How to Knit a Love Song

by Rachael Herron

  Cade’s heart froze and he lost his breath. “He was here this morning when we did chores, and he didn’t say anything about leaving. Oh, God.”

  The worst thought flashed through his mind.

  Tom was his oldest, best friend. He couldn’t even think the words.

  But no, Tom’s truck wasn’t here, and Tom was always with his truck, or somewhere near it. Tom wasn’t here. Cade prayed to God he wasn’t.

  Three fire engines screamed up the driveway and pulled up near Cade’s truck. The captain of the off-road engine yelled for Cade to open the gate leading to the field on fire. Damn, he should have thought of that.

  He jammed the truck into drive again and led the engine to the gate nearest the blazing grass. Abigail sat next to him and clung to the sides of the seat with white fingers.

  Then Cade drove back to the barn. The battalion chief in his red patrol vehicle was just arriving.

  Cade turned to Abigail. “Do you want to stay here? Or do you want to come with me to talk to him?”

  Abigail’s lips were pale. “I want to stay with you.”

  Cade nodded and then jumped out of the truck. Once she was out, he took her hand and led her to the battalion chief.

  Bill Leary spoke rapidly into the two radios he held. The back of his truck stood open, and he was already making marks on a white board. The largest of the three engines had pulled up closer to the shack. Four men piled out of the cab and hit the ground running, pulling hose and starting the pumps. A huge stream of water, followed by another from the next engine, made an enormous whooshing noise.

  Cade felt Abigail put her hand in his. She held on tight.

  “Cade.” Chief Leary nodded at him. “There’s no getting that outbuilding back. Anything else in there we need to know about?”

  Cade shook his head. “Just the propane, but I haven’t heard one explode for about three minutes. They might be all done.”

  “How many blew up?”

  Cade thought. “Seven? Maybe eight. I think that’s about all I had in there. They all kind of went at once, like the pressure valves all hit their heat limit at the same time. But a lot of spray cans exploded and flew out. I can’t be sure they’re all done.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Maybe some paint cans. Only other stuff I kept in there was old tools and a mower with no gas. Some expired medicine that I didn’t get around to throwing out.”

  The chief nodded. Then he said something into the radio in his left hand and craned his head to peer at the smoke from the field.

  “They’ve just about got that fire contained. Less than an acre, I’d guess. You were lucky, my friend.”

  Cade didn’t feel lucky, although he knew he would soon enough. He did feel better, though, as he heard another vehicle roaring up the driveway. He knew the sound well.

  Tom’s truck was a beautiful sight. He parked and ran to where they stood.

  “What the hell? I heard it on the scanner and I could see the smoke from town.”

  “Where were you?”

  “I told you I was going to town, remember? That last working pair of hoof trimmers broke when I stepped on ’em.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Cade had forgotten that.

  “Shit. This is awful. And I was only gonna be gone a little while, but when I came out of the feed store, some punk-ass kid or someone had slashed both my front tires. I had to get a tow and then the tire store couldn’t even fix ’em—I had to buy two new ones. Took forever.”

  “I’ll pay you for them. You were in town on a work errand.”

  “Already used your card. But how…?” Tom cleared his throat. “What the hell happened?”

  Chief Leary spoke up. “You have linseed in there?”

  Cade nodded.

  “My guess would be some rags left in a pile started it.”

  “I don’t leave rags out like that,” said Cade. “I’m not new at this.”

  “Well, the fire investigator is on her way out now, so you’ll know for sure by this afternoon. Hey, are you all right, miss?”

  Cade looked at Abigail. Her face had drained of all color now and she was visibly trembling.

  “I’m fine,” she said in a very small voice that wasn’t convincing.

  “Get her out of here, Cade. If I need anything, I’ll ask Tom.”

  Cade led her by the hand back toward the house. It was like leading a tottering child: She didn’t seem to be able to see the ground beneath her. Was she in shock? She stumbled along next to him.

  Cade opened the door to the house and led her into the kitchen. He scooped Duncan out of the rocker that sat next to the stove.

  “Here, sit. Just stay here for a little while.” He wrapped a knitted afghan of Eliza’s around her shoulders. “I’ll make you some tea.”

  “Coffee?”

  “Smart girl.”

  A few minutes later, Cade kneeled at Abigail’s feet and placed the mug in her hands. “You want a shot of whiskey in that?”

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’m just so freaked out.”

  “Natural to be.”

  “It’s your land. Your building. Your pasture that caught on fire. You should be the one freaking out. You shouldn’t have to take care of me.”

  Cade was torn: he wanted to stay right here, kneeling in front of her, looking up into her huge eyes, which were starting to look less terrified, but he also wanted to look out the window to see how it was going. It was like a physical need. Before he’d met her, the land was all he cared about.

  He leaned forward and kissed the knuckles of her hand that wasn’t holding coffee. He stood and tried to take a small peek out the window.

  “Go,” she said.

  Damn, he’d been too obvious. “No, it’s fine. They’re good out there. I trust them.”

  “You have to go. I’ll be fine here.”

  Cade wished they weren’t having this conversation right now, while his land smoldered outside. He wanted to take her back upstairs, to his room. He wanted to stay with her all day, to smooth away the fear and worry that still clouded her face. He wanted to make her want to stay, to forget all about moving out of his house.

  But even as he wanted these things, he was picking up his hat, which he’d removed when he came in. He twisted the brim in his fingers. Shuffled his feet.

  “I have to get out there. I’m sorry.”

  Abigail smiled up at him, and his heart twisted.

  The look of her, sitting wrapped in the afghan on his rocker, in his kitchen, smiling at him as he walked out the door, was so pretty it made his heart feel funny.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Watch out! The top inch of a sweater yoke is deceitful. You can measure it again and again, and it will read one inch shy until suddenly you are almost an inch over.

  —E.C.

  Days later, Abigail still hadn’t seen Cade even once.

  The same awkwardness between them before the fire still hung in the air, draping the house in a gray shroud. She dreamed of him at night. Once he kissed her in the dream, and she woke, feeling the shape of his lips on hers. But the room was dark—she was alone.

  And this morning she thought she heard someone in her room. Someone stood next to her bed and then touched her cheek. But she must have dreamed it. By the time she fought her way awake and opened her eyes, there was no one there, and when she looked out the window, Cade’s truck wasn’t even parked in its normal spot.

  But where had he been? She tried not to think about it, told herself she didn’t care, but it was like he’d completely disappeared. She heard his floorboards creaking most nights inside his room—the sound traveled along the floor. But when she walked through the kitchen, she saw no evidence that he’d been home at all, no coffee cups in the sink, no glasses standing on the sideboard. Even during his hours for parlor use, he wasn’t there.

  He’d been working, she knew, because she’d seen his truck up by the barn, and then one afternoon, she’d seen it driving up the hill,
up to where she’d gone searching for Merino.

  She still hadn’t quite gotten on track yet in her sleep patterns. She woke up in the middle of the night, her ears straining to hear anything from his room, from downstairs.

  Sleep seemed to be something she could only grab in tiny portions. She wasn’t good at holding on to it.

  So today she was yawning already, and it wasn’t even ten in the morning yet. She’d already had two cups of coffee. And it wasn’t like she was really loitering in the kitchen—she’d just taken her time over drinking it.

  But he didn’t come through looking for coffee. Or anything else.

  She wasn’t trying to stay out of his way. In fact, she realized that she was actually trying to get in his way.

  Gingerly, she stood and washed her coffee cup. Her foot still ached, but she didn’t have to wear the hard recovery boot she’d had to wear the first few days, thank goodness. She’d hated the noise and heft of it.

  She gazed through the small panes of glass for the umpteenth time this week. No sign of smoke, like the other morning. No sign of anything but blue sky. No sign of him.

  This was a switch, all right. Abigail was still used to looking out a window for someone, but not like this. During her year-long relationship with Samuel, she’d been used to looking out her apartment window with excitement, checking to see if Samuel had arrived yet. He usually brought her pink roses, and her home was full of teetering vases perched on every available surface. After things went so bad, she became used to looking out with fear, terrified she’d see his black SUV idling under the streetlight.

  But here she peered out with hope. Yearning, even. She wanted to see Cade’s dirty, beat-up truck, wanted to see him striding, long-legged and comfortable in his clothes, toward the house.

  Instead, she leaned on the sink and looked as far as she could see. Hot water sluiced from the tap and over her mug and hands.

  Nothing out the window.

  Cade’s kitchen. The faucet still running. Hot water gone to lukewarm. The land outside that she was staring so blankly into—this was home now.

  A wave of gratefulness swelled again inside her. Home. Safe.

  And awkward. Uncomfortable. Cade was obviously trying to stay so far out of her way that he’d become invisible. Just because they’d had sex.

  Really, really great sex.

  Just as well. Today was a day that she actually did want to stay out of his way. Or rather, she hoped he would stay out of hers.

  She was having a party this afternoon in his house. Janet had been the one to insist on it. “You have to have a launch party, sweetheart. A little one.”

  “A party? Here?”

  “You have to have something, people are calling and e-mailing me nonstop.”

  “Why you? About what?”

  “Oh, darling, you should check e-mail and the blogs once in a while. You’re the hottest thing in the fiber market this year. Eliza Carpenter’s home will be open, will be on view. Not only that, but a yarn shop is in the same space, offering classes. The owner is writing knitting books, carrying on the Carpenter tradition. People are crazy for it.”

  “It’s such a small thing, such a small place, so far away from everything else. You really think people will come?”

  “They’ll come and they’ll keep coming.”

  “But the cottage isn’t completely set up.”

  “They can help. Throw a grand opening, and have them add the final touches.”

  “You can’t ask potential customers to finish setting up a store.”

  Janet just cocked an eyebrow, got out her cell phone, and started arranging things.

  A week later, Abigail was getting ready to host a small party of what she assumed would be mostly women. The beginning of her dream, coming to fruition.

  What would Cade think?

  The fact that she couldn’t get him out of her mind for more than a few minutes could be ascribed to lust. God knows sleeping with him that night hadn’t been in her plans. And now her body craved companionship. Well, not just any companionship, but specifically his. That wasn’t so strange, she supposed.

  Who cared if Cade had been the single hottest experience in her life? Abigail knew that sex was good and healthy. In the past she’d been sturdy, steady, dating, falling in love with very nice men who treated her well and respected her intelligence. Until Samuel, anyway. But he was the exception that proved the rule.

  Cade, on the other hand, knew nothing of her books. He had never read an article by her, wouldn’t care for the subject matter if he had. He hadn’t seen any of her designs. He had no idea how long it took to create something from scratch. He had no clue how much care it took to craft a design and bring it to life. The very sweater she was finishing now: Cade had no idea how long it had taken her to figure out the neckline. Nor did he know that it would look fantastic on a guy built like he was. But the sweater wasn’t for Cade—it was for the next book. Obviously.

  She dried her coffee mug and put it back into the cupboard.

  Stupid crush. Silly, little schoolgirl crush.

  But it felt bigger than that.

  She refused to admit that.

  No more of this. She whistled for Clara and headed for the cottage. At least she could decide what she wanted her volunteers to do. There were still a few boxes that needed unpacking and shelving. Clara would help with the box shredding. Abigail pushed open the door. She supposed she’d have to start locking it again, once it really was a store, but she’d been enjoying coming and going between the house and the cottage, all doors unlocked.

  The shop was going to open. Her dream was going to come true. She surveyed the room with delight.

  The furniture had arrived last week. It had bitten into her savings quite a bit, but it was worth it. A red sofa was the dominant piece of furniture, flanked by four deep brown overstuffed armchairs. Three tall shaded lamps provided good light, and kept a soft glow in the room. She’d painted the walls a pale butter yellow. It was bright enough to light the room with warmth, but neutral enough that the colors in the unspun fiber looked accurate.

  Dark brown wooden bookcases that she’d sanded and polished ran along three walls. The fiber was arranged by type: the cashmere, alpaca, and angora stacked neatly in colorful bundles. Sheep’s wool was arranged by breed: Bluefaced Leicester, Corriedale, Jacob, Polwarth.

  She’d found a printer in town who’d done a rush job for her. “Eliza’s” was printed on paper labels that went around the fiber, wrapped in two-, four-, and eight-ounce bundles. Baskets were scattered around the room, full of bags of wool. There were whole fleeces, too, washed but uncombed or carded.

  Next to the baskets were low footstools good for perching on while poking through the fleece or for pulling up into the seating area when more chairs might be needed.

  She hoped she would need extra seating sometimes.

  Near the back of this room, she’d placed a long, low table. She was going to use the old cash register that Eliza had left in the cottage to ring up sales. She’d track sales and orders in an old, blank ledger that was dated 1957. Probably someday she’d get a computer to do it, but for now, it felt right, starting by hand, like Eliza would have done.

  The sign was up outside, hanging from the low eave of the front porch.

  She’d hung a red velvet curtain in the doorway that led to the kitchen. For classes, she planned to offer light snacks, nice cheese, scones, finger sandwiches. A casual high tea.

  Abigail smiled at Clara, who smiled back, her tongue out, panting as she watched the world outside the open front door.

  The toilet was functional now, and after an extended, expensive visit from a plumber named Don, so was the shower. She’d painted the upstairs room at the same time she’d painted the walls downstairs, the pale yellow that reminded her of fall sunshine. A full-sized bed arrived when the furniture did, and the delivery guys had put it together. It stood in the middle of the windowed cupola, surrounded by views of the valley
, the trees, the sheep, the sky, and a sliver of the ocean in the distance. Her desk was at the window that looked down at Cade’s house. She hung curtains as soon as she’d realized that if she could look directly into the top floor of the big house, then anyone in the house could look across and into her space.

  When she’d hung the curtains, she hadn’t wanted that. Now, she wasn’t so sure. Maybe she wanted Cade to be able to look in on her, easily. Maybe.

  Her heart gave that funny jump again, that extra syncopated beat she’d been feeling all day.

  Work. She had work to do. The pile of boxes full of fiber never seemed to diminish, and there were still books and needles to attempt to arrange. Janet was managing the party—all Abigail had to do was wait for everyone to show up.

  A few hours later, satisfied with her progress, Abigail sat out in front, grinning in the sun, watching Clara rip and shake an empty box.

  Tom pulled up in his truck.

  He leaned out the window and tugged on his cowboy hat. He was a cliché in motion, and he didn’t even know it. Or she hoped he didn’t.

  “Awful cute dog you got there.” He whistled at Clara and her head snapped in his direction. Tom woofed, and Clara happily barked back, danced in a small, jumping circle, and went back to her box-shredding task.

  “I think so.”

  “It was good of you to take her.”

  “I’m beginning to think it was even better of me to take the alpacas off Mort’s hands.”

  “I’ll grant that was nicer than most people would have been.”

  What was he after? They didn’t usually exchange this kind of small talk. She’d seen him drive by a couple of times. He’d touched his hat and smiled and driven by.

  “What’s up, Tom? Something I can help you with?”

  “No, just saying hi. Seeing how you’re doing. I mean, yeah! Your foot! How’s your foot? That’s what I wanted to ask.”

  Ah. Abigail got it. “My foot’s doing fine, almost all healed. But what you might be really interested to know is that my friend Janet should be here soon.”

  “Really? Today?”