How to Knit a Love Song

by Rachael Herron

  She hadn’t wanted that either. But now she didn’t want anything else.

  She was in trouble.

  Chapter Sixteen

  If it makes you feel better to think you’re in charge of the yarn completely, then go ahead and do that. It won’t change the truth.

  —E.C.

  The next morning, when Cade opened his eyes in the quiet, still darkness of predawn, he knew something had happened, and struggled to remember what he’d forgotten while sleeping.

  Then he got it.

  He’d kissed Abigail in the bathroom.

  He groaned and rolled over, putting his face in the pillow. He was rock hard the second he thought of her. Again.

  Yes, she was attractive. Hot as hell. No, he couldn’t get her out of his mind, even though he desperately wanted her off his property.

  But he’d never dreamed he would grab her like that, wrench her down on his lap like he had.

  It was something he hadn’t been able to control. He wouldn’t have believed, an hour before he kissed her last night, that he would ever kiss her. Much less ten minutes before he did, when he’d been so furious about the water all over his house, the house that had flooded because she’d been an idiot and had fallen asleep with the tub running.

  No, he’d been the idiot. She hadn’t meant to flood the bathroom. He had meant to kiss her. With all his body, he had meant that kiss last night.

  Abigail had kissed him back, he knew it. He’d grabbed her, pulled her down, but she’d kissed him back as hard, harder, perhaps. Her hand had been in his hair, twisting, pulling him closer, so that their breaths were interchangeable and that breathing was as fast as if they’d been running.

  Oh, this was agony. He had to get out of bed, fast, and get out of the house before he saw her.

  How was he going to avoid her until she got the cottage in livable order?

  It might be impossible, but he could try.

  Cade showered, dressed, ate his instant oatmeal, and was out of the house in under twelve minutes. He had most of the barn chores done by six thirty, when the sun was peeking up and Tom was walking in.

  “You look like hell,” said Tom.

  “I need you to check those ewes again today. Get the vet, just to be sure.”

  “No ‘good morning, old buddy’?”

  Cade wasn’t in an old-buddy mood. He scowled.

  Tom said, “Okay, then. I’ll make my own coffee, I guess?”

  “There’s some in the office. Go ahead.”

  “Anything you wanna talk about?”

  “Nope.” Cade kept raking out a stall that had held until this morning an older ewe that had been struggling with pneumonia. She’d died sometime in the night, and he’d already dealt with her body this morning.

  “That ewe gone?”

  “Yep.”

  “Damn. I thought she looked better yesterday.”

  “I did, too. We were wrong.”

  “You upset?”

  “That sheep cost me money.”

  “Have anything to do with that girl up at the house?”

  Cade stopped raking and glared at Tom. “No.”

  “Okay.” Tom held up his hands and started backing away.

  “Why would you ask that?”

  “Forget I asked.”

  “It’s not about her.”

  “I believe you.”

  “But why would you ask about her?”

  “I’m thinking you have more you want to say to me about it. But I’m going to get some of that coffee. If you want to talk about it, talk. Otherwise, I’m going to get to work.”

  “It’s not about her.”

  Tom nodded and walked toward the office.

  How had Tom known? Why couldn’t Cade just be upset about the sheep? This was his livelihood, after all. It would make any rancher upset.

  But Tom was right, and Cade figured they both knew it. Tom knew him well. Cade dealt with death on the ranch the same way Tom did, with regret it couldn’t be avoided, and a stoic conviction that humane and healthy treatment of the livestock would go a long way toward a strong, sturdy fold.

  A simple ewe dying of common illness and age—that wasn’t enough to make him look like this, act like this. Cade knew his face was reflecting the exact way he felt—Eliza used to beat him so soundly and regularly at poker that he’d never even played anyone for money. He knew he’d lose.

  He’d just have to avoid Tom today. Wouldn’t be so hard, not if he moved those irrigation lines he’d meant to do yesterday, and not if he went up to the ridge line and worked up there—he hadn’t been up to that end in months, and there was some brush he wanted cleared. He’d check to see if it was a burn day in the county; maybe a good bonfire would make him feel better.

  And he’d avoid Abigail, too. Forever. Wouldn’t be that hard, would it?

  She’d been shivering in that skimpy robe last night. Wait until she saw how cold it could actually get out here. A couple of cold winter storms would probably drive her out. ’Course, they were still so close to the ocean that it never snowed or anything like that, but the nights could still drop down below freezing. The cottage wasn’t well insulated. And the chimney was blocked.

  Humanely, he’d have to tell her to get that chimney fixed, at the very least. But that was it. She could think of and install insulation on her own.

  Unless that made it take more time for her to get out of his house. Her and that ridiculous robe. Dammit. He needed to distract himself.

  As Cade drove the ridge in his truck, he noticed heavy clouds looming to the north. He got out, pulled on his leather gloves, and started hauling brush. He took a break a couple of hours later and walked up to the one point, where, through the trees and over two valleys, he could see the ocean. It was dark slate, and he could tell, even from here, that the water was rough and whitecapped.

  From up here, he could see only nature, only trees and ocean. Not even a power line marred his line of vision, though he knew that if he turned his head a little to the east, he’d see an electrical grid of lines marching across the low hill that his neighbor Tuttle owned.

  He loved it. Close enough to town. San Francisco within range, if he needed it. There were people around if he got lonely. There were women to date, plenty of them. And Cade liked to date.

  But he’d been alone since Eliza moved south, leaving him in charge.

  Matter of fact, now that he thought about it, he’d never lived with another person in his life. He’d gone from his parents’ home and then bounced from apartment to apartment, finally to the ranch, avoiding entanglements from every side.

  Not that there hadn’t been women who had tried, sneaking lip gloss into his bedside tables and extra pairs of panties into his sock drawer. Every time a woman started that up, he didn’t merely bag up her stuff and return it to her—he got rid of the girl. He didn’t have time for a relationship, no time for love. So he sidestepped it, religiously. People didn’t find that movie-perfect love like Eliza and Joshua had every day. His parents certainly hadn’t. He didn’t want to follow in their footsteps.

  And he certainly wasn’t going to let some perfect stranger, a beautiful one notwithstanding, walk in and wreck his solitary happiness.

  Mostly Cade preferred to be up here on the hill, looking down, knowing he could be down there and choosing not to be. He knelt and took off a glove. He touched the dirt. Eliza’s husband, Joshua, had loved this land the way Cade did. He’d died when Cade was eleven, of a massive heart attack, but before he died, Cade had seen him kneel down and taste the dirt. Cade had tried it, too. They’d grinned at each other and proclaimed it the most delicious dirt in the world.

  A sudden cold wind, wet with ocean moisture, hit his cheek, and the oak leaves clattered behind him. The clouds above him were moving more slowly, heavily, massing.

  It was going to be stormy tonight. Something was moving in.

  By the time Cade got back to the house to make his dinner that night, he was body-and-bone exha
usted. He’d thrown himself into clearing brush, and had made such a good bonfire with the stuff that even though he’d notified the local fire dispatch agency, neighbors had called, thinking it might be out of control.

  An off-road fire engine had chugged up the fireroad to check on him, but since he’d gone to school with Tim, the captain on the rig, they hadn’t given him a hard time. They’d all stood there and watched, and they seemed as mesmerized as he was, staring into the flames, not saying much except about the incoming storm.

  Now Cade smelled like smoke; his chest and throat ached from it. His muscles burned, and he was exceedingly dirty.

  He needed a shower, food, and a good, strong drink, in that order.

  The shower he got.

  The food he made, a quick grilled steak and a salad from leftovers. He ate at the kitchen table, defying Abigail to come in, breaking their schedule.

  She didn’t. Of course she didn’t. She must be avoiding him like he’d been avoiding her.

  The first drops of rain hit the gutters outside the kitchen window. The silvery drops on the window were still hitting slowly, but they’d get faster as the night went on. They were in for it tonight.

  After fixing himself a scotch and water, he grabbed the suspense novel he was reading from upstairs and went to the parlor.

  He’d had his first bonfire of the season today and he’d light the first fire in the chimney tonight. Fitting. Maybe he’d burn the image of her, bare breasted, lips swollen, out of his mind.

  Wasn’t working so far.

  After he started the fire with kindling and wood from the back porch, Cade sat back and brushed off his hands with satisfaction—no matter how many times he lit a good fire, he never got over feeling like an accomplished Boy Scout.

  No, Man Scout, that was it. He felt better than he had all day.

  His favorite chair was an overstuffed purple monstrosity with an overstuffed ottoman to match. Eliza had loved to sit here in front of the fire, knitting. The chair wasn’t anything he ever would have picked, but it went with the feeling of the old room. The parlor had been the ladies’ waiting room when the house had been a stagecoach stop in the late nineteenth century. Through the big leaded panes of glass in the front windows, one could look out at the two remaining hitching posts. Cade had four horses for working and driving the sheep, and he’d never felt the need to hitch either of them in front of the house. But he liked sitting here, looking out into the dark, knowing that more than a hundred years ago, other people had sat here, looking out into the dark from this very room.

  He cracked open his book with a snap, breaking the spine.

  Took a sip of his scotch.

  Sank into the words. Perfect.

  Almost. His scheduled time for clearing out of here was just fifteen minutes away.

  But he might not even leave when his time was up. This was still his house, wasn’t it? She could go somewhere else. Or if she came in here, which she wouldn’t, she’d leave if he didn’t.

  Cade pushed the thought of her out of his mind.

  Again.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Always add an inch of length to any sweater you’re making, before you reach the armhole. You’ll want it later if you don’t.

  —E.C.

  Abigail stood, her knees aching. She’d been sitting in this spot for at least two hours. She dug her cell phone out of her pocket to check the time. She noticed she’d missed five or six calls, but they were from a blocked number, and she had no messages. It was probably time to change her phone number.

  And it was her time of evening for the kitchen.

  She’d gone out this morning into town to get food. After her quick shopping trip, two bags full of necessities like peanut butter and ice cream, she’d taken a stroll down the boardwalk. It was mostly closed up for the season, but people still walked along in groups, drinking coffee, watching surfers, and fishing off the end of the pier.

  People had smiled at her, like maybe she fit in already. She didn’t have to look over her shoulder all the time, and when she did, only friendly faces met her gaze.

  Now Abigail locked the front door of the cottage, carrying a huge armload of boxes out to the recycling bin. She’d been working for hours, unloading bits and pieces of wheels and boxes of fiber, filling all the empty bookcases she could find and making makeshift cases out of cardboard as she had to. She wanted the rooms cleared out, so she could see what she was working with. But even though she’d worked all day, she wasn’t even half done with the front room.

  The more she opened and unpacked, the more she realized Eliza’s intent. In her gently controlling way, Eliza was pushing Abigail, even now, to open a public space.

  A classroom in her old cottage. A store.

  Box after box, Abigail was finding everything that she’d need to start her dream business. She had enough spinning wheels to teach classes and still have overstock to sell. She had enough fiber in carded batts and rolags to spin into hundreds of skeins. There were boxes of plain, sturdy wool in all colors, with the manufacturer’s contact info on each box, in case she wanted to reorder, even though there was so much that she couldn’t imagine ever having to do that.

  She’d even found an old cash register and a receipt book. Each box she opened answered one more of the questions in her head.

  Abigail hadn’t fully asked herself yet whether she was really going to open a shop here. She hadn’t worked through it in her conscious mind, but in her unconscious mind, the one that really made the decisions, she knew she would.

  Her dream a reality.

  With a handsome cowboy nearby, no less.

  She hadn’t thought about him all day. She’d been great at not thinking. At all. Every time he came into her mind—that mouth, those large, strong, knowing hands—she thought about the shop. Her cottage. The classes she could offer. The alpacas.

  Anything but him.

  She dropped the cardboard off at the garbage cans, which were between the barn and the house, and clapped her hands to call Clara, who was under her truck, gnawing on something.

  It was getting cold out here. And windy. She felt her hair being lifted and thrown in front of her face. Was that a drop of rain? She called Clara again, but the stubborn dog just looked out from under the truck and ignored her.

  Fine—she needed to check that she’d gotten all her shopping bags out of the cab of the truck anyway. She looked in through the window. No bags were inside, but her glove box was open.

  Abigail frowned. She’d thought she’d locked the doors. It was a habit that two weeks in the country hadn’t been able to break yet. Yes, the doors were locked. She used her key to open the truck.

  The glove box was hanging open. It was a tricky glove box, too. It was easy to close and almost impossible to open. She’d always had to bang on it just right. And she knew it had been closed when she got out of the truck with her groceries earlier.

  Abigail rifled through the contents. She didn’t keep much in her glove box for the very reason that it was so difficult to open. Registration, owner’s manual, a tire gauge, two sixteen-inch circular needles and a small ball of sock wool for emergency knitting, nothing else. Nothing was missing.

  Of course nothing was missing. No one would break into her truck in order to open the glove box. The sticky latch must just be acting up, in reverse. Abigail closed it and tried to shake off the creepy feeling that had settled on her shoulders. She looked up the gravel drive. Nothing. Back the other way, just the barn. Nothing out on the county road, what she could see of it.

  It was the isolation, that was all. She’d get used to it.

  As the rain started in earnest, she knelt next to the truck and pleaded with the dog, offering the treats that she’d stocked up on earlier. Clara finally came out after snarfing three treats, dragging what looked like an auto part out with her. She had grease on her muzzle.

  Fantastic. A car-eating dog.

  They went into the house. Abigail prayed Cade wou
ldn’t be in the kitchen.

  He wasn’t. The coast was clear.

  She made a quick sandwich. After working in the cottage and not thinking about Cade all day, she didn’t have the brain for much more.

  She sat at the kitchen table, ate her sandwich, and watched the rain. Clara sat under the table and leaned heavily against her leg.

  What Abigail really wanted was to sit and knit. This was the kind of weather that was best for knitting—windy and cold, wet and getting wetter, good for being warm and safe inside. If only there were a fireplace in the kitchen.

  There was a fireplace in the parlor. She looked at her cell phone again to check the time. Wasn’t it her turn for the parlor now? He should be cleared out, and if he wasn’t, he sure would when he saw her.

  She went upstairs to grab her knitting and was down again in a minute, Clara following close at her heels. At the bottom of the stairs, instead of going left back to the kitchen, she went right, into the parlor.

  She found Cade sitting in the overstuffed chair, book in hand, as squarely in front of the roaring fireplace as one could be. Duncan, his enormous yellow cat, sat on his lap. Somehow Cade made even the purple armchair look rugged.

  Crap.

  Well, it was her time. He’d made the rules. She would play by them, even if he wasn’t. She entered with her head high, ignoring him. Perhaps she’d nod to him in a moment, once she was set up on the couch. But she’d give it a minute.

  But Clara ruined her entrance by racing ahead, all wiggles and tongue, circling Cade ecstatically, as if he were a huge juicy piece of steak.

  The cat exploded into a yellow puff of smoke as it screamed its way out of the room in protest.

  “Duncan!” said Cade.

  “Clara!” Abigail was horrified. She hadn’t considered this possibility. Would he think she’d sicced the dog on the cat on purpose?