Yarned and Dangerous Read online

  YARNED and DANGEROUS

  SADIE HARTWELL

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Knitting Patterns

  Copyright Page

  To all of the yarn goddesses and gods out there:

  May your yarn never tangle, and may you

  always have more than enough to finish.

  Acknowledgments

  To Mike and Will, for making my life as close to perfect as it ever needs to be.

  To my mom, sisters, and aunts, for being my most enthusiastic cheerleaders, and for listening to me prattle on about books. Love you, ladies!

  To my agent, John Talbot, my editor, John Scognamiglio, and the dedicated folks at Kensington, thanks for your help and guidance as this book came to life.

  And as always, to the members of the Connecticut Chapter of Romance Writers of America, the finest writers’ group of this or any other time.

  Sometimes I follow directions exactly as written.

  And sometimes I knit what the yarn tells me to.

  Either way, a pattern forms.

  —From The History of Needlework by Cora Lloyd

  Chapter 1

  “Don’t ask me to do this. Please.” Josie Blair set her coffee mug down on the table. Hot brown liquid sloshed over onto the mess of papers spread across the surface, which served as a desk as well as a place to eat. “Darn it.” She crossed the floor of her tiny Brooklyn kitchen, opened a drawer, and pulled out a paper towel.

  “There’s no need to swear at me,” her mother said.

  “Sorry. And ‘darn it’ isn’t exactly a cuss, Mom. It wasn’t directed at you.” Josie began to blot at the mess. She took a deep breath. “I can’t go back to that hick town to take care of Uncle Eben. I barely remember him.” Her cat, Coco, twined around her feet. She reached down and stroked the soft black fur. Coco allowed the petting for a moment, then trotted off on her little white paws.

  “The man is recovering from a broken leg. And he’s grieving. He and Cora weren’t married long, but they cared about each other. There isn’t anyone else, Josie.”

  “Only because he’s scared off every visiting nurse in the county.”

  Her mother grinned. “As soon as I get back, I’ll relieve you. It’ll only be a couple of weeks.”

  Right. A couple of weeks of drop-dead boredom. “Mom, all you have to do is cancel your cruise. Simple.” Josie felt awful even as she said it and wished she could take it back.

  Her mother, bless her, didn’t seem to mind. “It’s nonrefundable, as you well know. You said you’ve got vacation time coming. Why not take it in the country? Connecticut will be beautiful this time of year, with all the snow.”

  Josie poured herself a fresh cup of coffee and filled her mother’s mug. She set a plate of cookies from her favorite bakery in Greenwich Village in front of her mother, selecting a macaroon for herself.

  “You can bring some work with you,” her mother continued. “Uncle Eb lives in the boondocks, but he has electricity and a telephone. Your computer will work. Cora’s yarn shop has to be closed up, and Eb can’t do that alone.”

  Josie’s eyes fell on the pegs she’d installed near the front door. On one peg hung a classic camel Burberry coat she’d found in a consignment store. Around the collar of that coat hung a lacy scarf, hand-knit of yarn in the colors of the ocean—azure, aqua, and green. Cora, her great-uncle’s wife, had sent Josie the scarf just before she died in the car accident that injured Eb. Guilt pricked Josie’s gut. She had never met Cora, and she never would now.

  Josie looked at her mother and felt her resolve crumbling. The last place on earth she wanted to go was back to Dorset Falls, where she’d lived for a couple of years as a teenager. But her mother had sacrificed so much to raise Josie alone on a teacher’s salary. If anyone deserved a Mediterranean cruise, it was Katherine Blair.

  “I’ll drop you at LaGuardia tomorrow so you can catch your flight to Italy. Then I’ll head up to Connecticut on Sunday,” Josie said, dropping a kiss into her mother’s highlighted hair.

  Katherine smiled, gratitude evident in her eyes. “That’s my girl.”

  Her girl hoped she wasn’t making a big mistake. And wondered whether her car would make it all the way to the Litchfield hills.

  Josie switched off the radio. She’d been out of range of any listenable station for miles, and the combination of the static, the drone of the tires of her ancient Saab, and the bright glare of the sun made her head ache. Unfortunately, her aspirin were packed away in her tote bag in the backseat. She’d finished her coffee around New Rochelle and her diet Mountain Dew somewhere around New Haven, so there was nothing to swallow the pills with anyway.

  She was also rather urgently in need of a rest stop, which were few and far between on this interminable stretch of highway. Not only could she not recall how far back the last rest stop had been, she could not recall the last time she’d actually seen a commercial building along this road.

  According to Antonio, the deep, Italian-accented voice of her portable GPS unit, she’d arrive at Uncle Eben’s place around eleven a.m. if she didn’t stop for lunch. Why couldn’t all men be like Antonio? He was always calm, and kind, and he never got mad at you if your plans changed. He understood if you had to go a different way for a while. He just recalculated the route and gave you your next direction, all with that same smooth, nonjudgmental voice.

  Unlike some people I know. Last night’s argument with Otto still had her fuming.

  “You have got to be kidding me,” Otto had said, pointing a yak kabob at her over dinner. “The magazine goes to press in ten days, and you’re leaving now? Unacceptable.”

  Josie took a bite of her asparagus risotto, letting the cheesy richness melt on her tongue before she answered. His stare was making her uncomfortable. She should have loved her job. Otto Heinrich was a well-known, some said brilliant, fashion designer, and as his assistant she had nearly unlimited access to him. If she wanted to sell her own designs someday, she couldn’t ask for better experience. Still, Otto had his moods and he often took his frustrations out on Josie.

  “Jennifer can handle anything that comes up. She knows the magazine as well as I do.”

  “She’s not you. When are you going to take this job seriously?” He stabbed his fork into the pile of whole grain pasta on his plate and began a vicious twirl. He shoved the pasta into his mouth and let his eyes rest on her chest as he chewed.

  God, she hated him when he was like this, all snotty and self-righteous. And lewd. “My collection is coming along just fine.” Okay, that was kind of a fib. She’d been working on designs for next fall, but her drawings stunk and she knew it. She had a great eye for fashion and a talent for writing about it, but it was becoming apparent, after a Master of Fine Arts degree she was still paying for and would be for years to come, that she might, possibly, not be a designer.

  “I find it hard to believe that you’d rather go take care of some old geezer you hardly know than work with me.” Otto whipped his head around, and his shiny blond ponytail swung out in a wide arc, barely missing a passing busboy. Otto had better hair than she did. “Waiter! Another glass of this wine, please.”

  “He’s family, Otto,” she said, crossing her arms defensively. “He’s old, and he needs me.” So what if she hadn’t seen Uncle Eben in years? She would get to know him now, that was for sure. Maybe her memories of his crotchetiness weren’t accurate. Maybe he’d turned into a big sweetie in his old age, with a faithful, friendly dog by his side. It would be nice to have a dog, she thought. I could take it for walks along Uncle Eb’s quiet country road, and not worry about picking up after it.

  “What about me? Don’t I count for something?” Otto almost, but not quite, managed a convincing pout. “We could be very good together, you know.” He ran a finger up her arm.

  Josie recoiled. Otto was an equal-opportunity lech, gawking unabashedly at every woman in the Haus of Heinrich offices. She knew for a fact that he’d been sleeping for months with the receptionist, a dark-haired sylph with modeling aspirations. Up until now, other than a few lascivious glances that Josie had ignored, he’d behaved himself around her. But since he broke up with Anastasia, something had changed, and he’d been dropping hints to Josie, which she’d also ignored. If she had to guess, she’d say that Otto probably didn’t like the idea that Josie had a life and obligations that didn’t revolve around him and his company. And he was arrogant enough to think his Germanic charms would be enough to keep her in New York and working for him forever.

  But no job was worth doing . . . that. She’d studied ha rd and worked hard to get where she was, and she was not going to become Otto’s Flavor of the Month no matter how much she needed the income. Anger bubbled up, and she swallowed it down. “No, we couldn’t be anything together.” Purse slung over her shoulder, she stormed off toward the front of the restaurant, then stopped and returned to the table.

  Otto sat back in his chair, smiling. There was a sound of leather-on-leather as his hand-tailored jacket scraped against the upholstery. “If you leave again, don’t come back.”

  Josie picked up her plate of risotto. She hefted the plate. It was made of good, solid white china. There was still a lot of food left on it, and, if she threw it at him, it would make a very satisfying mess. It might even hurt. Certainly, the leather suit jacket would be ruined.

  Otto’s face went serious again. “Don’t do anything we’ll both regret, Josie,” he warned. She looked at the plate again, and the delicious cheesy aroma drifted up into her nostrils.

  “Miss?” She addressed the server passing by with a tray of drinks. “Could I get a to-go box?” Turning to Otto, she said, “I quit.”

  “You can’t quit.” He threw back the rest of his wine. “You’ve already been fired.”

  Chapter 2

  WELCOME TO DORSET FALLS. Josie passed the sign and drove into town. Her spirits sank. The place was far, far worse than she remembered. Almost every brick and glass storefront downtown was empty, their windows covered in brown paper. She glanced up to see a sign over a corner shop. MISS MARPLE KNITS. That must be Cora’s place, she thought. There couldn’t be two yarn stores in a village this size. No Starbucks. No nail salon. No department store.

  Josie sighed. It was only for a few weeks. When she got back to New York, she would convince Otto to give her her job back—he would have fixated on someone else by then—and she would apply herself in earnest to those designs. She was sure she could do it. Pretty sure, anyway.

  “We can do this, too, Coco. I think.” Josie’s tuxedo cat yawled from her carrier in the backseat as Josie turned down a side street and drove back out of town.

  “Arriving at destination, on left,” Antonio said a few minutes later.

  Josie slammed on the pedal, and the Saab fishtailed on the gravel road. She reversed as far as the mailbox, which consisted of a lidded bucket made of some kind of dull gray metal welded onto a pole. LLOYD was hand lettered in black paint across the front of the receptacle.

  The driveway was narrow and opened out onto snow-covered lawn on either side. “What are those things?” Josie said out loud. Coco didn’t answer. Numerous weirdly sculptural rusty bits of metal stuck up from under the snow, while strange lumps dotted the front lawn. She rolled to a stop in a graveled area at the side of the house as a huge, shaggy beast barreled off the front porch and barked loudly at the driver’s side door. Josie jumped back involuntarily. Coco hissed and began to scratch at the sides of her plastic prison. Only glass stood between them and Cujo, who looked ready to maul them to a bloody pulp.

  Great, she thought. Trapped. Now what? Josie looked around the front seat for something she could use as a weapon, but realized she couldn’t do much damage with the wadded-up potato chip bags and candy wrappers that littered the passenger seat. Could she poke the thing in the eye with the straw from her gutbuster Mountain Dew?

  “Jethro!” a voice commanded from the front porch. Josie’s eyes followed the huge yellow dog as it ran toward the source. An elderly man dressed in a faded plaid flannel shirt unbuttoned over a gray thermal Henley stood propped up on crutches. He wore a pair of dusty green utilitarian pants, the left leg shortened and frayed over a white fiberglass cast. “Down,” the man ordered, and the dog obeyed, dropping to the deck and panting, tail wagging.

  Josie drew a breath and willed her heart rate to return to normal. The engine was still running. She could back out of the driveway and head right back to New York, without even getting out of the car. Even from this distance she could see her great-uncle’s furrowed forehead and the fact that he was glaring at her from underneath a formidable set of gray, hairy eyebrows.

  “Well, ain’t you coming in?” the man yelled. “The dog don’t bite. Unless I tell him to.”

  She lifted her chin and opened the car door. Josie Blair was no sissy. She’d lived in New York City for more than a decade. She could handle this old man and his slavering canine too.

  Smile plastered on her face, Josie exited the car. “Uncle Eben? It’s been a long time.”

  “Not long enough, missy,” he said, pointing a crutch at her. “I don’t need you here, and I don’t want you here.”

  “You haven’t changed a bit, Unc. Just as charming as you were when I was a kid.” Josie set the cat carrier on the semi-frozen ground, opened her trunk, and pulled out a suitcase and her laptop bag. She could come out for the rest, including a small litter box and Coco’s special organic food, once she settled in.

  “Hmmph,” Uncle Eb snorted. “And you’ve still got a smart mouth. You’ll have to carry in your own gear. I got a busted flipper.”

  She made her way past some cylindrical wire cages stacked up around desiccated brown plants loaded with some rotten orbs that might once have been tomatoes. The porch of the old house sagged, but seemed solid enough beneath her fur-lined clogs. She kept her distance from the dog, whose tail was now wagging furiously.

  “You might as well come in.” The man pivoted and opened the screen door, then the heavy wooden inner door, and clumped inside. The screen door slammed shut behind him, leaving Josie outside.

  “Old coot,” she muttered.

  “Nothing wrong with my hearing, sweet pea.”

  The front door opened into a good-sized room with no discernible purpose. There was a large wooden table in the center, surrounded by wooden dining room chairs. Both the table and the chairs were piled high with newspapers, junk mail, and other detritus. If this was a dining room, no dining had taken place here recently. Eb sat down in a burnt-orange velour recliner positioned by the front window, and dropped his crutches on the floor beside him. Jethro lay down at his feet and let out a doggie sigh.

  “Can you cook?” Eb said.

  Josie dropped her suitcase to the floor with a thunk. “If by cooking you mean opening packages of frozen food and putting them in the microwave, or running a Keurig machine, then yes. I’m a great cook.” She shrugged out of her fleece jacket, unwound the scarf from around her neck, and deposited both on top of a Vermont Country Store catalog on the closest chair. Coco took off like a shot when the door to her carrier was opened, and Josie wondered when, if ever, she’d see her again. But the cat had been a stray when Josie took her in, so it was a good bet she could take care of herself.

  Eb’s eyes lit up. “What’s that?”

  “What’s what?”

  “That Kyoorick machine. What does it do? Is it a farm tool?” Eb shifted around and repositioned his broken leg. “I ain’t as spry as I used to be, and I need my tools.”

  Josie smiled. “That’s a kind of coffeemaker.”

  “Oh. Well, I need my coffee too. But the only kind of coffeemaker you’ll find here sets on the burner and perks till it’s done. I wouldn’t mind some coffee, come to think of it.” He pulled a newspaper and a pencil out of the side pocket of the recliner. A little cloud of dust rose up and dispersed into the winter sunlight streaming in through the window. “And maybe some lunch.”

  She sighed. This was why she was here. To take care of Eb. She was determined to make the best of it. “Which way’s the kitchen?”

  Eb didn’t look up from the paper, but penciled something onto what appeared to be the crossword puzzle. He gestured vaguely toward the opposite wall.

  Josie followed his gaze. There were three raised-panel doors set in the wall. What was behind Door Number One?

  “Not that one, missy. That’s my room. The middle one.”

  She turned the knob and pushed open the door. A blast of hot air hit her, presumably coming from the enormous woodstove blazing away in the center of the room. A drip of sweat ran down her nose, and she wiped it away with her sleeve.

  “Leave that door open, wouldja?” Eb called from the other room.