Wild in the Field

Seven

For three days in a row, the family had complained that Pete was as much fun to be around as a crabby porcupine. So this morning, the instant he heard sounds of life stirring upstairs, he sucked down a mug of coffee and pasted on a stupid, happy smile. By the time vigorous fighting had broken out between the twins, he had the eggs whipped to a frenzy. By the time he heard the sound of his father’s cane on the stairs, he popped down the toast.

His dad showed up in the doorway first, shooting him a wary glance. “Gonna be a hot one, they say,” Ian claimed as he ambled into the kitchen. “Pretty rare to have eighty degrees in May.”

“Uh-huh.” When Pete heard the grumpiness in his tone, he deliberately repeated, “Uh-huh,” with more boisterous enthusiasm.

His father squinted at him in surprise, then poured a mug and settled across the counter. When Pete offered no further conversation, Ian ventured, “You get some sleep last night? Seems like I heard you pacing around for three nights in a row, figured you weren’t feeling well.”

“Couldn’t be better,” Pete said heartily. “How’re doing this morning, Dad?”

That shocked Ian into complete silence. Pete never asked about Ian’s state of health-not because he didn’t love his father-but because Ian generally answered in minute detail about every ache and pain. Ian liked being coddled, where Pete didn’t believe it was good for him. This morning, though, his father didn’t answer his health question, only watched Pete serve him eggs and toast and juice.

“You’re waiting on me,” Ian said, in the same disbelieving tone he’d use to announce Elvis hunkering down at their kitchen table.

“Just thought we should all start the day with a good breakfast.”

“I’m not complaining,” Ian said hastily, and taking advantage of his son being pleasant, tried a new line of conversation. “I couldn’t help but notice the special deliveries you got yesterday. Looked like some thick envelopes. New work?”

“Yeah.” And normally, the arrival of new work would have revved his personal jets. He did all kinds of translating projects, but the scientific translating work he did for Langley was his favorite, always fascinating and different, always something new to spin his mind around. Right now, though, there was only one thing he wanted the skill to translate-and that wasn’t scientific developments, but Camille. No amount of replaying what she said seemed to help him analyze what she really meant-or what she really wanted.

The boys clattered downstairs. Eggs got shoveled onto plates. Ian punched on CNBC. Sun poured in the east windows.

When Pete looked out, though, he didn’t see the sunlit grass or the dewy glisten in his apple orchards. He saw her. His mind’s view whispered back three nights. He saw Cam’s face by moonlight, the magic in her eyes, her silky white naked skin. The way she’d come alive for him. Apart for him. Gone wild for him, with him.

For damn sure, he hadn’t been hurt that she’d ended the night with honesty. Her confession that she was still in love with her dead husband came as absolutely no surprise. She’d never given him a reason to expect anything else. A man would have to be an idiot to not realize the tragedy was still haunting her. Camille was nothing like Debbie. When Cam loved, she loved. Obviously, she’d never be having such a hard time getting over Robert’s death if she hadn’t loved him so damn much.

A glass of juice spilled. Ian babbled on about an eye doctor appointment. The boys only had a couple weeks of school left, and they had plans. “I’m not going to bug you about a horse again, Dad. I’m just saying…”

“It’s okay,” he said.

“You mean, it’s okay that I can get a horse this summer?”

He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the counter, looking out. He’d never made love with her because he expected any kind of return. The chemistry was explosive, so yeah, there was plenty of selfishness on his part. He wasn’t trying to claim that he’d made love for her sake. But that really wasn’t the whole picture. He hated seeing her shut herself off from life. He also didn’t want her getting her feet wet with some guy who’d hurt her-something he knew he’d never do. He wanted to be the one who helped her heal. What was wrong with that?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Making love hadn’t hurt her. Hadn’t hurt him. Her admitting she was still hung up on Robert was an honest, honorable thing to tell him.

He was happy she had.

Very happy.

A yellow school bus suddenly braked at the end of the driveway. The back door slammed once, then twice, as the boys pelted outside.

“I think Simon broke the remote control. Didn’t want to tell you, but from the looks of the situation, I believe it found its way into the bathtub.”

“Sure,” Pete said.

Ian brought the breakfast dishes to the sink. That was the closest he ever came to doing dishes directly. “I can’t believe you agreed to buy that boy a horse. Ask me, it’s proof you’ve completely lost your mind. But if you’re up for a horse, I might as well buy Simon and Sean a truck of their own. That okay with you?”

“Sure.”

“Maybe I’ll take them on a trip to Alaska next week, too.”

“Okay.”

“Are you going to be in the office this morning or out in the orchards or what? Where are you going to be?”

Pete shook himself awake, stirred from the window. “I’ll be working in the back office for at least an hour. But then I’m going to pick up a few truckloads of mulch and round up a crew.”

“Ah. For Camille’s lavender.” His dad almost choked on a guffaw, the sound so unexpected that Pete pivoted around and looked at him in surprise.

“What’s so funny?”

“I just think it’s pretty amazing. I could tell you the sun turned blue, and you’d never hear the conversation, but if I mention anything related to Camille, you’re all ears.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Just because I’ve gotten old doesn’t mean I’ve lost all memory of what a young buck feels like. Tuesday was the first time you were gone all night since the divorce. I was pretty sure you weren’t playing dominoes.”

Pete opened his mouth to deny his dad’s assumption-off the cuff, he didn’t have a clear-cut lie on mind, only the intention to come through with a good one. Only his dad-the one who’d been trying to make the family believe he needed help to walk across a room-skedaddled from sight. In fact, he trundled in the other room so fast that Pete had no chance to think up any kind of good lie. For his dad.

Or for himself.

Camille saw the cars parked outside the Herb Haven, but she still trounced inside. For three days, she’d let herself stew and fester instead of confronting her sister. Naturally, she wouldn’t say anything directly in front of customers, but it was time to corner Violet and have it out.

She spotted Violet right away and motioned to let her know she was there, then just wandered up and down aisles, staying out of the way. Her sister was waiting on a guy. Camille could hear the man talking-he was apparently looking for a present for his wife. A girl present. Something that cost around fifty bucks and smelled good and that his wife would like-those factors seemed to sum up his entire descriptive criteria.

“Don’t you worry about a thing, Jacob. I’ll fix you up.” Violet was wearing another one of her big, sappy hats-heaven knew why. She was also wearing lace-up shoes with heels, a vintage lace blouse, and earrings that hung to her shoulders.

Camille wouldn’t have worn the outfit in a coffin, but for a brief moment she felt like something a cat dragged in from the rain. It wasn’t that long ago that she’d loved her sassy business suits and spent a shameless fortune on shoes and jewelry. She’d always tended toward tailored pieces, sterling collars and single bangles, none of the froufrou and beads that Vi loved, but she’d never been unkempt or uncaring about her appearance, the way she was now. She caught a glimpse of her wind-burned cheeks and wildly tossed hair in a mirror and unconsciously touched her face, thinking of Pete-before swiftly turning away.

Violet seemed to know this Jacob. Camille thought she might know him herself-his voice and name sounded familiar, as if they might have gone to school together. Distracted, she watched her sister in action. Violet kept fussing over the guy until his face turned beet red, bemusing Camille. Vi was so completely different around certain people. She was smart. Maybe she was a little eccentric in a couple of minor ways, but she’d always had a big IQ. Around certain males, though, Vi seemed to talk in blond and behave in ways that deliberately scared men from having a normal conversation.

By the time Jacob left, Camille was so puzzled by her sister’s behavior that she almost forgot she was foot-tapping upset with her. Unfortunately, the shop was busy. After Jacob left, a plump grandma bought chamomile tea and evening primrose oil. Then a pair of women walked in. Finally, the store was quiet for a few minutes.

“Hey,” Vi started to say.

“You traitor. You sicced Pete on me. How could you?”

“Huh?”

“Three nights ago. When I said I was staying home. You threatened me that if I didn’t get off the farm, you were going to do something. But I thought you meant that you were going to do something ugly-like call Mom.”

“Why would I call Mom and worry her?”

“Well, that’s why I thought you wouldn’t! But then I thought you’d call Daisy.”

Violet slid behind the counter, where she’d obviously been creating dried herb and flower arrangements until the flood of customers. The counter was mounded with heaps of leaves and fronds and smelly stuff. “Actually, I did call Daisy.”

Camille’s jaw dropped. “You tattletaled on me to Daisy?”

“Uh-huh. Reach behind you on that top shelf for the spools of ribbons, okay? I need the gold and red and, hmm, maybe the pale orchid. And yes, I tattletaled to Daisy. We must have talked about twenty minutes, brainstorming ways to push you into going out in public again.”

“I would have gone into town when I was ready!”

“Maybe,” Violet conceded. “But the point is, this way worked. You went to town. I knew Pete could get you to do it. And I also thought it was probably a good idea for him besides-hand me the emerald ribbon, too, okay? And here. Cut it in foot-long strips…”

“I’m not here to cut your damned ribbon.” Camille grabbed the scissors. “What’d you mean about it being good for Pete?”

“You know.” Stems and leaves and sticks flew every which way. “Pete hasn’t been the same since the divorce. You know how he was in high school-Mr. Bad Boy. Always full of the devil, full of fun. He was never mean-not that kind of devil-but he loved to play, loved to party, had a little wild streak. He could charm a teacher out of giving a test. Skip school and not get in trouble-”

“Could you cut to the chase? I was in school with you guys, remember?”

“Well, he met Debbie in college. In the beginning they seemed real tuned. She was real gregarious, a life-of-the-party type. And I guess they were fine when they were first married. At least that’s how I heard it. But then they had the twins, and a year after that his mom died.” Violet shook her head. “Big life things, you know? Only it’s as if Pete grew up and she never did.”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you got my ribbons cut?”

Sheesh. It was like blackmail. Having to listen to all this extra chat and work, too. But she had to hand over the cut ribbons before Violet was willing to continue.

“Those babies…from the day the boys were born, Pete was just crazy for them. Everybody noticed. He was the one walking the floor at night, taking them to the pediatrician for their shots, taking them for walks, the whole shebang. As far as I know, Debbie wanted a baby, at least in theory, but maybe she didn’t realize how tied down she was going to be. And having twins made it worse.”

“How come I never heard any of this before?” Camille said impatiently.

“Everyone knew.”

“I didn’t.”

Violet took the mess of weeds and ribbon and some paper, and somehow, when she stuck it all in a vase, it looked like a zillion dollar florist arrangement…talking the whole time. “Cam, you were in college, and then you got that great marketing job, and then you were with Robert. You weren’t thinking about the stuff going on back home. Neither was I-when I was with Simpson. Anyway. It wasn’t just that Pete settled down after the boys were born. He also came back to White Hills because his dad needed help after his mother died. Debbie went nuts. Whining all the time about country life, nothing to do. Initially I’m not sure if Pete ever intended to stay here. It was more temporary, to help his dad.”

“But-?” Prodding Violet to get to the bottom line was like waiting for Congress to balance the budget.

“But he liked the land. And the boys just loved it here. And then he got into that other work-I don’t know what he does exactly, except that it’s something he can do at home. And that was the point, that he could make a good living and yet still be available for his kids-because by that time, Debbie sure wasn’t much of a mother.”

They both glanced up when the door opened, but it was just Killer pushing his nose in, looking for Camille. Three cats promptly leaped to tall shelves. Violet said quietly, “I think Pete really knew she was playing around quite a while before she took off.”

Camille ignored Killer, ignored the cats, ignored the ribbons. She blurted out, “I just can’t believe any woman would play around on Pete.”

“Neither can I.” Violet finished another breathtakingly artistic arrangement. Of course, she left enough of a mess to fill a trash truck, but neither woman was paying attention by then, anyway. “It’s not as if Pete and I ever clicked. We didn’t. But I still always thought he was a hunk. Not just because he’s good-looking, you know? But because some guys just come across as…”

“Male with a capital M,” Camille supplied.

“Yeah, exactly. You can just look and know some guys will be good lovers, some won’t. It’s in their eyes. It’s in how they move. You can just tell they like sex-”

“Um, Vi. All men like sex. They come out of the womb reaching for a boob.”

Violet grinned. “Well, I know that. But I meant…some men like the pleasure of it, the touching, all of it, not just the getting-off part.” She paused. “That’s theory, of course. Everything I learned wrong about sex, I learned from Simpson. Anyway-”

“Anyway,” Camille echoed.

“The point is, Pete seemed to lose all his spirit after Debbie left. He turned into a complete Sobersides. I don’t mean there’s anything to criticize. Cripes, he’s a football dad, Boy Scout leader, volunteer for anything in the community involving kids. But ask him to a party, and he’s got a dozen excuses why he can’t go. And they say in town that he never goes out, no matter what woman’s tried chasing him. He’s just seemed to lose his pizzazz, you know?”

No, she hadn’t known.

But as she trudged back home, she felt more troubled than ever that they’d made love. It was one thing for her to do something insane in a moment of impulse-and wild chemistry-but another for her to risk hurting someone else. Violet had made her see Pete as far more vulnerable than showed on the surface. For damn sure, he didn’t need a woman in his life who he couldn’t trust, not after what his ex-wife had put him through.

She was within yards of the cottage when she heard the unexpected roar of engines. Killer paid no attention. The dog was used to the sound of trucks and tractors. And so was Camille-but not coming from anyone on Campbell land, much less from the direction of the lavender field.

She hustled to the top of the knoll, where she tried to sort out the commotion. Pete’s white truck glinted in the sun on the far side of the field. Strangers were milling all over the place. Three truckloads of mulch were being dumped up and down the rows of lavender, and then tractors with blades were pushing the mulch closer to the plants, with workers pitchforking it directly under the plants from there.

Her jaw didn’t drop in complete shock-because she already knew Pete was capable of massive interfering. But knowing that he was a hopelessly take-charge kind of guy and realizing he’d become even more embroiled in helping her were two different things. She hurled down the hill with her scowl and her vicious dog, practicing dire threats under her breath until she could catch up to deliver them in person.

Initially his back was to her-he was speaking Spanish to a man in a plaid shirt who obviously worked for Pete. When the small man noticed her, he gestured quickly, which was all it took for Pete to spin around.

“Hi, Cam…Camille, this is big Al. He’s been my farm foreman for a bunch of years. And Al, this is Camille Campbell.”

“Nice to meet you, Al.” She shook his hand, then whipped around to Pete. “MacDougal, I want a word with you.”

“Sure, I-”

“Now.” She-and Killer-did their best to herd him behind the shade of the giant maple tree, because it just didn’t seem politically correct to murder a man in front of people who worked for him. But she was doubly tempted to do bodily harm when Pete smiled at her.

He knew perfectly well she was susceptible to his smiles. He knew perfectly well what they’d done the last time he’d smiled at her like that. He couldn’t be glad to see her. No one was glad to see an ornery curmudgeon with a chronic case of PMS who was neurotic to the nth degree. He also didn’t find her attractive. No man could find a woman attractive who’d abandoned nail files and lipstick and grooming and was wearing clothes so big they’d smother a shroud.

She was already worried about him, and now that smile of his worried her even more. What if her hermit-type insanity was infectious? What kind of influence could she be on him or for him if he started behaving as sick and demented as she was?

Her forefinger poked him in the chest. “What in the Sam Hill do you think you’re doing?”

“Damn. I figured you’d take one look and know. You mean, you can’t recognize mulch?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t mess with me, MacDougal.”

He didn’t look repentant for teasing her, but he sidetracked to more direct information. “I checked the pH a couple days ago. You’re fine there, although you’ll probably want to put on some lime in the fall. The mulch was critical, though, Cam. Thursday, we’re forecast a major rain. Obviously you wouldn’t normally mulch with the plants starting to bud and you still hustling to get the pruning done. But you’ve got a decent chance at a crop, at least if you can bolster the drain-ability-”

“MacDougal. I know what mulch is. I know what it’s for. And I know the damn lavender needs a ton of mulch. But I have no possible way to afford it right now.”

“I’m paying for it.”

“No, you’re not,” she said.

“Yeah, I am. Your sister agreed.”

Camille pushed a startled hand through her hair. “Violet agreed to let you pay for this?”

“She agreed to let me temporarily help you two out of a mess. You’re doing the lion’s share of the work. But obviously there are a couple things you can’t do totally on your own.” He scratched his chin. “I’m having a case of déjà vu. Didn’t we already have this exact fight before?”

He was having fun. Too much fun, she decided. “I’m going to punch your lights out. Do you remember that part of the fight from before?”

“I remember the threat.” His eyes glinted at her again. He seemed to remember exactly what he’d done with the threat the last time.

“Pete. You should have told us you were doing this. Not just shown up with strangers.”

“Whoa.” Pete turned sober, glanced at the workers to make sure the project was progressing, and then steered her deeper into the shadows of the maple. “Cam, I did tell Violet. She knew I was bringing in the mulch. I really wouldn’t have just shown up with a crew unannounced-no matter how bossy you think I am. I only moved fast because of the weather. If we really get three or four inches of heavy rain before this is mulched, you could ruin the crop.”

“You told Violet,” she repeated.

“Yeah. Because we both discussed that Violet needed to be consulted on what her plans were. And her idea was to pay me from the crop profits, so there was no charity involved.”

“MacDougal, don’t try selling horse spit to a horse owner. My sister doesn’t have a clue how she’s going to harvest this or what she’s going to do with it.”

“Yeah, I got that impression, too. She went on and on about how she loved the lavender, but some days, trying to get a commonsense answer out of her is an uphill job.”

“Don’t you start on my sister!”

“I’m just trying to be straight with you. She’s all excited, full of pipe dreams, but I couldn’t get a realistic plan out of her-and apparently you couldn’t either. The thing is, you’re working your tail off, and whether your sister gets a clue about the situation or not, certain things are cut-and-dried. You’ve got a shot at a crop and some long-term profit-if the field’s taken care of. So the only thing that makes sense is to bring the field back, help it become all it can be, and then try to get your sister involved in the decision-making process as soon as you can get her a brain transplant. Preferably from a brunette.”

She heard him. But it seemed to hit her like a flash of light, that she’d somehow joined life again. They were arguing about a real-life problem. She was participating in the argument. More to the point, all the life around her was seeping into her consciousness.

Clouds were puffing across the morning sky like baby steam engines. She could smell the lazy spring wind, the turned-over dirt. The workers-Pete’s employees-were pitchforking mulch in a rhythmic fashion, their laughter and chatter competing with the sound of the tractor blade still pushing mulch. The whole field smelled lushly rich and earthy. And the beautiful lavender…oh, it still looked like hell; Camille wasn’t even halfway through the impossible job, and it was ridiculously late in the spring to believe she could make this happen. But the lavender was trying so hard, in spite of its earlier neglect. Every lavender plant showed growth. Green spurts. Buds. Reaching for the sun.

Her gaze wandered back to Pete, and then couldn’t seem to let go. This morning he was wearing khakis, work boots, a short-sleeved shirt. His hair kicked up in the breeze. She could see the creases he’d gotten from past summer suns, the frown lines from other life experiences, the laugh lines bracketing his mouth.

She remembered that mouth…remembered it wooing hers, teasing hers, intimately taking hers. She remembered the artwork of hair on his chest, the color more mahogany, more lustrous, than the hair on his head. She remembered his muscled shoulders and tummy, those long, long legs, those funny feet.

“Did you hear me?” Pete demanded.

Really and truly, he had ugly feet. Big. Huge toes.

“I just suggested your sister needed a brain transplant,” he said, as if to make certain she’d heard that insult.

She’d heard his teasing the first time. But she remembered those big, ugly toes rubbing against her in the night, remembered folding into his arms, remembered feeling hunger and a fury of passion and how erotically and ardently he’d taken her in. And suddenly fear welled in her throat so thick she could barely swallow. She blurted out, “I can’t help it if I still love Robert.”

As if he instantly understand her segue to a completely different subject, he said, “Who asked you to help it?”

“You didn’t ask. But I’m afraid of hurting you, Pete.”

“I’ll be damned. For some reason, do you think you’re talking to a boy? Because I’m a grown man, and it isn’t up to you whether I get hurt or not. It’s up to me. And I can handle my own life.”

She tried again, struggling to understand the welling fear inside her, to be honest with him. “It’s easy for people to tell me to move on. I’d be thrilled to move on. But ever since the trial…it’s as if this door were locked and bolted inside me. I can’t imagine loving anyone else that way again. It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s that I don’t think I could survive losing anyone else, volunteering for that kind of hurt, that kind of risk. I don’t think I have that kind of love inside me. Not anymore.”

Pete cocked a leg forward. “Did you think someone was asking you for love?”

Her eyes searched his. Actually, she’d thought just that. That he needed love, that he deserved it, possibly more than any man she’d ever met. That he’d needed something from her, no different than she needed something from him. But now, he sounded so aggravated and huffy that she wasn’t sure. “I just…wanted us both to be clear about what was going on.”

“Damn good sex is what went on, Cam. The best sex I can remember. Chemistry that 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…”

Sheesh. She could feel the bristles climbing up her spine at his tone of voice. “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!” Before he could even try saying anything else, she whipped around and stomped off.

Since it was Campbell lavender his workers were sweating over, she knew she should pitch in and be part of the mulch project. And she would. But just then she needed to dunk her head in a bucket of water to cool 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 locate right over her heart, and ached worse than a bee sting.