trim, it looked loved and well worn, a place that could be truly called home, something she hadn’t had in what felt like forever. It sat nestled next to three or four huge, old oaks, their limbs sheltering and low to the ground.
A place to feel safe.
Behind and to the right of the house stood a matching cottage, a miniature version of the bigger one. Abigail’s heart swelled with happiness. She wondered if that delightful spot would be where she slept. Or would she sleep in the house and work in the cottage?
This was really it. This was the place. Home.
As Abigail’s feet crunched up the gravel driveway, she could hear a soft breeze making the drying oak leaves crackle. Other than the low roar of a distant plane overhead, there was no sound but the blood rushing in her ears and her heart beating quickly in her chest.
She willed herself to calm down as she climbed the four shallow steps up to the white wraparound porch. But it was no use, really. This was too good to be true.
Abigail knocked on the door, already slightly ajar.
No answer.
Was this the doorbell? She turned the wind-up key in the door, and it set off a jangling ring inside.
She waited, the breeze on the back of her neck giving her shivers. The good kind.
She knocked again.
Still nothing.
Abigail pushed the door open.
It felt deliciously like breaking and entering, but it wasn’t, not really. She had Eliza to thank for it.
She was in a tiny foyer, with large sunny rooms opening up to either side. Directly in front of her a set of steep stairs went up, the fabric runner deep red and worn with use. To her left was what looked like a small dining room, in it a heavy dark table decorated with a silver teapot and dark blue napkins dotted with yellow flowers. Paintings of the local landscape hung in wooden frames.
To her right appeared to be a parlor, a real, old-fashioned parlor. A huge bay window looked onto that next-door cottage. Abigail stepped into the room. An antique sofa, a somewhat worse-for-wear grand piano, a redbrick fireplace, a flat-screen TV. Old and new, it all went together, giving the room a feeling of home and continuity. Books were everywhere: on shelves that looked built in, stacked on end tables, piled on the rocking chair in the corner. A huge yellow cat slumbered in an overstuffed wingback chair in a ray of sunlight and barely opened his eyes to look at her.
Heaven.
A slam and footsteps from behind her. Abigail stifled a scream and turned.
The cowboy. Looking furious.
“What the hell are you doing in my house?”
Chapter Two
Knitters don’t give away stash easily. If you are offered something, be it wool, angora or alpaca, take it. That knitter knows you’ll need it someday. (This, of course, doesn’t apply to acrylic. Run from acrylic.)
—E.C.
This is your house?”
“You mind telling me exactly who you are?”
“Abigail Durant. The new part owner. And you are…?”
Abigail hoped against hope that he would say he was her new ranch-hand or neighbor or something, anything, but she already knew by his attitude what he was going to say.
“I’m Cade MacArthur, the only owner. Seems like we have a few things to settle, and quick.”
Abigail turned her head at the sound of a car spitting rocks up the driveway. This was either going to be the lawyer who told her to meet him here for the reading of the will, or this was Cade’s backup. She hoped it was the former.
“For the love of…Who’s that?” he said, whipping his hat off his head and slapping it down on a sideboard. Something that sounded like china rattled inside.
“Didn’t you get the letter? About the reading of the will?”
“I know it wasn’t today.”
“It’s the sixteenth.”
“Damn.”
At the knock, Cade opened the door to a small, pale man in a suit who smiled at them both. “Afternoon, Cade. And you must be Ms. Durant, nice to meet you. John Thompson, at your service. Through here? Won’t take a minute. I’m not fussy about these things.”
He walked past them and into the next room, which turned out to be the kitchen. A blend, again, of new and old—a stove that had
probably been installed back when the new-fangled gas ones first came out sat next to a gleaming black refrigerator. Well-loved-looking pots and pans shone from an overhead rack. A silver-and-red Formica table stood in one corner under a farming calendar advertising some sort of grain.
The smiling lawyer pulled up a chair at the table and gestured for them to join him. He took out a collection of paper and gave them each a stack. Abigail sat next to him.
“We can do this the old-fashioned way, with me reading it to you verbatim, or I can go over it broadly, and we’ll read the fine print later,” he said.
Cade, standing next to the stove, said, “Yeah, that. Do it fast.”
“Eliza Carpenter died two weeks ago today. She asked me to…” He stopped when Abigail held up her hand.
“Hang on a sec, if you don’t mind. The funeral? Where were you?” Abigail asked Cade. He hadn’t been there, she was sure of it. She would have remembered him. Even through that pain, she would have noticed him, would have remembered his eyes or noticed the breadth of his shoulders.
“I couldn’t go. I had to run this place.”
“You couldn’t take a day off to go to your great-aunt’s funeral?”
“Nope.”
“Wow. I bet she would have liked it if you’d been there.”
“She was dead. I don’t think she noticed.”
“I’m sure other people did.”
“I don’t care about other people. I care about this place. And I don’t owe a stranger any explanation, that’s for damn sure.”
“Got it,” said Abigail. Okay, he was going to keep on being awful. She turned her back to Cade. “Mr. Thompson, I’m sorry. Please go on.”
“Yes, of course.” The lawyer seemed to be fiddling with something on the table that didn’t exist, his fingers twitching. Under any other circumstances, Abigail would have offered him something, a soda, some coffee. But Cade wasn’t offering, and she could only watch.
And wait.
The only thing the lawyer had told her on the phone last week was that she had a place to live. She came here knowing nothing else. Now she wasn’t even sure of that.
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