Wild in the Field
Jennifer Greene
Startling events had left Camille Campbell living like a recluse and fearful of loving ever again. She had vowed not to need or want anyone–but when her sexy neighbor from across the field of lavender came calling, her body threatened to betray all her best intentions.No stranger to heartache, Pete MacDougal understood Camille's turmoil and sought out the beauty next door in what he thought of as a simple act of kindness. But as soon as Pete had Camille in his arms, his blood pulsed out of control and he found himself in a wild affair that could ultimately melt both their ice-protected hearts.
“I Just Wanted Us Both To Be Clear About What Was Going On,” Camille Said.
“Damn good sex is what went on,” Pete replied. “The best sex I can remember. Chemistry was over the top. If you feel differently or are trying to tell me that you regret it—”
“I don’t regret it.”
“If you want something more from me…”
“I don’t want a damn thing, you blockheaded dolt! And there’s nothing wrong with ‘just sex,’ either! Everything doesn’t have to end up in a complicated, heavy relationship, for heaven’s sake!”
“So what’s the problem?”
“There is no problem! And don’t you forget it!” She whipped around and stomped off. Try to be nice to the damn man and where did it get her? He didn’t want to be cared about. Well, fine.
She didn’t want him to care about her, either.
She walked so fast that she got a stitch in her side—except that somehow, that stitch seemed to be located right over her heart….
Dear Reader,
Thank you for choosing Silhouette Desire—where passion is guaranteed in every read. Things sure are heating up with our continuing series DYNASTIES: THE BARONES. Eileen Wilks’s With Private Eyes is a powerful romance that helps set the stage for the daring conclusion next month. And if it’s more continuing stories that you want—we have them. TEXAS CATTLEMAN’S CLUB: THE STOLEN BABY launches this month with Sara Orwig’s Entangled with a Texan.
The wonderful Peggy Moreland is on hand to dish up her share of Texas humor and heat with Baby, You’re Mine, the next installment of her TANNERS OF TEXAS series. Be sure to catch Peggy’s Silhouette Single Title, Tanner’s Millions, on sale January 2004. Award-winning author Jennifer Greene marks her much-anticipated return to Silhouette Desire with Wild in the Field, the first book in her series THE SCENT OF LAVENDER.
Also for your enjoyment this month, we offer Katherine Garbera’s second book in the KING OF HEARTS series. Cinderella’s Christmas Affair is a fabulous “it could happen to you” plot guaranteed to leave her fans extremely satisfied. And rounding out our selection of delectable stories is Awakening Beauty by Amy J. Fetzer, a steamy, sensational tale.
More passion to you!
Melissa Jeglinski
Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire
Wild in the Field
Jennifer Greene
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
JENNIFER GREENE
lives near Lake Michigan with her husband and two children. Before writing full-time, she worked as a teacher and a personnel manager.
Ms. Greene has written more than fifty category romances, for which she has won numerous awards, including three RITA
Awards from the Romance Writers of America in the Best Short Contemporary Books category, and she entered RWA’s Hall of Fame in 1998.
To Lar—
For letting me rescue even the impossibly ugly dogs, cats and critters over the years.
Don’t worry, love.
I’ll never tell anyone what a softie you are.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Epilogue
One
Once a month, Pete MacDougal braced for a full-scale rebellion. And once every month, he got it.
Only the nature of the weapons and attacks varied. The look on the faces of his fourteen-year-old sons was always the same: A never-give-in-determination in the eyes, an unrelenting stubbornness in the chins, a cocky attitude written on their every feature.
It was bad enough to have two teenagers in the house, worse yet to have twins, but the real insult was that the kids took after him. It just wasn’t fair.
“Look, Dad. You just don’t get it. You’re missing the point of living without women. We’re supposed to be free.”
“Uh-huh,” Pete said, and from his key position in the front hall, slapped a mop and bucket in Simon’s hands. His sidekick—and Sean was the absolute spitting image of his brother except for one errant cowlick—was trying to slowly back away from the vacuum.
“Come on, Dad. Remember about free? We’re supposed to be free to be ourselves. Free to not eat vegetables. Free to not do dishes until we run out. Free to wear our boots in the house. Free to live how we want.”
The vacuum nozzle was slapped into Sean’s hand—but Simon elbowed in front of him. “You always said we should think for ourselves, remember, Dad? Well, we finally got a day off from school because of the blizzard, so I think the last thing we should be doing is cleaning.”
Sean accidentally let the vacuum nozzle drop. “And, like, what’s the point, you know? As soon as you clean, the dirt comes right back. What’s wrong with dirt anyway? I like dirt. Simon likes dirt. Gramps likes dirt. You’re the only one—”
“Dirt keeps the women away, right, Dad? Like an apple keeps the doctor awa—”
“Enough. I’ve had it with the lip.” Pete knew he’d lose his temper. He always did. The only question every month was when. “I don’t want to hear another word. Unless you both want to be grounded for the rest of your lives, the floors are getting washed and the carpets vacuumed. And the bathrooms—hell, the health department wouldn’t go near your bathroom upstairs. It stinks. Now move it—”
“I’m not doing the bathroom,” Sean told his brother.
“Well, I’m sure not—”
Pete’s voice raised. “BOTH bathrooms upstairs. And I want all towels and dirty clothes down the chute—” He saw the bucket crash down on Simon’s head, followed by the mop cracking over Sean’s. Yowls followed—both of them sounded like tomcats auditioning for a back alley fight. The yowls inspired more blows, followed by desperate claims of pain, followed by pokes and giggles and more desperate claims of pain.
“NOTHING is going to get you out of chores, do you hear me? And I don’t care if it takes until midnight—this house is getting cleaned up. If I have to knock your heads together—”
Both kids knew damn well he never had and never would knock their heads together, but usually the threat got their attention. It didn’t work this afternoon. The senior MacDougal unfortunately chose that moment to poke his head over the banister. Ian leaned heavily on his cane and looked more frail by the week, but he offered full-bellowed support to the boys on the benefit of dirt and the joys of life without women. Ian MacDougal was inarguably the most worthless grandfather this side of Poughkeepsie. Worthless…but popular. The boys immediately begged their grandfather to take their side against their slave-driving, cruel, unfair, uncaring, unreasonable father.
“I’m so sick of hearing this malarkey every month that I could punch a wall. The place is a sty. There is NO argument, and that goes for you, too, Dad. Now, all of you, GET TO IT.”
Well, they finally budged, but whether the old farmhouse would end up destroyed or cleaned, Pete wasn’t sure. The boys clattered upstairs, dragging tools and utensils to make the maximum possible racket. The minute they were out of sight, a series of dramatic noises followed. The source of the noises wasn’t clear, but seemed a possible cross between trumpeting elephants, screaming banshees, bloodthirsty soldiers and whining brothers. A stereo blared on, followed by a television—both played at volumes that could be heard over a vacuum cleaner. Or a sonic boom, Pete mused.
He almost missed the sound of the doorbell—actually, he almost didn’t recognize it. No one used a doorbell in White Hills, Vermont—at least not at the MacDougal house. Particularly on a snow-stormy day in March when even the sturdiest New England farmer was holed up inside.
When he yanked open the front door, fistfuls of snow were hurled in his face, which didn’t shock him half as much as his visitor.
“Pete? I need to ask you a favor.”
“Well, sure. Come on in.” The Campbells had the neighboring property—in fact, the Campbells and the MacDougals had probably come over on the same ship from Scotland a million generations before. Long before the American Revolution, for damn sure. The MacDougals tended to raise sons, where the Campbells favored having daughters. Pete had grown up with three Campbell sisters himself, had gone to school with Violet.
“Hey, Dad! Who’s at the do—?” Sean started to scream down the stairs, galloped halfway, then saw who was standing in the doorway. “Hey, Ms. Campbell,” he said at a lower decibel level.
“Hey, Sean.”
Sean disappeared. The vacuum died. The stereo died. The TV died. All signs of life silenced. They were all afraid of Violet Campbell. Violet was… Well, Pete wasn’t sure how to explain Violet to his kids. She’d always seemed normal in high school, but a few years ago, she’d come back home after a divorce with the brains of a poodle. Like now, on a day colder than a witch’s heart, she wore her blond hair flowing down her back, flighty boots, earrings almost too big to make it through the doorway and a pretty purple coat that couldn’t keep a goose warm. She was about one hundred pounds of froufrou, and on sight threw Pete’s all-male household into a panic attack.
Except for Pete. How could you be scared of somebody you’d gone to school with? It’d be like rejecting a sister. Whether she was weird or not was irrelevant. Automatically he ushered her inside and closed the door, facing her with resigned patience. “Take off your coat. You want coffee? By this time of day it’s thicker than mud, but it’ll still be hot—” The instant he caught a straight look at her face, he changed gears. “What’s wrong?”
“Thanks, but I don’t need coffee. I won’t stay long.” She pulled off her gloves, obviously on edge, revealing four rings on each hand. Immediately, her hands began fluttering, as restless as a trapped canary. “What’s wrong is my sister, Pete. Camille. I need to drive down to Boston for a few days.”
One minute Pete was fine. The next he felt as if someone had slugged him in the stomach. Just hearing Camille’s name could do that. Violet may have been like an honorary sister to him, but Camille sure wasn’t. “Hell. Everybody said Cam was finally doing okay. Is she sick? Hurt? What can I do?”
Violet shook her head. “I only wish you could do something. I’m about beside myself. And I’m scared to drive in this icy weather, but I have to go there. Get her to come home. It may take me a couple of days or more. I don’t know. But the thing is, I’m leaving my business, the greenhouses, my cats—”
“Forget it. I’ll take care of that stuff.”
“The greenhouse temperature has to be—”
“Violet, I’ve done it for you before. I know what to do, what to watch for.” He was annoyed she felt she had to ask. MacDougals had been taking care of Campbells for years and vice versa. That’s how it was in White Hills. After everyone finished fighting over sex, religion and politics, they still took care of their neighbors. And Pete knew perfectly well how temperamental her greenhouses were to caretake, so he sure as hell didn’t want to waste time talking about it. “What happened? I thought Camille was finally on the mend. I mean, obviously, she had a hell of a time. But it’s been months since whozit died—”
Violet unbuttoned the top of her jacket, took a long breath. “I know. We all thought that was the rough part. Her losing Robert like that. Barely married a year, so much in love, and then to lose everything in a stupid street robbery.” Violet’s eyes welled up. “She loved him so much.”
“Yeah. I heard.” Pete saw the tears, and figured he’d better do something quick and drastic before she started really crying on him. But a burst of mental pictures flashed through his mind, ransoming his attention and his heartbeat both. All he could think about was Camille.
Cam was four years younger than him—which meant, when they were in school, that he’d have been way out of line to look at her in a personal way. But he remembered her wedding. She hadn’t been too young then. She’d looked like God’s gift to a sexy wedding night—deeply in love with her groom—full of laughter and light, full of secret smiles and sexual promises, her face glowing and her gorgeous dark eyes softened with love.
Pete had always had a soft spot for her. All right, he admitted it—more than a soft spot. He’d had a dug-in, could-never-shake pull for her. But those feelings had made him feel forbidden and guilty, initially because she’d been too young, and then later because a good man just didn’t think about the bride of another guy that way. Still, when he’d heard about the couple getting attacked by thugs last year, he remembered feeling profound relief she hadn’t been the one killed.
“The neighbors all said she was finally recovered,” he pressed Violet again.
“And that was a miracle in itself. The physical recovery took months as it was. She was in the hospital for ages. Her beautiful face—she was so battered up, her face, her ribs, the broken leg—”
“But that’s the point. Everyone said she was finally on her feet again—so what happened? Has there been some kind of setback? What?” God, getting Violet to the point was like motivating a mule to win a horse race.
Violet threw up her hands, did more of that fluttering thing. “It’s complicated. Camille always calls home a couple of times a week. Only suddenly she quit calling. And when I tried to track her down, I found out that her phone’s been disconnected. So then I got in touch with her apartment neighbor. Twilla something. This Twilla says Camille lost her job, hasn’t been out of the apartment in two weeks or more. Mail’s piled up, newspapers, trash. She says she knocked on Camille’s door, thinking she had to be sick or something, but Cam was in there and nearly snapped her head off.”
“Say what?” Camille had always been one of those joyful, happy-go-lucky people. No temper, no temperament. She’d never had a moody bone in her entire body.
Violet hugged her arms. “I don’t know what to think. But Twilla said she’s turned totally mean.”
“That’s ridiculous. Camille couldn’t be mean in a million years. It’s not in her.”
“It didn’t used to be. I think it’s about the trial, Pete. The trial of those three thugs.”
Pete frowned. “You mean, the guys who robbed her? The boys and I were gone for spring break when the trial ended, but I thought they were all found guilty.”
“They were. Only the guilty verdict wasn’t worth much. The one who actually killed Robert only got seven years—and he can get out after three for good behavior. The other two got even lighter sentences. They could be back on the streets in less than two years.”
“WHAT? They kill whozits and almost beat Camille to death, and a few years in prison is the only penalty they got?”
Violet’s eyes welled again. “That’s all. The judge seemed to think there were extenuating circumstances. They’d had no record before, and even though they’d all chosen to get high, they had no way to know the drug had been laced with some extra chemicals. They were all in this induced psychotic state, according to the testimony. So the judge didn’t seem to think they were totally to blame. Anyway, apparently the sentence came down about a month ago. It was a long trial, and God knows I’d been following it—so was everyone in the family. And Camille called when the sentence came down, but that was it. She was upset, we knew that. But that was the last time she contacted anyone, as far as I know.” Violet grabbed her gloves, obviously too agitated to stand still and talk any longer.
“Bring her home, damn it,” Pete said.
“That’s what I’m going to do. Drive there, pack up her stuff, bring her home.”
“If she won’t come, you call me. I’ll drive there and help.”
“According to her neighbor, I’ll be lucky if she lets me in. But I figure I can always ask Daisy if I really need help.”
Pete didn’t follow. “Isn’t your other sister still living in France?”
“Yeah, but she’d fly over in two seconds if I called. She flew home when Camille was first attacked and in the hospital. So did Mom and Dad, of course. But for this problem—I just want to see what’s what for myself before I call in the cavalry.” Violet opened the front door. More fistfuls of snow howled in, but she turned back to him, appearing not to notice. “Daisy is kind of like the calvary. She’s just a take-charge, bossy kind of person—”
Pete knew Daisy. He also knew that once Violet got chatty, she was hard to shut down, so he tried to get her back on track. She gave him keys to the house and greenhouse, then proceeded to flibber and flabber on about security and temperatures and the fragility of her lavender strains and the cat and the trickiness of the furnace if the temperature dropped below zero and how the back door stuck.
By the time she left, an inch of snow had accumulated in the front hall. He closed the door and watched out the side window as Violet backed her flower-decaled van out of the driveway, bouncing through snowdrifts, not looking in either direction. He wasn’t sure if either the driveway or the mailbox was going to survive her driving—but truthfully, his mind wasn’t really on the middle Campbell sister, but the baby in the family.
He scraped a hand through his hair, wishing he’d asked Violet a dozen more questions…yet knowing he couldn’t. Just because he’d always had a private hard case for Camille didn’t mean he had any right to know—or right to interfere either. Further, his skill and effectiveness with women was measured by his ex-wife—who’d effectively ripped him off for everything but the kitchen sink…and his sons.
God knew, his sons were full time—sometimes a full-time nightmare and sometimes a full-time job. But either way, he had no time to dwell on the worrisome picture Violet had painted in his mind. Camille couldn’t be his problem. It was just upsetting, that was all. To picture anyone as joyful and full of spirit as Cam, brought down by so much tragedy so young. Camille always had a heart bigger than Vermont, more love than an ocean, more laughter than could fill a whole sky.
It made him sick to think about her hurting.
“Pssst. Dad.” The daredevil hanging over the second story railing was, of course, risking life and limb. “Ms. Campbell—is she gone? Is it safe to come down?”
“Yeah, she’s gone.”
In another moment, his son’s spitting image hung over the railing, too. “Are you sick or something? What’s the matter with you, Dad? You’re not yelling at us.”
“I will,” Pete promised them absently, but when he didn’t immediately come through with a good, solid respectable bellow, the boys seemed to panic.
“We’re not cleaning,” Sean announced.
“Yeah, we’re going on strike,” Simon said. “Gramps is going on strike with us. So it’s three against one.”
Maybe he’d failed a wife, but he’d never fail his boys. Since they were expecting him to scream and yell, he forced his mind off Camille and thumped up the stairs to deliver the lecture they wanted.
Two
When Camille heard the knock on the door, her heart slammed in instant panic—but that was just a stupid, knee-jerk response from the attack. She’d been home and forcefully installed in the cottage by Violet for three weeks now. She was safe. She knew she was safe. But somehow, even all these months after the attack, sudden noises and shadows still made her stomach jump clear to her throat.
Someone knocked on the door again—which she purposefully ignored. She just as easily ignored the pounding after that. But then came her sister’s insistent voice calling, “Yoo-hoo! Camille? CAMILLE?”
Camille didn’t budge from old, horsehair rocker in the far corner of the living room, but hearing Vi whining her name reminded her of how much she’d always disliked it. Mom had named all three daughters after flowers, so she could have gotten Violet or Daisy, but no, she had to get Camille. Practically by definition people seemed to assume that a Camille was a dark-haired, dark-eyed, sultry romantic. The dark hair and dark eyes were true, but the rest of the image was completely off.
These last months, she’d turned mean. Not just a little mean, but horned-toad mean. Porcupine-mean. Curmudgeon-rude and didn’t-give-a-damn-about-anyone mean.
“All right, Cam, honey.” When no one answered, Violet’s voice turned so patient that Camille wanted to open the door just to smack her one. “I’ll leave lunch on the table at noon, but I want you up at the house for dinner. You don’t have to talk. You don’t have to do anything. But unless you’re up there at six—and I actually see you eat something—I’m calling Mom and Daisy both.”
Camille’s eyes creaked open in the dim room. Something stirred in her stomach. A touch of an ordinary emotion…like worry. Not that she gave a hoot—about anything or anyone. But the threat of having both her mother and oldest sister sicced on her made Cam break out in a cold sweat. The Campbell women, allied together, could probably make a stone sweat. She just wasn’t up to battling with them.
With a resigned sigh, she pushed herself out of the old, horsehair rocker to search for a drink.
Rain drooled down the dirty windows, making it hard to see without a light, but she didn’t turn one on. The past weeks had passed in a blur. She remembered Violet barging into the apartment in Boston, finding her curled up in bed, shaking her, scolding her, packing her up. She remembered driving to Vermont in a blizzard. She remembered refusing to live in the warm, sturdy farmhouse where they’d grown up, fighting with Violet over whether the old cottage on the place was even livable.
It wasn’t. But then Camille wasn’t livable either, so the place had worked for her fine.
She stumbled around now, stalking around suitcases and boxes. She hadn’t unpacked anything from Boston. No reason to. She didn’t want anything. But eventually she located the flat briefcase on the scarred oak bureau. She clicked the locks, pulled it open. Once upon a time, the briefcase had been filled with colorful files and advertising projects and marketing studies. Now it held a complete array of airline-sized liquor bottles.
Quite a few were missing, although not as many as she’d planned. She hadn’t given up her goal of becoming an alcoholic, but the ambition was a lot tougher to realize than she ever expected. Frowning, she filched and fingered through the collection. Crème de cocoa was out of the question—she was never trying that ghastly stuff again. Ditto for the vodka. And the scotch. And the gin.
Squinting, she discovered a bitsy bottle of Kahlúa. She wrestled with the lid, finally successfully unscrewed it, guzzled in a gulp, swallowed, and then opened her mouth to let out the fumes.
Holy moly. Her eyes teared and her throat surely scarred over from the burn.
As hard as she was trying to destroy her life with liquor, it just wasn’t working well. She set down the mini-bottle—she was going to finish it!—she only needed to take a few minutes to renew her determination.
She sank down in the creaky rocker again, closing her eyes. Maybe the drinking wasn’t going so well, but other things were.
Several weeks ago, she’d mistakenly believed that she wanted to die. Since then, she’d realized that one part of her was alive—totally alive, consumingly alive.
The rage.
All around her was the evidence. Violet had tried to give her a phone, but she’d trashed it. The cottage behind the barns had been built for a great grandmother who’d wanted to live independently, so there was no totally destroying the charm. There was just a front room, bedroom and kitchen, but the casement windows bowed, and the bedroom had a slanted ceiling, and the living room had a huge limestone fireplace with a sit-down hearth. She hadn’t fixed any of it. Hadn’t looked at any of it either. She’d been sleeping on a hard mattress with a bald pillow and no bedding. Cobwebs filled the corners; the floors hadn’t been swept, and the cupboards were empty.
She couldn’t remember the last time she brushed her hair or changed clothes.
Eventually this had to stop. She realized that in an intellectual way, but emotionally, there only seemed one thing inside of her. All she wanted was to sit all day and seep with the rage, steep with it, sleep with it. Fester it. Ache with it. My God. It had been bad enough to lose Robert. Bad enough to wake up in a hospital bed with a face so battered she couldn’t recognize herself, bruises and breaks that made her cry to touch, lips too swollen to talk…and that was before she’d been told Robert was dead.
Initially, the grief had ripped through her like a cyclone that wouldn’t quit. It just wrenched and tore and never let up. But then came the trial. She’d been so positive that the trial would at least bring her the relief and satisfaction of justice. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the dark street, heard her laughing with Robert, complaining about walking in high heels from the party on the balmy fall night, and then there they were. The bastards, the drug-high bastards. There was no reason for them to start punching her, playing her, scaring her. They’d have given them all their money in a blink. But it wasn’t money they wanted. Robert—he’d tried to protect her, tried to get in front of her. That’s why they were meaner to him. Why he ended up dead.
All three of them had looked clean-cut and young in court—because they were. They had cried their eyes out, which had impressed the judge, too. They’d come from good families, had no records, weren’t even drug users—they just made one mistake, thought they’d experiment one time, and foolishly bought some mixed cocktail that caused psychotic behavior. It was a tragic accident, their attorney claimed. The boys weren’t hardened criminals, nothing like that. And the judge had given them the most lenient sentences possible.
That’s when the rage was born. Camille remembered the day in court, feeling the slow, huge, hot well of disbelief. A few years in jail and they’d be out. Easy for them. They hadn’t lost their soul mate. They hadn’t lost anything but a few years, where she’d lost everything. Her life had been completely, irreversibly, hopelessly destroyed.
She stared blankly at the cracks in the stucco ceiling, hearing the drizzle of rain. Inside of her there was nothing but a hollow howl. It wasn’t getting any better. She couldn’t seem to think past the red-sick haze of rage. She’d tried curling up for days. She’d tried not eating. She’d tried hurling things and breaking things. She’d tried silence. She’d tried—and was still trying—drinking.
No matter what she tried, though, she couldn’t seem to make it pass. She couldn’t go under, around, through it. The rage was just there.
At some point, she got up and finished the shot of Kahlúa.
And at some point after that, she jerked out of the rocker and chased fast for the bathroom. The Kahlúa was as worthless as all the other darn liquors. It refused to stay down.
By the time she finished hurling, she was extra mean. She stood in the bathroom doorway, sweat beading on her brow, weakness aching in every muscle in her damn body. She wasn’t sure she was strong enough to lift a dust ball. Her throat felt as it had been knifed open and her stomach as if she’d swallowed hot steel wool.
With her luck, she was going to end up the first wanna-be alcoholic in history with an allergy to alcohol. Either that, or Kahlúa had joined the long list of liquors her body seemed to reject.
Thinking that possibly she could nap—and maybe even sleep this time—she turned toward the bedroom…just as she heard another knock on the door.
“Aw, come on, Violet. I’ll come up to the house for dinner. But right now, just leave me alone.”
“It’s not Violet. It’s me. Your neighbor. Pete MacDougal.”
A charge volted through her pulse as if she’d touched a volatile electric cord. Pete didn’t have to identify himself for her to recognize his voice. There was a time that voice would have comforted her. Pete’s clipped tenor was part of her childhood, as familiar as the rail fence and the tree house in the big maple and the toboggan hill between the MacDougals and Campbells.
She’d never played with Pete because he was older, Violet’s age. But she’d toddled after him for years with puppy eyes. When he was around, he’d lift her over the fence so she wouldn’t have to walk around, and he’d pulled her sled back up the hill, and he’d let her invade the sacred tree house when all the other kids said she was still a baby.
Pete was not just her childhood hero; he’d been an extra zesty spice to her blood because the four year age difference made him forbidden. Further, he was ultracool, with his biker shoulders and thick dark hair and smoky eyes. He was the oldest of three brothers, where she was the youngest of three sisters, which she’d always felt gave them a key connection. What that connection was, she’d never pinned down exactly. She’d just wanted to have something in common with Pete MacDougal. Coming from three-children families and living in Vermont had seemed enough to be critical bonding factors when she was a kid.
Those memories were all sweet and a little embarrassing and definitely fun—but not now. Right now, she didn’t want to see anyone she’d once cared about, and Pete’s voice, specifically, hurt like a sting. He had one of those full-of-life, uniquely male voices—full of sex and testosterone and energy and virility.
It wasn’t Robert’s voice. In fact, it was nothing at all like Robert’s sweet voice. But that bolt of vibrant masculine tenor reminded her of everything she’d lost. And because she felt stung, she stung back.
“Go the hell away.”
He knocked again, as if he hadn’t heard her. “Could you just open the door for a minute?”
“NO.”
He knocked again.
What did it take? A sledgehammer? “Damn it, Pete. I don’t want visitors. I don’t need sympathy. I don’t want help. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I just want to be left alone. GO AWAY.”
When he knocked the fourth time, she yanked open the door from sheer exasperation. If the only way to get rid of him was to punch him in the nose, then she was about to slug him good—and never mind that he was almost a foot taller than her.
Instantly she noticed that foot-taller. Noticed his black-and-white wool shirt, his oak height, the hint of wet mahogany in his damp hair, that his good-looking sharp-boned face still had smoky, sexy eyes. She also noticed that he wedged a size-thirteen boot in the door before she could slam it on him again.
In that same blast of a second, he looked her over, too—but he didn’t make out as if he noticed that she was in days-old clothes, her hair unkempt, her face paler than a mime’s. He didn’t make out as if he noticed anything personal about her at all. He just said, “I have to tell you something about your sister.”
“So tell me and get out.”
“Hey, I’m trying.” He didn’t force his way in, just kept that big boot wedged in the doorway. He leaned his shoulder in the jamb, which insured he had a view of the inside. But if he saw the piles of boxes and packing debris in the dreary light, he made no comment. “It’s Violet. I don’t know what on earth’s wrong with your sister. But something sure is.”
“I’ve seen her very day. She’s perfectly fine.”
“Ditsy as always,” Pete concurred. “But after she came home after the divorce, she started playing in the greenhouse. By last spring, she’d added another greenhouse and opened her herb business. Then last spring, she laid off Filbert Green—you know, the man your dad hired after he retired, to take care of the land—”
“What’s any of this to you, Pete?” Rain hissed in the yard, splashed off the eaves. The chill was starting to seep in the cottage, but he didn’t seem to care. He seemed intent on just blocking her doorway for an indefinite period of time.
“It’s nothing to me. But it is to you. Have you looked around the farm since you got home?”
“No. Why would I? I’ve got nothing to do with the farm. Violet can do whatever she wants to.” The darn man never moved his eyes, never showed the slightest reaction, but she kept having the sense he was taking in everything about her.
“Camille—you remember how your mother always grew a patch of lavender? You Campbell women always loved the stuff—”
“For heaven’s sake, Pete. Get to the point.”
“Your sister’s been breeding all kinds of lavender.”
“So what?”
He sighed, rubbed his chin. “You want me to get to the point, but it isn’t that easy. She’s gone hog-wild in the greenhouses. Take a look out your window, walk around, you’ll see. She has to have better than twenty acres of lavender planted.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Camille announced.
He didn’t argue with her. He just said, “I think the Herb Haven store is doing okay for her. Pulls in more kooks and New Agers than I can believe. But even if she didn’t have her hands full with the retail and the greenhouses, Violet doesn’t know about land, never did, never cared. And that’s fine, but it’s one thing to let a field go wild, and another to let twenty acres of lavender get out of control—and I’m talking completely out of control. She’s in trouble, Camille.”
“My sister is not in trouble with anything,” Camille told him firmly.
“Okay. I didn’t come to argue. In fact, I told you everything I came to say.” He not only stepped back, but closed the door for her, firmly and quietly. She heard the thud of his boot step on the porch, then nothing as he strode toward his white pickup.
She watched him from the grimy window—even though she didn’t mean to look. Neither Pete MacDougal nor his opinions were any of her business. God knew what that visit was all about, but it didn’t matter.
Violet wasn’t in trouble. Cam had seen her every damn day. Vi was dressing like a model for a gypsy catalog with all the sweeping scarves and flowing blond hair and all—but Violet had always been a girly-girl. She never had a tomboy bone in her body, probably came out of the womb asking Mom for a credit card and directions to the mall. The point being, she might be going a little overboard with the froufrou thing, but Violet was still Violet.
Camille stood in the doorway a moment longer, and then with a sinking feeling of defeat and exhaustion, padded toward the bedroom.
When it came down to it, even if Violet were in trouble—which she wasn’t—Camille likely couldn’t muster enough energy to help her anyway. Right now she couldn’t even help herself. For a brief moment, Pete had sparked something vibrant and unexpected…but that was just a fluke.
There was just nothing in her anymore. Nothing.
It was still raining four days later. The theory about April showers bringing May flowers was all well and good, but these April rains were bleakly chill and relentless—which was why Camille spent two hours hiking outside. The weather suited her mood perfectly.
She didn’t care what Pete MacDougal had told her—in any way. She hadn’t given him another thought—in any way.
The fresh rain stung her cheeks, but still she tromped the fields until her legs ached and she was cold and damp from the inside out. By the time she clomped into her sister’s kitchen, it was just after six. In the back hall, she shed field boots, her father’s thrown-out barn jacket and an old cap. They had given her little protection against the weather. Her dark hair was straggling-wet at the edges, her jeans hemmed with ice-cold mud, and she couldn’t stop shivering.
Naturally, her sister caught her before she had time to run some hot water on her hands.
“Sheesh, Camille. You’re going to catch your death. Come in and get yourself warm, you goose.” Violet had always been a bully. She hustled her into the kitchen, where warm yellow light pooled on the old glass cabinets and potbellied stove and round oak table. Pots simmered on the stove. Counters were crowded with dishes. Smells choked the air.
Dinner was going to be another petrifying meal, Camille sensed.
It was. She pried open lids and covers. The main course appeared to be cod stuffed with spinach. The salad looked to be a bunch of pungent herbs that smelled as if they could not only get a body’s system moving—but moving permanently. The drink was some herbal concoction in a pitcher. Violet hadn’t served normal food since Camille could remember.
“We’re going to start with some Fish Soup Normandy tonight. We’ve got to build you up, Cam. You’re not just skinnier than a rail, those jeans are about to fall off. For Pete’s sake, I’m not sure you could find your butt with a magnifying glass. I’m not sure you even have one anymore.”
Camille cut to more important issues. “What’s in the Normandy soup?”
“Oh, this and that. Celery, onions, carrot, lemon. Herbs and seasonings. And fish heads, of course—”
Camille muttered a swearword. The bad one. Violet just smiled as she scurried around the kitchen. Tonight she was wearing a paisley blouse of some flowing material, her pale blond hair braided with a scarf. “I’ve been working up a storm in the greenhouses. I know it’s hard to believe, but it’s going to be warm in just a couple more weeks….” She glanced up and said carefully, “I saw you out walking.”
Camille scooped up silverware and plates to set the table.
“That’s the first I’ve seen you come out of the cottage—except for coming up here for meals, obviously. You were starting to scare me, Cam.”
“Nothing to be scared about.” She took a breath. “And I’m not going to mooch off you forever. I know I’m not bringing in any money. I don’t want to be a burden. I just—”
“You’re no burden and you’re not mooching, you dimwit. The farm’s yours no different than it’s mine and Daisy’s. You can live here forever, if you want. In fact, there’s tons of space here at the house, you know that—”
“No.” There was no way she could stay here. Her Campbell ancestors had sailed here from Scotland, homesteaded here, put down the first layer of brick and stone. Although generations had added on, it remained a sturdy, serious house with white trim and a shake roof. Inside, the plank floors were polished to a shine. There was still a cane rocker and rag rug by the kitchen potbellied stove. Violet had added the chintz upholstery, the frilly curtains, the Live Well-Love Much-Laugh Often type of homey slogans. Cats nested on most surfaces. The kitchen that had been blue and white, was now red and white, with pots of herbs clustered in the sink window.
And just like when they were growing up, Violet was still incessantly chattering. “Mom and Dad called…”
Camille immediately tensed.
“But I told them you were doing fine.”
There. She relaxed again.
“But then Daisy called. I told her the same thing, that you were doing fine. But you know Daisy. She started talking in that new French accent of hers, bristled up, and said if you don’t call her within the next few days, she’s flying home. I think she actually might, Cam. She needs to hear from you herself.”
“Well, she’s not going to.” Violet might boss her around at times, but she was pretty much a live-and-let-live kind of sister. Daisy was a nightmare. “Just keep telling her I’m fine.”
“Okay.”
Camille stuck a fork in the cod, pushed it around her plate. “Behind the barn, all those acres on the east slope, where everything used to freeze out for Dad…what are you doing there, Vi? With all that lavender?”
Violet brightened. “Camille! You asked me a question! You realize, this is the first conversation you’ve actually offered since you got home. I knew you were starting to get better. Pete said—”
“Pete? You mean Pete MacDougal? Why is he in this conversation?”
“Nothing! No reason! None at all!”
Camille made an impatient motion. Something was wrong with her. Every time she’d turned around for the past four days, there was Pete, invading her thoughts, her mind, her sleep. Naturally, she’d been denying it, but lying to herself was getting tougher. And why bother? When a woman was nuts, one more screw loose hardly made any difference. “So forget Pete. I wasn’t trying to ask you about Pete—I was only trying to ask why you planted so much lavender. What are you planning to do with it all.”
“Oh. Well. You know mom always grew that little patch. The original lavender strain came from France—”
“I know Mom’s history, for Pete’s sake. But she grew a few plants in a flower garden. Your stash of lavender is about to take over the state of Vermont.”
Her sister chuckled. “It wasn’t supposed to get that big. It was just…I always loved it. The scent of lavender. The color, the texture, the look of it, everything. And right after the divorce, well, Simpson wanted the house to live with the bimbo. And I wanted nothing to do with him, so—”
“Vi. I know. And my offer to strangle Simpson still stands. The point is, you wanted to start completely fresh, so you moved and came home….”
“Yeah. But when I moved here, there was really nothing specific for me to do, you know? The house was as empty as a museum, with Mom and Dad doing the retirement thing in Florida now. And for a while, the quiet was nice. I didn’t have to actually find work right away, since I got a decent settlement out of the divorce, but I still had to find something to do with my time. So I just started messing with seeds and roots and strains of things.”
Violet could take five hours to tell a five minute story, so Camille interrupted again. “I know. You started your Herb Haven.” The store was a claustrophobic’s nightmare, gobsmacked from rafters to cellar with herbs hanging upside down and herbs hanging right side up, baskets and candles and cooking herbs and medicine herbs—chokes of stuff all over the place. She didn’t want to hear about it. “But you’re growing acres more lavender than you could ever sell in the store, Vi.”
“I guess.” Violet smiled brightly. Then spooned a mound of an unidentifiable gourmet concoction on Camille’s plate. “It just sort of…exploded. I started with Mom’s original French lavender, mixed it with some strains Daisy sent me, then added some of my own. It was kind of like creating a kaleidoscope. A flower kaleidoscope. The strengths of one kind with the color of another with the texture of another. It was so much fun! Only I guess it’s gotten a little out of hand.”
“A little? Are you calling twenty acres ‘a little’?”
“I never thought it would grow,” Violet said defensively. “I mean, yes, I planted it. But I put it on that rocky east slope, not really thinking it had a chance of growing, but just to have something to do with it. I mean, that spot of land wasn’t going to be used for anything because it was generally so hopeless. And the thing was, I had all these experiments in the greenhouse and they’d exploded on me. I had to have a place to put them. But I forgot….”
When her sister stopped to chew, Camille said impatiently, “You forgot what?”
“I forgot about the nature of lavender. It looks fragile and frail—but it’s actually a very tough plant. In fact, it won’t thrive at all if you pamper it. It has to have sun, of course, but otherwise it’s happiest if you just leave it completely alone. So that dry, rocky spot actually ended up perfect for it—”
“Violet. The point is—it’s everywhere.”
“Oh, well. I guess. How do you like the potato salad?”
“Pardon?”
Violet motioned. “The potato salad—it’s got dried lavender buds in it. I found the recipe from a really old French cookbook.”
“The salad’s fine.” Camille’s attention was diverted. “I don’t want you cooking for me. Taking care of me like this.” She added more clearly, “I hate it.”
“I cook anyway. I like cooking. It’s no trouble.”
“That’s not the point. The point is, I’m not your problem. I’m no one’s problem.” She yanked her hair back, said lowly, fiercely, “I can’t work yet, Violet. I will. It’s driving me crazy, living off you, not pulling my share, but—”
“Oh shut up. How many times do I have to say it? The land belongs to all of us. You know how Mom and Dad set it up. Dad’s still positive that one of us will want to farm if he just waits long enough.” Violet added, “And Dad’s always asking how you are. If you’re talking about Robert yet—”
“Don’t.” Camille heard the sharp slap in her tone, but couldn’t help it. She wasn’t talking about Robert.
“Okay, okay, take it easy.” Violet fluttered to her feet, pivoted around with another dish from the counter. God knew, it was probably more fish. “You need some money?”
“No.”
“Spending money. Everyone needs spending money—”
“I don’t need or want anything!” She jerked to her feet at the sound of a truck engine. Someone was coming, pulling into the driveway. She all but ran to the hall for the ragged barn jacket and cap.
“Camille, come on, you don’t have to run away—”
“I’m not running away. I just…” She was just having trouble breathing. Gusts of air felt trapped in her lungs, yet her heart was galloping at racetrack speeds. She didn’t want to be mean to Violet. She didn’t want to be mean to anyone. She just wanted to be left alone—where all that rotten moodiness wouldn’t hurt anybody. Where she didn’t have to work so hard to be nice, to be normal. She shoved her feet into the damp field boots and yanked at the back door—only to realize that someone was pulling the same door from the other side.
She almost barreled straight into an oak-straight, oak-hard chest. “Whoa, Cam. Easy.”
Even without jerking her head up, she recognized Pete MacDougal’s gentling tenor, somehow recognized the grip of his big hands steadying her shoulders.
For the briefest millisecond she just wanted to fold into his arms—big, warm, strong arms. She didn’t want to fight. She just wanted to be lifted, carried, swallowed up somewhere the anger couldn’t get her. But that millisecond was fleeting, of course. It was a crazy impulse, anyway.
Even a moment with Pete hit her the way it had the first time, days ago. He was a slam of strong, vital male. A reminder of what she’d lost, what she’d never have again.
She said nothing, just felt the panic squeeze tighter around her heart, and bolted past him and out the door.
He called something.
She ignored him. She ignored everything, just hurtled cross-field toward the cottage. Away from Violet. Away from Pete. Away from life.
The way she wanted it.
Three
Pete ambled out of his home office, rolling his shoulders to stretch the kinks out, and glanced at the kitchen clock. He thought it was around two. Instead, hell, it was almost three.
The boys were due home from school, and this last week in April, the kids had picked up spring fever with a vengeance. Pete knew exactly how the afternoon was going to go. The instant Sean walked in, he was going to start up with his wheedling-whine campaign to get a horse. There wasn’t an animal born that boy didn’t want to raise—preferably in the house. Simon was going to start in with the earsplitting music, which would get the eldest MacDougal complaining, and Ian was already having a poor-me kind of day. Laundry hadn’t been done in a week, and when boys were of an age to have wet dreams, Pete had discovered that you’d best not wait too long to change the sheets and linens. And no one had bothered with the dishes since last night, either.
The more Pete analyzed the situation, the more he realized the obvious. If he didn’t run away now, the opportunity threatened to disappear. Swiftly he yanked a jacket off the hook and escaped.
Aw, man. When his lungs hauled in that first breath of fresh air, it felt like diamonds for his soul. For days it had been rainy and blustery cold, but now, finally there was some payoff. A balmy, spring breeze brushed his skin; the sun felt soft and liquid-warm. Green was bursting everywhere. Violets and trillium were coming up in the woods, daffodils budding by the fences.
He didn’t realize he was hiking toward the west fence—and the border between the MacDougals and the Campbells—until he saw her. Actually, he couldn’t make out exactly who was standing by that godawful lavender mess on the Campbells’ east twenty acres. But someone was. A waif.
He unlatched the gate, but then just stood there. No one, but no one, had taken his heart like this in years.
Damn woman had lost so much weight that her jeans were hanging on her, the hems dragging in the dirt. She was wearing a rowdy-red shirt with a frayed neck and an old barn jacket that used to be her dad’s favorite. In the sunlight, her cap of hair looked satin-black and shiny, but a shorn sheep had more style—and Pete suspected that’s exactly what she’d done, taken scissors and whacked off all that gorgeous long hair after whozits died. Everything about her appearance told the same story. So much grief and nowhere to go with it.
Camille couldn’t be his problem, he’d already told himself—several times in the past few weeks—and it was true. He had an overfilled plate now. The boys had been a nonstop handful since Debbie deserted them. Their grandfather indulged them right and left. Pete’s translating work for the government had turned into a far more lucrative living than he’d ever dreamed, but come spring, he would have the land and orchards to tend on top of his real work. All in all, most days he was lucky to have a second to himself. He sure didn’t need more stress.
But damn. Those eyes of hers were deep as a river.
She was looking out at those endless acres of untended lavender, her hands on her hips.
Pete could have sworn that he intended to turn around and skedaddle before Camille caught sight of him, but somehow he seemed to have unlatched the gate and hiked toward her instead. She startled in surprise when she suddenly found him standing next to her. He squinted at the fields as if they studied their respective farming problems together every day.
“Don’t even start about my sister.” It was the first thing she said, and in the same ornery tone she’d spoken to him last time.
“I thought we covered this? I always liked your whole family. Violet included. I don’t think less of her because there are some raisins short in her bran. Because apparently she wouldn’t know a weed from a willow. Because she wouldn’t recognize common sense if it bit her in the butt—”
“I’ve leveled guys for less, so you just quit it. There is nothing wrong with my sister.”
“You don’t think some of that blond hair dye seeped into her brain?”
She lifted a booted foot to kick him—then seemed to realize she’d been suckered into his teasing and stiffened up again. She took a breath, then said quietly, “Go away, Pete.”
He didn’t. God knew why. Maybe it was the land. Looking at all those acres of tangled, woody, gnarled growth offended the farmer in him—even if he wasn’t much of a farmer anymore. “I don’t know much about lavender,” he admitted conversationally. “I mean, I’ve seen it in gardens and all, but I’ve no knowledge of it as a commercial crop. But a bird brain could figure out that this thicket has to be damned close to becoming completely unrecoverable—”
“It isn’t your problem,” Camille mentioned.
He ignored that. “The thing is, though, as bad a mess as this is…your sister started this massive planting only a few years ago. So there has to be a chance it’s salvageable. Not a good chance. But at least some chance. The question is how and how fast. I have to believe that if you don’t get control of it this spring, it’ll be gone for good. Which means that about by Monday, there needs to be a crew of guys in here—”
Without turning toward him, she lifted a finger in the air. Thankfully, Pete loved a woman who could communicate without words, so he just grinned. Until he realized that she was still staring at the long stretch of wasted, woebegone fields with a determined squint in her eyes.
“Whoa. Don’t even start thinking it, Cam. You can’t do it. Not alone. No one could.”
Finally she turned, and tipped those river-deep eyes at him. “Were you under the impression I was asking your opinion about anything?”
So sassy. So rude. So much fury.
He was tempted to kiss her. Not a little kiss, and not an old-neighbor friendly peck, either. A kiss that might shake through her anger. A kiss that might touch some of that fierce, sharp loneliness. A kiss that might make him feel better—because right now it ripped raw to watch his beautiful Camille hurting and not have the first clue how to help her.
The impulse to kiss her invaded his mind for several long seconds and stung there like a mosquito bite, itching, swelling, daring him to scratch it. Then, thank God, he came to his senses. Certainly he had his stone-headed moments—didn’t everybody?—but Pete wasn’t usually troubled by lunacy.
He zoned on something concrete and practical as fast as he could get the words out. “So, Cam…exactly what do you know about growing lavender?”
“Well…everyone in the family knows a little, because my mom loved it so much. She always grew enough to make sachets and soap and dried flower arrangements, that kind of thing. And Violet—she knows the recipes, all this unusual stuff about how to use lavender as a spice. And Daisy’s been living in France for several years now—she knows more than both of us, because she’s around Provence and the perfume industry, so she’s learned how lavender’s used as a perfume ingredient and all that.” She added, “But what I personally know about growing lavender would fill a thimble. Assuming the thimble were extra small.”
“So you know not to try and tackle all these acres by yourself.” He just had to be sure she wasn’t going to do anything crazy. Then he could leave. And he badly wanted to leave, before he had another damn-fool impulse to kiss her. God knew what was wrong with him. Maybe he needed an aspirin or some prune juice. For damn sure, he was going to dose himself with something when he got home—but first he needed to be certain she wasn’t determined to dive off the deep end into a brick pool.
“Pete MacDougal. Do you really have nothing better to do than stand around and bug me? Don’t you have a few hundred acres of apples that need pruning or trimming or something?”
“I’ve got the orchards. I’ve also got twins—two teenage sons—that I’m raising without their mother. And even though everyone in White Hills think I’m a farmer, I’ve been doing translating work for Langley for a half-dozen years now, full-time. And then there’s my dad, who’s been as pleasant as a porcupine ever since my mother died.” He didn’t suspect she wanted to hear any of that, but he figured he’d better give her a frame for his life. Otherwise she had an excuse for still treating him like a half stranger. “All of which is to say, don’t waste your breath being crabby with me. I’ve got people who can out-crabby you any day of the week, so let’s get back to our conversation—”
“We’re not having a conversation.”
“Oh, yeah, we are. We’re talking about finding a solution for that twenty acres of lavender out there. One possibility—and the simplest one—is a bulldozer. I don’t know if you knew Hal Wolske—”
“I’m not looking for a bulldozer. Or for help.”
“Okay.” He reminded himself that he came from strong Scots stock. Which meant he had no end of patience. He might have to kick a tree, soon and hard, but he could hold on to his patience until then or die trying. “If you don’t want to get rid of it, then you have to find a way to make it viable. I really don’t think your sister could identify the front end of a tractor from the back—”
“Don’t you start on my sister again.”
“But I do know your dad always kept two Masseys in the barn. The farmer your dad hired when he retired—Filbert Green, wasn’t it?—he used to keep them well maintenanced, at least until your sis kicked him out of the job. If you want me to check them out—”
“I don’t.”
“Yeah, I agree, there’s only so much tractors can do for you in this situation. I’m afraid what you’ve got is a ton of handwork. I’ve got a crew trimming my apples, won’t be done for a couple more weeks. And they’d have to be taught what to do with the lavender. They wouldn’t have a clue, but they’re dependable, steady. If you want the bodies—”
“That won’t be necessary, since I won’t be having any strangers on the farm. I don’t want your crew. Don’t want anyone’s crew. Don’t want anyone’s help or advice. Now, damn it, Pete, stop being nice to me!”
She whirled around to stomp off, tripped on her sagging jean hem, yanked up her trousers and then stomped off.
Pete didn’t grin—there wasn’t a damn thing funny about what shape that woman was in—but he did stand there, thoughtfully stroking his chin.
Camille had to think he was the most obnoxious jerk to ever cross her path—since she’d done everything but stand on her head to make him butt out. She didn’t want help. That was obvious. She didn’t want a friend. That was obvious, too.
But she’d at least roused enough to snap at him. According to her sister, that was major progress.
When a man found a wounded deer in the road, he didn’t just drive by. At least a MacDougal didn’t. That woman was so wounded she was over her head, sick with it, sad with it, in a rage with it. And no, she wasn’t his problem, but it had been so long since a woman touched him—much less snagged a feeling from his heart—that Pete was unwilling to walk away. At least not yet.
For her sake, but just maybe, for his, too.
Camille woke up to a damp pillow, sore eyes, mental flashes in her mind of a dark alley, her screaming, Robert, the blood, the three faces of drug-crazed kids, the sick feeling of terror…
Same old same old.
She crawled out of bed and took her exasperated scowl into the bathroom. She’d just started to wash the sleep from her eyes when she suddenly heard an odd sound, coming from somewhere close to the front porch outside. A growl? Like an animal growl?
When she didn’t hear it again, she assumed that she’d imagined the sound. Still, once she tugged on a sweatshirt and jeans, she glanced out the murky window in the living room—and then almost dropped the socks in her hand. As fast as she could cram on shoes, she yanked open the door.
There was a dog, tied by a rope to the maple tree. The instant it saw her, the dog sprang to its feet and lunged, starting a teeth-baring, vicious, snarling and barking routine. If it hadn’t been snugly tied, Camille was pretty sure it would have been happy to tear out her throat.
Considering she was afraid of almost everything these days, she wasn’t sure why the dog didn’t terrify her. Possibly it was because the poor thing just looked so pitiful. It had the look of a full-blooded German shepherd—but it had obviously fallen on disastrous times. Its skinny ribs showed. Its right ear had a nip. The eyes were rheumy, the golden-brown coat crusted with old mud.
“Take it easy, take it easy,” she coaxed. But the dog showed no inclination to take it easy and snarled even harder. “Well, for Pete’s sake, how did you end up here? Who tied you to my tree? What are you doing here?”
She couldn’t think, the dog was barking too loudly and too fiercely. So she went back inside, shut the door, and then stared out the window. Once she was out of sight, the dog settled down. She could see a cut in its coat now, close to its right shoulder. The injury didn’t appear too bad, but it was still another sign that the shepherd had been treated badly.
Unfortunately, whoever had tied it to her tree had given it enough room to run and lunge—a little—but hadn’t left it food or water. How anyone had gotten close enough to bring it here to begin with, she couldn’t imagine, but the mystery of the situation had to wait. She foraged in the kitchen cupboards and finally came up with a bowl. It was cracked and dusty, but it would hold water.
When she opened the door again, the shepherd leaped and lunged and did an instant replay of its snapping, snarling act. Camille hesitated, but then slowly carried the water closer. “This is ridiculous. Quit having such a cow. I’m not coming any closer than I have to—you can take that to the bank. But if you want water and food, you’re going to have to shut up and relax. If you don’t like me, don’t worry about it. Believe me, you won’t be here long.”
Snarl, snarl. Growl, growl. The dog was so intent on trying to attack her that it tipped over the water bowl. Camille eased back, perplexed. What now? She couldn’t free the dog—at least not without risking her life. She also couldn’t leave the dog without food or water—but she couldn’t seem to get water to it, and she didn’t have food. Temporarily she seemed to be stymied—and confounded that this could possibly be her problem.
She trudged up to the main house, yanked open the back screen door and yelled for Violet. No answer. She tried upstairs, downstairs, the basement, then the front yard. No sister in any of those places, either. Finally she found Vi in the back of the second greenhouse, up to her elbows in potting soil and roots and plants. She’d look like an earth mother if it weren’t for the five pounds of bangly gold bracelets and wildly tousled blond hair. The place was a jungle of earthy scents and humidity and plants that seemed to be reproducing in every direction.
“Cam!” Violet said delightedly when she spotted her. “You haven’t come out here before. I never thought I’d get you to see all the stuff I’ve been doing in the greenhouses—”
“And I’m not here now,” Camille said. “I’m here about the dog.”
“What dog?”
Camille sighed. If Violet had to ask, then she obviously didn’t know. “Do you have any dog food around? Or anything I could use for dog food? And do you have last night’s paper?”
Asking Violet was a mistake. Once she knew the details she immediately wanted to drop everything and come help. Thankfully, a customer showed up and occupied her sister, which left Camille free to raid the farmhouse kitchen. Vi had enough cat food to feed a zoo of felines. And three days worth of newspapers, none of which listed any reference to a lost dog.
She stomped out of Violet’s house, more aggravated than ever, carting a grocery bag full of dry cat food and a mixing bowl. How on earth had this come to be her problem? She couldn’t care less about a dog she didn’t know from stone and wasn’t conceivably her responsibility.
Getting the bowl of food close to the shepherd was an uphill struggle, since it seemed to want to kill her even more than it wanted to eat. She ended up storming back up to Vi’s kitchen, slamming doors around, heating up some dadblamed hamburger and driveling it into and over the cat food, then storming it back to the worthless mutt.
It quit snarling and lunging when it smelled the ground beef. The tail didn’t wag, the fur didn’t stop bristling, the eyes didn’t look any less feral…but at least the damn dog let her push the bowl within its reach.
Then it fell on the food as if it hadn’t eaten in a week, looking up and growling every few bites—but still, gulping down the chow almost without stopping to chew. By then, Camille had managed to get the heavy mixing bowl of water secured within its reach, too. God knew why she was going to so much trouble. The dog was pitiful. Too mean to love, too ugly for anyone to care, and definitely not her problem. But pitiful.
She never meant to go inside and wash windows. She hadn’t done a single thing to make the cottage more livable, and still didn’t plan to. But because she had to keep glancing out to check on the damned dog, the filthy windows were distracting. And once she rubbed a spot clean, the rest of the window looked disgusting. And then once one window got cleaned, the others looked beyond disgusting.
She’d used half a roll of paper towels when the dog’s sudden fierce, angry barking made her jump and look out.
Pete was out there, leaning over the fence, his jeaned leg cocked forward, wearing an open-throated shirt as if it were a balmy spring day…which actually, Camille guessed it was. He was just…hanging there…looking at the dog, not appearing remotely disturbed by the canine’s aggressive, noisy fury.
For just an instant, she felt the most curious fear, as if she should hide behind the door, not go out, not risk being near him again. There was an old Scottish phrase her dad sometimes used. Ca awa. It meant something like “proceed with caution” and that’s what she thought every time she saw Pete. Something in those sexy, ever-blue eyes made her feel restless and edgy. Something in his long, lazy stride, in his tree-tall height, in those slow, teasing smiles of his made her stomach drop.
She wasn’t aware of him as a man.
She couldn’t be.
She certainly didn’t want him. She didn’t want anyone. She never planned to want another man as long as she lived. But damn…he did bug her.
Quickly, she shook off the ridiculous sensation. Pete MacDougal was no one she needed to feel cautious around. She knew that. He was a neighbor. He was interfering and bossy, for sure, but being afraid of him at any level was absurd. And more to the immediate point, he’d obviously noticed the dog.
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