How to Knit a Love Song Read online

  The suspense was killing her. She ground her nails into her palm.

  “Well, all right. So, going over it in the broadest of terms…” The lawyer flipped some papers, frowned, found the one he was looking for. “Eliza wanted you to have the cottage, Abigail, and the land it stands on, as well as everything stored inside it. Cade receives the house and the land it stands on with all belongings found inside, as well as all land, excluding the land upon which the cottage stands.”

  “Wow,” Abigail breathed.

  Cade’s mouth opened, then closed. It looked like he couldn’t even talk—he turned to face the stove, and the sound of his breath hissing through his teeth made Abigail’s palms sweat.

  Great. Now she had to deal with him.

  “Look, Mr. MacArthur, let’s talk about it.”

  “The cottage,” he said through gritted teeth, back still turned, “is completely uninhabitable.”

  “What?”

  “Crazy old broad filled it with crap. And I mean crammed. Ceilings to floors, out to all walls. It was her dumping ground for years.”

  “Well, you see,” started the lawyer, but Cade cut him off again.

  “No one could live there. And aren’t we forgetting the most important thing?” He turned around, quickly, the muscles under his denim shirt straining as he pushed against the stove.

  “I live here. On this land.” His eyes sparked at Abigail, and if looks could kill, she’d need paramedics in another minute.

  He repeated, “I live here. This is my home. I can’t believe she did this. Goddamn her. She always thought she knew what was right for me. Only I don’t get this. I take care of her ranch, I save it, so she can leave and move south, where she meets scammers and con artists.” He shot a look at Abigail and went on, “I don’t even buy her out, so she can feel like she still has a home even though she never comes home, and this is what I get?”

  Abigail opened her mouth, but he held up a hand.

  “Don’t. I turned this ranch around. It was going downhill, bleeding money. She would have lost it all. Now it’s one of the most respected in the valley. This is my place, my home. And you’re just…”

  “I don’t want your house, Mr. MacArthur.”

  “Like hell. You want it all. I’ll fight this.”

  “Look, you don’t know me, but I’m not the kind of person who takes pleasure in making someone else miserable. This morning when I woke up, I owned no property. I’ll be more than happy with the cottage.”

  Cade pulled up a chair and sat, suddenly too close to Abigail. She smelled hay and sunshine and something rougher. He placed his hand, weather worn and huge, on the table next to hers.

  Through his teeth he said, “It’s not your cottage.” He turned to the lawyer and stabbed a finger at the papers. “John, how real is this?”

  “It is all in writing, Cade. Legally witnessed, notarized. I don’t think you can fight it. That’s my friendly opinion, but we can go over it in detail anytime.”

  “This is the stupidest crap that crazy old lady ever did.”

  Abigail’s heartbeat quickened. “Don’t you dare! She was the closest friend I ever had. Say what you like about me, but don’t ever talk like that about her. I loved her.”

  “And I didn’t? Is that what you’re implying?”

  “This is how you talk about someone you love?”

  Cade turned and looked at her, so close that she felt his breath on her cheek.

  Her own breath stopped for a moment.

  She stood. “This has all been a lot for right now. Hasn’t it?” She filled her lungs to prove to herself she still could. “Mr. Thompson, is there anything more? Anything else we should know?”

  “There are inheritance taxes and some forms I need, but they can wait…”

  “Besides those.”

  “No.”

  “I see.”

  Abigail felt like running to her truck and sitting in it for a minute to find some of the excitement and daring that had gotten her here today, but she couldn’t. She’d stick this out. Even if this man made her hands shake.

  “So.” She turned to face the cowboy. “May I get the keys to the cottage? I’ll need to fix myself a place to sleep tonight.” She didn’t feel half as brave as she hoped she sounded.

  The lawyer, helpful again, for which Abigail was grateful, offered, “There are two bedrooms upstairs. You could have your pick and start work on the cottage tomorrow.”

  “She could what? This is my house! Would you mind very much staying the hell out of my business, Thompson? In fact, you can leave right now.”

  The lawyer’s face fell, and he gathered his paperwork. “Thought I was helping. I guess I’ll get out of your way.”

  Abigail walked the lawyer to the door. As she did, Cade opened a drawer that sounded like it had cutlery in it and slammed it so hard the pans rattled on their hooks. Abigail jumped.

  She kept her voice low as she spoke to the lawyer. “You’ve been very helpful. I didn’t expect it to be like this, and I’m not quite sure what to do now, but I’ll keep you posted.”

  “You do that,” Thompson said, and he smiled at her, a small man with a big, sweet grin. “If you have any questions, or if you need someone to show you around town, well, you know, I’m usually not busy in the evenings, and there are a couple of really good restaurants in town that I’d be happy to show you.”

  “Thanks,” Abigail said, shaking his hand. “I’ll keep that in mind, but I really think I’ll be staying close to home for a while so I can get settled.”

  From behind her in the kitchen, she heard a roar.

  “This is not your home!” Cade yelled, and she heard another door slam farther away.

  Abigail closed the front door behind her and leaned against it. She shuddered, thinking about going back in that kitchen. She took a deep breath. This was safe. That awful cowboy was just mad. Angry. That was natural, right? This was so much more than she had bargained for. But she had needed to escape San Diego, and she needed a home.

  Somehow this was going to work out, wasn’t it? Didn’t it have to? Eliza meant her to be here. When Abigail fled San Diego (it felt like so much longer ago than just this morning), she only packed what she could fit in the truck. She took her computer, a hard-copy draft of her latest book scribbled with red marks, her clothes, and her best fiber: the alpaca and cashmere, of course. She’d given away the rest, offloading some of her stash of yarn, most of her books, and all her furniture. A new start. She had a little money in the bank and a truck that apparently wasn’t worth anything to a rancher. It was all she had, really.

  It wasn’t much. And she didn’t know how it would fit here. But she deserved a new start.

  Chapter Three

  When you cast on, don’t count your stitches more than twice. If the numbers don’t match, hope for the one you want, and knit across. If you still have to add or take away a few stitches, do it then. Don’t fuss so much.

  —E.C.

  Cade had heard of people being too mad to see straight, but he had always thought, up until now, that it was just a saying. It didn’t really happen.

  But walking out the back door, he actually couldn’t see for a moment.

  Blind with rage. It wasn’t just a cliché.

  He stumbled over his own boot on the way to the barn, didn’t see the dirt clod in his way. Couldn’t see it.

  How could Aunt Eliza have done this to him?

  The woman, who he would have sworn didn’t have an ounce of guile in her anywhere, had cried over her knitting needles and asked him to leave it all in her name. Don’t buy the house, Cade, she’d pleaded with him, tears pooling in her huge, blue eyes. Let the house and the cottage and the land stay in my name, so even when I’m five hundred miles south of here, I’ll know my home is still my home. When I die, it’ll all come right.

  It’s all coming right, he thought. Right out the window.

  Give the cottage away? To a stranger? Who did that? Who broke up a pie
ce of land like that?

  Who did that to their family?

  He had work to do. But Tom would be in the barn, and he couldn’t face his friend and ranch manager giving him the third degree right now. Tom had grown up around here, knew Eliza, knew her well enough to perhaps be able to give Cade some words of advice, some piece of knowledge that would make this all fit, make this all right.

  But Cade didn’t want to talk to Tom. No matter what he might say, it wasn’t all right. Some city girl had waltzed in, if you could call driving a stupid girl-truck waltzing, and scooped up a big piece of his land from under him.

  It wasn’t his place anymore. Wasn’t only his.

  In truth, it never had been.

  Now it was hers, too, and he didn’t even remember what she’d said her last name was. Or where she was from, although he assumed—hoped—she was from San Diego, since that’s where Eliza had been for the last ten years. He didn’t know what she did.

  For all he knew, she was a lawyer. She looked like a lawyer. She was pretty, that was true. In that citified, glossy way.

  Okay, she was more than pretty.

  Kind of gorgeous, actually. What a waste.

  That thick, shoulder-length brown hair the color of coffee, those strikingly bright blue eyes, that perfect mouth. And her body, all breasts and hips and curves and long legs, in proportions that guys didn’t usually see in real life.

  In any other situation, he’d be interested, all right. It was the first thing he’d thought, seeing her wrestling with the gate, that she was his type. Hell, she was any hot-blooded male’s type.

  It took him only seconds to realize that this was the person the lawyer had told him about on the phone, the person who might be sharing his aunt’s estate with him, and one second more for him to loathe her with every fiber of his being.

  He’d made her truly uncomfortable, he knew that. And at the same time that he’d hated acting like a jerk, he couldn’t change his attitude. Even if she hadn’t planned on being one, she was a thief.

  Cade walked past the barn, hoping that Tom wouldn’t glance out the office window. Cade headed for the hills, literally. The land sloped up just past the barn, and a short walk would lead him to his favorite place in the world, an oak-studded knoll that looked down to the ocean. He needed the view and the wind to blow some sense of perspective into him, because otherwise, he was going to…

  He didn’t know what.

  But he’d rather not find out.

  He started hiking up the hill.

  Who did she think she was? He was goddamned sure that if someone had left him property, he’d make certain that it was up for grabs before laying claim to it. She had, at this point, a full cottage. The cottage and land that should be his. She had them free and clear, no mortgage, probably fifteen hundred square feet of California history, part of an old stagecoach stop, a beautiful home.

  Even if it was uninhabitable.

  God, she wasn’t going to be able to live there yet. Not for a while.

  But he wasn’t going to tell her that. She could figure that out on her own.

  Cade was used to his own space, his own company. It made him, he knew, a better businessman, better around the sheep. He was used to a calm life. Serene. Pastoral.

  This girl was going to destroy his serenity. Already had.

  Goddamn Eliza. Cade took a deep breath and wiped his brow. He was sweating more than he usually did on this climb. Anger.

  And betrayal.

  His grandmother’s sister, his great-aunt Eliza, had been the one to whom he had run when he ran away as a teenager. Eliza had told him he could stay and work with her sheep, and had talked him into calling his parents, acting like it was her idea that he come and stay a couple of months—things weren’t working with his mom and dad, even before his mom flew the coop. Eliza gave him a place to be, away from the never-ending arguments.

  He had loved that woman. He had worked his ass off, going to school, getting his degree so that he’d know how to do it right. At twenty-two, he’d moved in with Eliza and taken over running the ranch. Eliza had been delighted. Since her husband Joshua died, Eliza had been running the ranch by herself. It had been her husband’s passion, never hers. Eliza’s sheep wandered off and she forgot to shear them in the spring, only remembering when she was low on fiber to spin. She wasn’t physically strong enough to do the heavy lifting required, and she preferred to stay inside, knitting with friends and designing her innovative patterns. She’d welcomed Cade with warm, open arms when he moved in, and gave the running of the ranch, what was left of it at that point, completely over to him.

  He’d started his own herd: small, mostly Suffolk crosses and a few Corriedales. He started it the way he wanted, growing it bigger and right, until he knew what he was doing and talked the bank into loaning him the money to buy the ranch from her.

  Money that Aunt Eliza had refused, asking him to trust her.

  A misplaced trust.

  Cade was almost there, almost at the top of the rise, and in a few seconds, there it was, he could see the ocean, the long line of it below him—silvery, almost too bright to look at. He sat on his favorite old stump.

  He tried to breathe, but his lungs felt heavy. The air felt thick. He scuffed his boot in the dirt.

  Cade had to get her off his land. And fast.

  Chapter Four

  Unless you learned to knit in early childhood, it’s natural to feel out of your element and clumsy. It’s natural to think everyone else makes it look easy.

  —E.C.

  Abigail put the key to the cottage in her pocket and walked outside. Cade had practically thrown it at her as he’d left the house.

  Fine. She could handle it.

  Even at a leisurely pace, it was less than a minute’s walk across the backyard to the cottage. Abigail stepped carefully up onto the narrow wraparound porch, not sure how run down the place actually was, scared her foot would go through old boards. But it seemed sturdy enough.

  Abigail knocked before trying her new key and then felt silly for doing it. But the last time she’d walked into a house without knocking hadn’t gone so well.

  The lock squeaked as the barrel turned reluctantly. She’d need to get this rekeyed anyway. As soon as possible. She knew people out in the country didn’t lock doors, but she always would. Safety first.

  The latch finally slipped. She opened the door.

  She gasped.

  It was like a documentary on the dangers of compulsive hoarding. She could barely open the door; it got stuck on something halfway in and refused to budge again.

  Abigail pushed her body through, just clearing the opening. It was dark, and she couldn’t make out exactly what it was she was seeing, but she knew it wasn’t good.

  To her left, a window with its blind drawn. She reached her hand around to release the catch. The blind flew up and a little light filtered into the room. It looked to be a decent-sized living room. Abigail could only imagine that there was furniture in it somewhere, but the room was completely hidden by old cardboard boxes, some looking much the worse for wear, piled almost to the ceiling, on and in every available space, save for a narrow pathway through them.

  Abigail moved forward. It was the only thing she could do.

  She picked her way among boxes. Once through the first room, she was in what must have been a kitchen at some point but that was now filled with huge, black trash bags. Again, only a narrow path led through the room, and branched out at the back.

  One direction led to a bathroom, also full of black trash bags, only the sink and commode exposed. When she pulled back the dark shower curtain, she found the bathtub itself filled with trash bags.

  Damn. Did the water work? Abigail twisted the sink faucet. There was an ominous clanking under the cottage and the pipe shook, but nothing happened. She peered into the toilet. There wasn’t any water in the bowl.

  She flipped the light switch to get a better look. Nothing. Great.

  The
re was a small window over the tub covered with a thick green curtain. When she pulled it back, enough light came through to allow her to lift off the lid of the toilet tank. The whole mechanism inside appeared rusty but completely dry.

  There was no water.

  There was no power.

  Where the hell was she going to sleep tonight?

  A hotel down the road might work, but she’d seen No Vacancy signs on every one she’d passed on the drive. This was a beach community, after all.

  And there was no way she was staying with that guy. Even if he asked her, she couldn’t trust him farther than she could throw him. Who knew what he was capable of, especially when he was this mad at her?

  Abigail put her hand on the towel rail to steady herself. She would find something good about this place if it killed her. This was the opposite of what Eliza’s spare, spotless San Diego independent-living apartment had been. Abigail fought despair. No. Not till she’d seen the whole cottage.

  Another path just outside the bathroom led to what must be a small bedroom, also full of boxes and bags.

  She battled her way back through the house, trying not to think about the scurrying noise she heard in the kitchen. It was a rodent of some sort, she knew that, but her heart raced nonetheless.

  She took a deep breath and stepped over a low box, pushing past three bags.

  In the living room, Abigail moved box after box to clear a path just the size of her hips. The boxes weren’t heavy, but she noted that they were obviously full of something. She was too apprehensive to look.

  A narrow, winding staircase stood in the far corner of the front room. She took the steps carefully, testing each one with half her weight before committing to it. At the top, her head poked up into another small room.

  Oh. This room was different.

  It was all light—windows on all eight sides of the room. An old-fashioned cupola. From up here, Abigail could see a sliver of the ocean over the tops of the trees. The fog was moving out for the day, and the sky was a silvery gray, dotted with scudding white clouds.