Wild in the Field (5 page)

“I'm not going near your face or eyes, so don't get your liver in an uproar. Just a little more now. Then I'll rinse you off and leave you alone. I'll be darned, I thought you were almost all brown. But you're more than half blond, aren't you, you low-down, ornery—”

From behind her, she heard the sound of a gate unlatching.

“…boneheaded, pea-brained, worthless…”

And then she heard the quiet clomp of a boot on her porch.

“…lazy, stubborn…. DAMN IT, KILLER!” She had a pretty good grip on the dog, but her hands and the dog's coat were both slippery, and suddenly Killer bolted, knocking over the bucket of soapy water. On her. Followed by his shaking all over. On her. And then the dog just stood there, staring at her, sopping wet with his tongue hanging out. As if they were friends. As if he'd forgotten all about wanting to rip her throat out and how much he hated her and all humans and everything else.

And then she heard another sound coming from behind her…the rumble of a man's throaty, wicked,
evil
laughter.

 

Whew. Pete tried to choke back the laugh, because she turned on him faster than a man could spit.

“What's so funny, Pete MacDougal?”

He cocked a foot forward. “You. Saw a cat fall in a well once. It didn't look half as drowned as you do.” Well, that was a complete lie. She was wet, yes, but she looked damned adorable, with her spiky hair and
the animation and color in her cheeks. More to the point, she'd broken his heart with how much she'd revealed about herself when she was talking to the dog. And broke his heart more, seeing her still trying, so hard, to be tough, to not feel or care, when it was as obvious as sunshine she cared so much she was crying from the weight of it.

“Dadblamit, MacDougal! I'm not going to take any more insults from you!”

He blinked. “Actually, I just got here, so really, I've only had a chance to insult you once. And then, what can I say? You
are
wetter than the dog. Got more suds and mud on you than the dog twice over. But I don't recall say anything else—”

“Well, you didn't. Today. But you sure filled your boys' ears last week!”

She shot past him so fast he didn't have a chance to register more than a “Huh?” More interesting, since she'd neglected to forbid him inside the door, he trailed in after her.

Years ago, he'd seen the inside of the cottage. A great-grandmother had lived there for years, had still been around to hand out cookies and candy at Halloween when he'd been a kid. He remembered the place as being small, but full of color and light.

Now the whole fireplace wall was stacked to the ceiling with moving boxes—Pete assumed that Camille still hadn't unpacked from Boston. The windows looked washed, but otherwise the level of dust rivaled his sons' housekeeping. He saw boxes for fancy kitchen equipment, like the latest in coffeemakers and pasta makers and toast makers and all those other “makers”—yet none of that was unpacked. In fact, through the doorway of the old-fashioned kitchen, he
could see a battered stainless coffeepot on the old stove that was too pitiful to be called an antique.

So she was still camping out. Still not actually living anywhere. At least emotionally.

Pete pushed a hand through his hair, waiting. Camille had disappeared into the bedroom—he could hear her muttering through the half-closed door. Eventually he saw a soggy lump of cloth hurled on the floor, followed by another.

When Cam finally reemerged, she was barefoot but at least dry, wearing worn jeans and a dry shirt. It was another one of those shirts that must have been her dad's, because the old blue chambray looked soft as a baby's butt, frayed and shapeless.

He hadn't figured out yet whether she was trying to be as ugly as possible, or if she was unconsciously trying to cover herself with comforting things—like the clothes that had belonged to her father.

Pete could have told her that the ugly goal was completely unattainable and doomed to failure. Those dark eyes and pale skin and that soft, vulnerable mouth took his breath every time he saw her. But that she might be trying to cover herself with comforting things made him think about her father. Colin Campbell was a good guy. Pete had always thought of him as an honorary uncle, although he hadn't seen him since the Campbells retired and moved south. Colin, though, had always been a strong, protective father with his daughters—so much so that Pete wondered if her dad even realized how much pain his baby daughter was in.

Of course, try to be nice to her and you could get your head bitten off. He knew better than that—so when she showed back up in the doorway, he said immediately, “What were you talking about, implying
that I'd filled my boys' ears about you? What did they tell you? That I'd put you down in some way?”

“Not exactly. Just forget it.” She didn't flip him a finger, which Pete thought was progress. And she was carrying a brush, which also seemed to be progress, a sign that she cared what her wild thatch of thick, short hair looked like—except that she shook the brush at him en route to her kitchen. “I don't want your sons helping me with the lavender.”

“You don't like my boys?” Immediately he stiffened.

“I don't like anyone, so don't take it personally. Your boys are terrific. Although if I were you, I'd get the damn horse for Sean before he nags you into an early grave. And don't be telling Simon any secrets, because he'll tell anyone anything—”

“Yeah, in fact, I already heard from Simon that you've been feeding them delicacies they never get at home.”

“That's a complete lie. I only brought them some sandwiches and stuff because they were working so hard,” she said defensively. “And because they're boys. And being boys, they seem to be hungry all the time.”

Obviously she thought he'd accused her of being kind, because the teakettle got slammed in the sink. And once the kettle was filled, it got slammed on the stove. And then a mug got slammed on the counter. One mug. He couldn't help but notice that she didn't offer him any.

“I haven't starved either kid. I swear. No matter what they told you,” he said deadpan.

She rolled her eyes. “The point is, that I don't want them working on the farm. I mean it, Pete. It's not
right, unless I could pay them. And I positively can't afford to pay them.”

“I've been paying them—”

“I know that. And it's even more wrong. I don't want your charity, and the whole lavender thing isn't your problem.”

“Okay, I know how to settle this,” Pete said peaceably. “I'll go ask your sister—”

As expected, she promptly paled in horror, and dropped a spoon. “Come on. Don't sic Violet on me. That's not fair.”

He scratched his chin. “Well, see, there we have a problem. Because I either have to talk to your sister or to you. There are some decisions that have to be made on all that lavender. I have to ask one of you before going ahead—”

“What in God's name are you trying to interfere with now?” she asked, obviously exasperated. In fact, so exasperated that she seemed to blindly set down a second mug in front of him. And once the hot water bubbled, she even stirred in some instant coffee for him.

He took a sip of the sludge. Her coffee was almost—almost—as bad as his. “Well, there are three things we have to decide. The first is, your sis is going to have to invest in mulch, because you've got good drainage there, but not good enough for lavender. Then, assuming you actually want to make something of that mess, you need soil with a pH around six point five, which I haven't tested for. But I suspect—knowing the nature of my land next to that acreage—that you're going to need to side dress the plants with some lime.”

He watched her sink into the scarred chair across the table. Violet's eyes would have crossed at the first
mention of soil pH and lime. Not Camille's. She not only knew land; she had a sense for it that neither of her sisters had. It was pretty obvious, though, that she hadn't thought through the long-term dimensions of the lavender problem. Still, she responded swiftly. “I can do all that without help.”

“Yeah?” He figured she had the strength to mulch twenty acres like a cow could fly.

“I can, Pete.”

“Uh-huh.” At one time, the little kitchen had been a cheerful oasis. Now, the sink had rust stains; the paint was peeling and the floor needed to be redone.

“You think my dad raised a couch potato? Maybe it's been a few years, but I know how to fertilize and mulch and all. I just didn't…”

“You didn't know the lavender was going to need it. And neither, apparently, did your sister. She's not a couch potato either, but as far as I know she never steps into a field if she can help it. Which brings us to our main problem—”

“There is no
our
, MacDougal.” When he sipped his coffee and said nothing, she prodded him, “So? So? What is this big problem supposed to be?”

Pete raised a hand. This was a serious question, no teasing. “I have to know what she's trying to do. Your sister. I mean, I read up on lavender, so I'd get an idea why anyone'd grow the darn stuff. But it's not as if Violet planted a little flower garden here. Apparently she bred and crossbred all kinds of varieties. In France, now, lavender's a major crop in the perfume industry—but it's about the oil, not about the flower. Unless your sister planned to grow enough flowers for all the florists in the entire northern hemisphere, I have to assume she was hoping to harvest the oil. Only I don't see any
harvesting equipment to extract the oil. I don't even know if she's looked into potential markets. There's only so much money you can pour into this if—”

“I hear you. I'll sit on my sister and find this stuff out.” Camille had seemed to be listening, but suddenly she blurted out, “When'd she leave you, Pete?”

“Huh?”

“Your ex-wife. When did she leave you and the boys? I figured it couldn't have been long ago, because the hurt seems pretty fresh. The boys really talk up how much they don't miss her. How much they don't love her. How much they don't care.”

Pete chugged down the coffee, but only so he could set the mug down. He hadn't come here to talk about this. “Yeah, well, it's been a couple years. Almost three. It's my dad who feeds them that kind of anti-women talk, making out like it's fun to live like bachelors, not need women, all that. You know my dad.”

“I used to.”

“So you know he adored my mom. Nothing anti-women about him. I don't understand why he keeps pushing the attitude on the boys. It seems as if he thinks we'll all be hurt less if we just pretend we don't need women in our lives.”

“They really do seem like good kids, Pete.”

“They are. But it's always there, you know? Hiding in the closet. That their mom left them. That she loved them so little that she could just take off and not look back. Reality is, she took off on
me
, not them. But that's not how kids see it.” Pete frowned. He wasn't sure why he was spilling all this stuff. He couldn't remember talking this much about Debbie or the divorce. To anyone.

And Camille was suddenly frowning right back at him. “It's none of my business.”

“Actually—it isn't.”

She was on her feet faster than a flash. “It's not as if I care. I only started this whole conversation to tell you that I didn't want your help, or your boys' help, or anyone else's help.”

He stood up, too, thinking the damn woman was more mercurial than a summer wind. For a minute there, she'd not only listened about the scope of the lavender problems—which she sure as hell had no way to know about, coming in cold to the farm after all this time. But she'd also asked about his sons and the divorce situation as if she actually cared. Without thinking, he murmured, “I keep getting glimpses of the Camille I remembered. The Camille you used to be.”

Wrong thing to say. Scarlet streaked her cheeks faster than fire. “Well, I'm not that person. That girl's gone forever and never coming back, so if you were thinking—”

“I wasn't thinking anything, so don't be tearing any more bloody strips off me.” His voice dropped low. Lower than a bass tenor and quieter than midnight. “Cam, I understand anger. If I'd been through what you have, I'd be tearing the bark off trees. I'm sorry you've been through such hell. But I'm not part of anything that hurt you. I'm just an old friend who happens to have the means and time to help you with the lavender. And I've got two sons who are teenagers, which means they're selfish as hell, and that means it'll do
them
good—for
their
sakes—to put in some hours doing something for someone besides themselves. Now, that's all that's going out there, so quit giving me a
murdle-grups
.”

Her father used to use that Scottish term—
murdle-grups
. It meant bellyache. And Pete thought using it might make her smile. But apparently she'd scared herself, having a conversation with him as if she cared. She didn't want to care. Not about him. Which she seemed obligated to make crystal clear.

Her chin went up a notch. “I'm not keeping the dog.”

“No?”

Her chin shot up another defiant inch. “I've been tending him. I admit that. But I've only been taking care of him because I didn't want him put away. The very instant he's better, I'm finding him a home and getting rid of him.”

“You do that. That'll show me how mean you are,” he goaded her.

“I
am
mean.”

Aw, hell. It was such a stupid conversation that he couldn't think of a single reason to continue it. So he grabbed her and kissed her instead.

What else could he possibly have done? She was just standing there, fists on her hips, looking like a waif against Goliath. She wasn't going to quit challenging him unless he did something.