Chapter One
“Can’t you shut up for one minute?”
I tore my eyes away from the truly luscious silky merino yarn under my fingers to see what the angry, nasal voice was complaining about. The man across the aisle glared at me behind black-framed glasses.
A few people glanced our way before going back to their books or watching the beautiful mountain scenery out the shuttle windows.
If no one else cared, it was left to me to help him. “Is something wrong?”
“The clicking.”
Clicking? I didn’t hear anything. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The clicking.” He waved an arm in my direction as if that would make things clear. “Your obnoxious knitting.”
My teeth bit into my lower lip as I stifled a laugh. “It’s crochet. See?”
As I lifted the project from my lap to show him, he reached out a hand with short, stubby fingers and swatted at me.
I pulled away. Instead of hitting my shoulder, his hand raked at the yarn I held. The nearly finished shawl tumbled into the aisle between us and I watched, frozen, as my crochet hook came loose and rolled away.
Waves of emotion washed through me so quickly I couldn’t name them.
Never, in all my traveling, had anyone taken exception to me keeping my hands busy with yarn. More often than not, people wanted to talk about it. They’d ask what I was making, or why I chose that particular yarn, or if they could bury their fingers in the soft fluff. Sometimes, if the ride or wait was long enough, people asked if I’d teach them how to crochet. Or they’d pull out their own crochet or knitting.
There were parts of the world where you felt left out if you didn’t have wool in your hands.
The woman in front of me returned my hook with a smile before turning to the man with a single, perfect eyebrow raised and her lips pursed. When she spoke it was with a strong southern drawl. “Surely a gentleman like yourself has better ways of dealing with annoyances.”
“Crochet doesn’t make any noise at all.” I attempted to smile at him at the same time I nodded my thanks to the woman. “Even knitting, where the needles can click against each other, is mostly quiet.”
The man scowled. “You yarn lovers never know when to hold your tongues, do you?”
Wow. Not many people could say they’d had run-ins with yarn lovers, but this guy seemed to look for fights. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist over it.”
He narrowed his eyes. “What, are you British?”
“Not today.” I picked up the shawl and shook the dirt off it. The resort shuttle floor wasn’t filthy, but it hadn’t been cleaned since someone had tracked mud in on their shoes. It had dried and gone to crumbs. I found my place and reinserted my hook. I was down to the final few rows, so it was a relief none of the stitches had pulled out.
The woman in front of me stood, gathering up her tooled leather purse, a tattered book, and a handful of chocolate wrappers before nudging me over and folding her tall, lithe self next to me. “You don’t mind if I sit with you, do you, sugar? This sure is a beautiful drive, but after a dozen or so trips it’s nice to have someone to while away the time with.”
I grabbed my bag out of the way just before she sat on it. “Um, okay. You make this trip often?”
“More than I’d like. My husband travels to meet clients and likes me to go with him, but when he’s all tied up in a big project it gets boring, so I come back early.” She smiled and brushed her golden bobbed hair out of her face. “I’m Emmilene, by the way. Is this your first time to the resort?”
“I’m just passing through.” It was my standard answer when people asked if I’d been somewhere, or how long I was staying, or even when they asked what I thought of an area. I’d never been to a place that wasn’t lovely in its own way, but people always liked to hear some places were better than others.
Emmilene raised a finger to stop me and turned to the man across the aisle. “I hear that clicking you were complaining on now, and it can’t be anything to do with this lady. Her yarn is just resting in her lap. Bless your heart, it’s the zippers on your bag.”
The man glowered at me, as if I’d asked Emmilene to point out his mistake.
Without breaking eye contact I opened the handbag I’d picked up in Hanoi, grabbed my favorite lipstick, and ran it across my lips. No one could help but return a Cinnamon Swirl smile.
He narrowed his eyes and combed his fingers through his over-gelled black hair in an effort to distract us from his other hand adjusting the zipper pulls to stop the clicking.
I put the lipstick away and buried my fingers in the silky merino. Cinnamon Swirl had never let me down before, and I couldn’t help but take that failure personally.
Emmilene turned back to me and shrugged, her eyes twinkling. “So you’re not staying long? I hope you can find time to come to the little village where I live. There’s the cutest little yarn store there. I know the owner would love to see that.” She nodded toward the shawl.
I picked up the hook and got back to work. We had to be getting close to the resort — I could see the reservoir reflecting the spring sunshine out the far window. “I try to visit yarn stores or sheep farmers everywhere I go. Most people think yarn is yarn, but there are so many varieties and it’s fun to see what’s popular in different places.”
Emmilene gasped. “You have to see Mary’s wall display. She has yarns from all over the world.”
My breath caught and my hands stilled. “Mary? Do you live in Clear Creek?”
“We’ve only been there for two months, of course, but we fell in love with it and couldn’t leave. You know it?”
“It’s actually where I’m headed. Mary is my grandmother. I can’t believe she kept all those yarns. She was supposed to use them to make beautiful things for herself.”
Emmilene patted my knee. “Oh, sugar, she made the most beautiful thing, even if you had something different to mind. She smiles every time she sees it.”
I’d imagined Mary knitting shawls, or cozy hats and mittens, or socks, but Emmilene was right. If a display made my grandmother happy, that was good enough for me.
“Is Mary sending someone to pick you up when we get to the resort?”
“No, I’m taking the bus. She doesn’t know I’m coming. Today, I mean. She asked me to come, but she doesn’t expect me until next week.” I couldn’t wait to see her face when I walked in. The surprise would be worth every minute of the long trip from Africa to the Rocky Mountains. “I can’t wait to see her.”
“She’ll be thrilled to bits.” Emmilene clapped quietly. She glanced over her shoulder. “It won’t be long now.”
I followed her gaze past the man who couldn’t be swayed even with a Cinnamon Swirl smile, pretending I couldn’t see his angry gaze and clenched fists.
Nestled between the reservoir and the mountain peak was a town that had sprung up since my last visit. Hotels that were maybe four stories high — tall enough to cram too many rooms into them while trying not to detract from the scenery. A boathouse and piers. Ski lifts trailing up the mountainside. A bunch of buildings I couldn’t really make out yet.
It wasn’t an eyesore, exactly, but it made my heart ache for the natural beauty that had been decimated.
Progress couldn’t be stopped, and developers were always itching for new projects, but this had been such a quiet, peaceful place.
Emmilene tried to stuff her book into her purse with the discarded chocolate wrappers, then gave up.
I finished the shawl and pulled the yarn tail through the final stitch. It didn’t matter that I wouldn’t have a chance to block it before giving it to Mary. She loved those final steps like no one else.
We were pulling into the resort as I tucked the shawl and hook into my bag and made sure I hadn’t dropped anything under the seats.
The shuttle pulled to a stop, and everyone started the scramble of leaving. The man across the aisle used his bag to knock people out of his way so he could be the first outside.
“That man could make a preacher cuss.” Emmilene’s frown looked out of place on her friendly face. “I’m sure I’ve seen him somewhere before. Never mind. They’re unloading the bags and I can see mine. I want to grab it before it gets buried under the others.”
I followed Emmilene down the steps and into the fresh mountain air. There was the tang of bonfire smoke in the cool air, and the scents of cooking food drifted out of nearby buildings, but underneath it all, it smelled like I remembered. I was glad that hadn’t changed, because nowhere smelled as good as these mountains — not even the spice market in Cairo.
While Emmilene wove her way between our fellow travelers to get her small bag, I dug through the growing piles to extract my two oversized suitcases.
“The bus to Clear Creek doesn’t stop here for another hour.” Emmilene appeared at my side, not a hair out of place even after shouldering her way out of the group of people pushing to get at their luggage. “Would you like to grab a coffee while we wait? There’s a shop just across the street.”
I stopped to dig a thin wrap out of my bag — the sun would be dipping behind the mountain peaks on the other side of the reservoir before long and I wanted something to ward off the chill as the temperature dropped — and we made our way to the crosswalk.
I’d taken three steps into the road when a horn blared and tires squealed. Emmilene shrieked. Grabbing her arm, I pulled her back. The shiny red Porsche’s engine revved, and I could feel the driver’s glare before I met his gaze.
My Cinnamon Swirl apology smile drooped. It hadn’t worked on the man when we were in the shuttle, so why would it work now?
* * *
The bus wasn’t much bigger than the shuttle, and it didn’t have a luggage compartment. Luckily there weren’t many passengers and I could shove my suitcases into another row. It wouldn’t have been the first time I’d had to sit on my bags, but it wasn’t comfortable.
Emmilene settled back in her seat. “Would you like to join me for dinner tonight?”
“Normally I’d say yes, but I really am anxious to see Mary.” I needed to understand why she’d asked me to drop everything and travel halfway around the world to visit. Not that I regretted taking a break from my busy recording schedule — I hadn’t sat at Mary’s table in far too long — but I’d never known Mary to ask for help. While she hadn’t been willing to say much over the phone, she’d been worried about things in town. I didn’t want to put off finding out what was going on.
It was dusk when the bus reached Clear Creek. The gloaming hour. No matter where in the world I was, the in-between time was when I felt I most belonged.
After waiting for the other passengers to leave, I hauled my suitcases down the steps. The driver returned my smile — the lipstick was doing its job again — and I sighed in relief to have finally arrived.
The parking lot was new, and I might have looked around more, but Emmilene was staring at a group of official cars. Half a dozen police SUVs and trucks hadn’t bothered to find places in the parking lot. Instead, they’d pulled as close as they could to the narrow road that had been closed off to become a walking path.
A weight settled in my chest. “Do you get a lot of crime here?”
Emmilene shook her head. “I don’t know of any since we moved here. We don’t even have a police station. There’s a little satellite office at the resort, but they only have an officer there a few times a week.”
“Maybe they’re eating here?” I asked, trying to keep the dread from taking root. “Mary said there were people who didn’t want to turn their homes into shops and created restaurants instead.”
Flashing lights caught our attention as an ambulance arrived and maneuvered around the police vehicles and started up the walking path.
I glanced at Emmilene. So much for the idea of the restaurants being the reason for the visit. “Should we see where they’re going?”
My heavy suitcases made for slow going and filled the air with a quiet rumble.
“Normally there’s someone at the little station back there,” Emmilene huffed as she tried to help me and dropped her own bag. “They give people rides on those contraptions parked by it. A way to help people who can’t get around easily, or those of us who live here who have things to carry. About as useful as a screen door on a submarine if they skedaddle just when we need them.”
I took my suitcase from her and waved away her assurance that she wanted to help. “One in each hand is more balanced than trying to do them separate.”
We passed a nanobrewery, but a glance through the windows showed it was completely empty. Across from it were shops with darkened windows. A small crowd was gathering ahead of us, their voices mixing to form an odd sort of chorus. Everyone was curious what the ambulance and police were doing here.
The town had changed a lot, but not so much that I didn’t know exactly where they were gathered. I pushed through the group, nudging my suitcases against legs when people ignored my pleas for them to move.
Finally at the front, I looked at the Caribbean blue house. Lights blazed in the windows, highlighting baskets piled high with yarn, the wool spilling over the rims in a riot of colors. Figures moved around inside, indistinct behind the brightness of the displays.
If it weren’t for the officers patrolling the yard and the yellow tape tied around a large tree with a swing hanging from one of the branches, stretching across the yard and tied off at the picket fence marking the other edge of the property, I’d have been able to convince myself that Mary hadn’t been right.
Ready to find out what happens next?
Get your copy of The Yarn That Binds here!