How to Knit a Love Song: A Cypress Hollow Yarn

272 Pages·2010·1.18 MB·English

by  Rachael Herron

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.
A
bigail 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.