Yarned and Dangerous (2 page)

W
ELCOME TO
D
ORSET
F
ALLS
. 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. M
ISS
M
ARPLE
K
NITS
. 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. L
LOYD
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.

Gladly, if it would dissipate some of the heat. She pulled the wool sweater over her head, adjusted her T-shirt, and dropped the sweater on the counter. A search of the painted wooden cupboards yielded a can of tomato soup. She checked the expiration date. It was still good, and it had a pull top, which was also good because there was no sign of a can opener. All the kitchen drawers were full, and the last one she'd pulled open had been full of mousetraps and a package of poison. Perhaps Coco could make herself useful around here, if she weren't torn to shreds by Jethro first.

Still, this was a nice room. It appeared to have been painted recently, a soft buttery yellow. The light in this part of the house came in through wavy glass panes and accumulated on the wide golden pine boards of the floor. The bottom half of the window was covered in a snowy openwork crocheted curtain. Josie bent to examine the lovely piece, fascinated by the tiny stitches and complicated pineapple pattern.
This must be Cora's,
she thought, and felt a twinge of sadness. Poor Cora had started to make this old house a home, but never had the chance to finish the job.

Josie squirted some dish soap into a saucepan she found in the sink, grabbed a paper towel, and began to wash it. A few minutes later, she had the soup bubbling on the stove and had located bread and a package of cheddar cheese wrapped in brown paper and tied in string in the refrigerator. Grilled cheese, she decided, and set to work. Gourmet cook she was not, but this she could handle.

She returned to the dining room and cleared off two chairs and a corner of the table by depositing the stacks on the floor. “Lunch is ready, Uncle Eb.”

He huffed. “I like to eat here in my chair.”

“Well, today you eat at the table. Come on, I'll help you up.” She offered him a hand, which he didn't take.

His eyes cut to the lunch on the table. “Where's my coffee?” he growled.

“You'll have to give me a lesson on that thingie. I made tea instead. After lunch I'll go into town and shop.”
And buy a real coffeemaker,
she thought.

Eb sat down with a mild grunt and began to spoon up the soup. “You ain't shoppin' today,” he said, dipping a corner of the grilled cheese into the bowl.

“Why not? The stores are open, right?” Not that she'd actually seen any stores.

The old man tore off a crust of the sandwich and tossed it at Jethro, who caught it in midair and came over to the table, sniffing. “You ain't got time.”

As far as Josie could tell, she had nothing but time for the next two weeks. For all his blustering, maybe her great-uncle just didn't want to be alone. A feeling she could sympathize with. New York was a city with millions of people, but when she went back to her apartment at night, it was just her and Coco.

“I'll be back soon, and I'll bring us back a nice hot dinner.” She wondered what takeout was available in town, then decided it didn't matter. As long as it was hot, maybe containing gravy, Eb would probably be satisfied.

“We've got chores to do, missy. Then you can drive me into town, and I'll show you what you need to do at the shop.”

Chores? She hadn't even unpacked yet. This didn't sound good.

A half hour later Josie found herself sitting behind Eb on a four-wheeled, camouflage-painted contraption that looked like a golf cart on steroids. She held onto the handles down by her hips for dear life, feeling as though at every bump and rut she would be propelled off the ridiculous machine and into the field that surrounded them. Dirty water sprayed up as they hit a deep puddle. “Nuts!” she said. “These are brand new jeans. And my fur clogs!”

Did Eb even have a washing machine? She hadn't gotten a chance to see the rest of the house, let alone find out where she would be sleeping. Probably in some upstairs room, uninhabited for years—uninhabited by humans, anyway. There was no telling what kind of nasty things resided in that old farmhouse. She shuddered, glad once again for Coco's mousing prowess.

A few hundred yards from the old farmhouse, Eb pulled to a stop at a small barn covered in weathered gray-brown boards. He swung his good leg over the seat. “Well, ain'tcha gonna help me?” he snapped. “I can't use crutches on this bumpy ground.”

She got off the machine and let Eb lean on her. “Fine. Don't get your union suit in a bunch, Eb.”

Eb snorted. “For your information, I wear Fruit of the Looms, just like every other self-respecting farmer in these parts. And now that you mention it, you can pick me up a package when we go into town. Now get a move on.”

TMI. Josie grimaced, counted to ten, then backwards to one, as they made their way to the doorway of a shed that appeared to be tacked on to the main structure of the barn. A dull clucking sounded from behind the door as she opened it. A flutter of feathers assaulted her, causing her to jump back. No mistaking a chicken coop, even for a city girl.

“Now grab a basket and go collect the eggs.”

Josie stared at Eb, then looked down at her feet. The hens exploded upward, settled down to the coop floor, and marched out the door into the sun. Josie gulped. “You want me to touch eggs that haven't been washed yet? Ones that have just come out of a chicken's . . . you know what?”

Eb's prodigious eyebrows pulled together into a large, hairy caterpillar.

“Can't you find somebody else to come in and help you? Someone who knows what she's doing?”

“Ain't nobody else. Everybody's got day jobs. The neighbor's grandson's been coming over to take care of the chickens for me, but now I've got you, and he can go back to those crazy critters he's got. Hay, melons, and pumpkins in the summer and fall, maple syrup in the winter, eggs all year round. I gotta make enough money to pay the taxes, otherwise I lose the farm. Simple.”

She wondered what constituted a crazy critter. This farm had been in the family for more than two hundred years. She couldn't let Eb lose it. But Eb had no children, and it would probably have to be sold once he died anyway. She felt a little stab of . . . something at that thought. Curious.

Eb's eyes narrowed. “Where do
you
think eggs come from?”

“I know where eggs come from,” Josie said. “The supermarket, in nice clean containers.” She took a deep breath, wondering if she'd regret it. But the air smelled like sweet straw instead of bird excrement, which she'd expected. She poked a finger into one of the long boxes lined with hay. A warm, smooth object found its way into her hand, and she pulled it out, placing it into the padded basket. Eb prodded her with a crutch from the sidelines as she fished around again and again until she'd found all the eggs.
My queendom for some hand sanitizer,
she thought.