How to Knit a Love Song

by Rachael Herron

  “You do look busy. Is there a better time? Should I come back?” The woman’s voice was smoothly amused.

  Abigail looked at Cade on the floor, took a deep breath, pushed back her hair, and turned around.

  The woman who had addressed them was only feet away. Abigail wasn’t sure how she had come so close to them so quickly. She tried to still her breathing.

  She was striking, to say the least. She was tall, at least six feet, thin but perfectly curved at the bust and hips, with extremely long, red hair, a red that was between auburn and mahogany and looked expensive.

  “Trixie Fletcher. Reporter-at-large, the Independent.” The woman stretched out her hand and Abigail automatically shook it.

  “I’ll get up in just a minute,” said Cade. He groaned again, but then struggled to his feet.

  He half smiled at Trixie, and she grinned back at him. Abigail instantly disliked her.

  “Cade, you can vouch for my work.”

  “I haven’t been a subject of yours for years.” Cade leaned on the counter with both hands. Abigail watched him take a deep breath.

  Trixie nodded. “Not since you had that public fight with O’Connor about the water rights. Unless you mean a different kind of subject.” She laughed, an intimate sound. “Oh, we won’t bore you with the details, Abigail.” She winked at Cade, one sexy dropped lid.

  Abigail never could manage that kind of wink. Her head hurt, suddenly, a sharp pain right between her eyes.

  “But today, I’m simply here as a member of the press. I’m dying to know about your new little venture, Cade.”

  He held his hands up. “Not my venture. Ask the lady here. Abigail.”

  Trixie got out a pen and a small pad of paper. “I do feel like I’m intruding on something though. Do you two need a bit more time?”

  Abigail shook her head. “He bet me I didn’t know self-defense. But I do, so I showed him.”

  “Women in this town would have paid good money to see that,” said Trixie. “Now tell me about what you’re doing here.”

  “It’s a yarn shop. And classroom space.” Abigail hoped her face didn’t reflect the curtness in her voice.

  “Yes, that I know. But it’s here! That’s the best part, the part I want to capture, it’s out here in the heart of sheep country. Selling the wool, teaching people how to knit. Is it just another case of not-your-grandma’s knitting? Following the trend? Or is this something more?”

  Leading the question, thought Abigail, but she only said, “Oh, it’s something more, all right. You, of course, know about Eliza Carpenter.”

  Trixie nodded. “Cade’s aunt, yes.”

  “You know who she is?”

  “To Cade? To you?”

  “To the world,” said Abigail, and she could feel her eyebrows drawing together. She willed them apart and said, “I don’t know how more people in this town aren’t aware of what a legend they had living among them. Eliza is the single most important person in the field of knitting. Even deceased, she still is. She was more innovative than anyone else in the last two hundred years.” Abigail couldn’t keep the passion out of her voice. “She documented her discoveries. She shared them freely. God, her kimono-jacket is something that mathematicians have studied for years—it’s like a puzzle that suddenly solves itself.”

  “You are talking about knitting, right?” Trixie laughed again, a tinkling bell that matched the way she tossed her hair.

  Abigail was horrified. Had Cade slept with this person?

  “I’m talking about art, but if you want to call it knitting, that’s fine by me. But it’s bigger than that. I’d suggest a little more research if you’re writing an article on it.”

  Trixie flapped a hand, and it landed on Cade’s shoulder. He didn’t look offended. “So, Cade, my old friend, what’s it like, having the artists-slash-knitters converge upon your sacred ground?”

  “I guess I’ll have to get used to it.”

  “You really don’t mind? I heard through the rumor mill that you were pretty put out by the whole thing.”

  Cade cleared his throat. “You can’t trust everything you hear. You, of all people, should know that, Trix.” He reached out and tugged a lock of that long red hair, and Trixie laughed, looking delighted.

  “Hey, Trix. What exactly did you need from me?” asked Abigail.

  “I’m after more of the personal angle. I mean, everyone in the valley is talking about how your shop is going to change the area. People are talking about the expanded retail in the area, and how long it’ll be before this is a bedroom community of San Francisco. Strip malls, fast-food joints, big-box stores. And you and Cade are on the forefront of this change, driving it.”

  Abigail choked, opened her mouth, and then closed it. She looked at Cade. He stepped to the side, and Trixie’s hand fell from his shoulder.

  She took a breath and straightened the bags she’d been working on. “That can’t possibly be what people are talking about.”

  “You might be surprised what people say.”

  “I had higher hopes for the intellect of this community.”

  “People talk. A lot.”

  “And you write it all down? Share it with your readers? This newspaper, I haven’t seen it. It’s the local gossip rag?” Abigail’s voice was icy.

  “It’s won many journalistic awards, as have I.”

  “Awarded by Montel Williams?”

  “This isn’t getting us anywhere, is it? I apologize to you if it seems like I’m gossiping. I’m only repeating what people in the area are saying, what they’re upset about. That’s news, and I cover it. So, is an expanded retail base in this area what the two of you are after?”

  Cade held up his hand, palm out. “Trixie, first thing you have to understand is that we’re not in this together. This is her venture, not mine. It’s not what I wanted.”

  Abigail looked down at the countertop and traced the old wood grain with her fingertips. “But…” she started.

  Cade interrupted her. “But I’m coming to an acceptance of it.”

  “You are?” asked Trixie.

  “You are?” asked Abigail at the same time.

  “Well, there’s not much I can do. She owns the land, the area is zoned for this. I don’t have much to say about it.”

  “But are you behind it?” asked Trixie.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You say you accept it,” Trixie was scribbling notes into a Moleskine, but she didn’t look down at the pen. “But are you in favor of it? Do you want her to succeed?”

  “I…” Cade’s voice trailed off.

  Abigail straightened, squaring her shoulders. “He doesn’t have to be behind me. I’m a respected author of books in this field. I have my own name, and I’m standing on Eliza Carpenter’s land. It’s a built-in fan base. People will come.”

  “Are knitters that serious about what they do?”

  “I’ve had phone calls about the retreats from as far away as Ireland and Germany.”

  Cade said, “You have?”

  Abigail nodded.

  He shook his head.

  Trixie said, “So how does hearing about the retreats make you feel, Cade?”

  “You sound like a shrink.”

  “Just answer my question, babe.”

  Babe? Abigail’s level of annoyance couldn’t go much higher.

  Cade tugged at his collar. “How does it make me feel? It makes me want to ride up into the hills to avoid the cars coming up my driveway.”

  “Our driveway,” said Abigail.

  Cade shook his head. “Well, technically, the driveway’s still mine, but I’m not making a big deal out of it, am I?”

  Abigail glared at him, but he was still looking at Trixie. Of course he was.

  Trixie made another note. “How much do you think you’ve lost in terms of the land’s worth since this happened?”

  Cade frowned, “What do you mean? By her putting a store in?”

  “No, by breakin
g up the parcel. There’s an annexed bit in the middle that you don’t own.”

  “I hadn’t really…”

  Abigail said, “The property is still worth the same. Maybe more because of the improvements I’ve made here.”

  Trixie held up her pen. “Not to Cade, it isn’t. He owns a donut, and you own the middle bit. But if you sold it back to him, the parcel would be complete.”

  “Why would I sell it back to him? I just started this business.”

  “That’s the question everyone’s asking. If you fail, will you sell to him?”

  “People are talking about me failing?”

  Trixie raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “Sam Stephens, who owns the Bar L Ranch up the road, said that not only is he betting on your quick failure, but that he also has a pool going. And that he had a long conversation with Cade about the same thing. Cade, that’s hearsay, of course. Will you confirm? Did you discuss Abigail’s quick failure?”

  Abigail’s heart, already constricted into the shape of a small rock, tightened even more. She didn’t breathe as she waited for him to answer.

  But he didn’t. Cade didn’t say anything. He looked at the ground.

  “Cade?”

  After another pause, an unbearably long pause, Cade said, “You know I didn’t want the store here at first, Abigail. But it’s different now.” His voice trailed off.

  “How is it different? Will accusing me of arson get me out of here faster?”

  “I didn’t mean…I didn’t really think…”

  Trixie scribbled notes furiously. “Arson…So Abigail, California is of course, a joint property state. If you two married, you’d own not just a piece of the land, but half of it. Is that an attractive thought to you, Abigail?”

  “Out!” Abigail felt like her head was going to fly off her body. “Get the hell out of my store! You, too, Cade! Clear out!”

  Cade said, “But…” Nothing else followed.

  “Just get out. Now!”

  Trixie mumbled something that sounded like “hostile” and “combative” while scribbling on her pad, but she allowed Abigail to steer her outside and onto the front porch. Cade followed, his eyes huge. He was pale.

  As he reached the edge of the porch he turned to look at her.

  “Abigail. I…”

  His eyes broke her heart.

  But he thought she torched his shack.

  Abigail slammed the door, shot the lock home, and turned the “Open” sign to “Closed.”

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Knitting will always surprise you.

  —E.C.

  Abigail gripped the steering wheel tightly. She hated this part of the road, this long bridge that seemed to go on forever. But she had to see Janet. She needed a friend’s advice. She would take an extra-long lunch break today.

  The sky was threatening today, massive dark clouds gathering in the east. A cold front was moving in, she’d heard on the radio. Good. It suited her. She drove with her windows open, the chilly air smelling of the eucalyptus trees she drove past.

  It had only been three days since she’d tossed Cade out of the store.

  She stood by what she did.

  Every time she started to think about how she felt about him, how it had felt being in his arms, how his lips had felt against hers, how she felt when she looked in his eyes, she stopped her thoughts by thinking about the fire at the shack.

  He’d doubted her in the most fundamental way. He’d thought that perhaps she might have tried to destroy something of his. The very idea cut into her.

  Love did not doubt.

  She wasn’t sure of much, but she knew that the man who loved her would believe in her, utterly. She’d thought that man was Cade. She loved him, yes. Abigail now freely admitted that to herself.

  But he didn’t love her.

  If he loved her, he’d have believed in her.

  Even after she’d told him whom she suspected of setting the blaze, he hadn’t followed up on it. Wouldn’t he have wanted to know who Samuel was? Whom to watch out for? Whom to protect her from? God knows, Abigail had been watching out for Samuel. She felt constantly on edge, the way she had in San Diego. She’d thought she’d left all that behind.

  Last night, she thought she’d heard footsteps on her porch. Creaks, louder than the house settling, had started a staccato rhythm in her heart that hadn’t calmed until she’d looked out every single window, Clara at her side. Clara growled once or twice, but then relaxed.

  If there had been anything to worry about, Clara would have barked. Abigail slept fitfully, one hand clenching the ruff of Clara’s neck.

  Even now, Clara sat up on the passenger seat, sticking her nose out the window, sniffing ecstatically. Abigail reached out to scritch Clara’s head. It felt good, soft. It reminded her of spinning, something she hadn’t had much time for lately. She’d have to change that soon. It would be another thing to keep her mind off Cade.

  From behind her, a car approached rapidly in the rearview mirror. It was suddenly much too close.

  It was a sports utility vehicle.

  A black one.

  Abigail’s heart sped up. It was too close to her bumper, the cab too high.

  She couldn’t see who was in it.

  Abigail accelerated until she could look back into its front window.

  Samuel smiled at her and waved.

  “Shit, shit, shit.” Abigail grabbed her phone and dialed 911. She didn’t look again in her rearview mirror. She couldn’t. If she saw his face again, she thought her heart might stop altogether.

  “A man,” she gasped. “A man who tried to kill me. He has a warrant for attempted murder. Following me. I just went over Mills Bridge, heading west. Black SUV, I think it’s a Tacoma.”

  “We’re sending officers your way, but don’t stop driving. Do you know where the police department is? Drive that direction. I’m going to stay on the line with you as long as I can. You keep telling me where he is, and what he’s doing. I have some questions for you to answer, okay?”

  Abigail kept her speed constant. He could run her off the road at any time, she knew. There were few other cars out here today. Her body broke into a cold sweat, and the steering wheel slipped in her grasp. The dispatcher’s calm voice asking her questions and giving her directions was the only thing that kept her from flying into pieces.

  Almost in town, Abigail hit a red light. What was to prevent him from getting out and racing to her door? There was no cross traffic. “I’m running the light.”

  “As long as it’s safe to do so,” said the dispatcher.

  Samuel ran the light, too.

  She told the dispatcher where she was. “Where are you guys?”

  “Almost with you. Turn right on Main.”

  As she did, Samuel turned left. Twenty seconds later, three police cars met her, coming from the opposite direction, lights flashing. She hung out her window, yelling and pointing them in the direction he’d gone.

  At the Cypress Hollow police station, she made a report.

  The officer who helped her, a nice boy not more than twenty-two at the most, listened to the scanner as he entered her information into his laptop. All of the radio talk sounded like gibberish. Abigail held tightly to the Styrofoam cup of water he’d given her.

  “Dang,” he said earnestly.

  “What?”

  “Seems like they’ve lost him. Don’t know how he got away. With a felony warrant like that, they gave pursuing him a really good try, and Suthers usually gets his guy. Shoot.”

  “I wish they had,” muttered Abigail. “Are we about done, then?”

  “Yep. If you want to press charges on this violation of his restraining order, I’m sure the DA can get the judge to just add another warrant to his sheet.”

  Abigail wanted to scream. But she kept her voice calm. “How does that protect me?”

  “We’ll be looking for him, ma’am. He’ll be my top priority.”

  She gave him a thin smile
. He really was trying. “Thanks.”

  It was easy to see Janet coming. Her nod to the approaching storm front was a massive fur coat, white and brown. Under it she wore a short simple black dress that she knew must have cost more than Abigail’s entire wardrobe put together.

  Abigail waved from the diner booth.

  “Darling. I love it.” Janet swooped in with a kiss. Then she stood straight and took a good look around. “Tillie’s. I’ve passed it a million times and never even thought to come in.”

  “Why not?”

  Janet frowned. “I have no idea. I mean, you know I’m not a snob, but…Why are you laughing?”

  “You’re the biggest snob I know. You’re wearing couture to a diner.”

  “What, this old thing?” Janet laughed and removed the coat. She looked around for a coat rack, and then gave up, tossing it on the bench seat. She slid in. “Okay. But it’s what I do. What I love.” She nodded at Abigail’s knitting. “Me without fashion is you without knitting.”

  “The horror!” Abigail tried to laugh, but it caught in her throat.

  “What is it, my lamb?”

  “Lamb!” Abigail wailed, and dropped her forehead to the table.

  “Are you upset about the article?”

  Abigail lifted her head and narrowed her eyes at Janet. “What article?”

  “The one in today’s Independent?”

  “Crap. I suppose I should be upset. If you’re asking that?”

  “It’s not the most flattering thing ever.” Janet reached into her Birkin bag.

  “Go ahead. Let me have it.”

  Janet took a folded piece of paper from her purse and shook it out. “My favorite part is where she writes, ‘Abigail Durant’s particular brand of customer service combines a charming old-fashioned blend of forcible ejection and right hooks. If you see Cade MacArthur sporting a black eye, let him tell you he walked into a door. Ranchers need their pride.’”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “The rest is just fluff that says, essentially, writer comes to valley to fulfill dream of yarn store on historic land. Did you really hit him?”

  “And kneed him in the nuts. He came at me wrong. He scared me.”