Wild in the Field (10 page)

“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 Span
ish 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.

T
he only reason Camille went up to dinner was because she knew Violet would raise hell if she didn't. Still, she went to the trouble of unearthing some blush and lipstick—not for vanity—but hoping some face paint would hide her real mood from her sister.

As she crossed the yard to the farmhouse, though, her heart felt heavier than mud. Man. She thought she'd shaken the worst of the dark funks in the past couple weeks, but the dragon had come back to bite her in the butt since arguing with Pete that morning.

It seemed as if every direction she turned, she was doing something wrong. Darn it, she was still living like a kid on a campout. She still couldn't seem to imagine a regular job, and couldn't dredge any interest in ever going back to the marketing work she'd once loved. She'd gotten herself involved with a man who'd been hurt by a woman before, and so had his boys.
And if she didn't get her head on straighter, she risked hurting them, too. And she wanted and needed to help her sister do
something
—the problems with the lavender field being an obvious way Vi needed help—only Camille couldn't cope with that alone, either.

“Uh-oh,” Violet said the minute she walked in the door. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing! I'm totally fine. Let's talk about you.”

But Violet had always been her most annoying sister. Once Vi got it in her head there was a problem, the fussing never let up. No matter what she said, Violet tuned into a pep-up channel. “You're not useless. Don't be ridiculous. Everybody goes through hard things. You have to give yourself time to let yourself heal. Would you go through a surgical operation and expect to be back at work the next day?”

“Violet, you don't have to be so nice to me. It's driving me crazy to be such a burden.”

“You're not a burden. What you need is strength. And I made just the foods to help you!”

Violet laid out a feast. Lentil-rice patties. Some kind of fish with a spinach sauce. Lavender-buttered turnips and a lemon-lavender loaf. Peachy sweet potatoes.

Camille exchanged glances with Killer, who took one good sniff and then flopped on the floor with his eyes closed.

“And I made you a tonic for those headaches you get,” Violet said brightly.

“Thanks so much.”

“The sweet potatoes are especially important. They have a natural estrogen. And the spinach and lentils—you have to build up some iron, some strength—so I want you to have double servings.”

She glanced desperately at Killer again, but he shot
her a look as if to say:
Don't look at me. She's your family, not mine.

By the time dinner was over, Camille was hungry enough to chew rope. Not only was the menu inedible, but Violet followed up with a whole bubbly program of ideas—like wanting to give her a massage and relaxation exercises and force her into a warm bath with lavender bath salts. The instant dishes were done, Camille fled with the dog.

She was almost desperate enough to drive into town for some doughnuts and Oreos and other serious staples, but once she got back to the cottage, she changed her mind. Still strewn through the living room were all the packing boxes and cases that she still hadn't tackled. They seemed glaring symbols of how long she'd wallowed in being miserable. She simply
had
to get on the other side of this tragedy. Kick it up. Move on.

So she opened the first box…and immediately found a box of CDs. Robert's CDs. Like the songs he'd played the first time he'd made love to her…and the music he always picked when they were dressing up for a night on the town…and the music he'd played the day they'd painted the kitchen. Her hands jumped back as if burned. She tried to realistically remind herself that she'd never even liked Robert's music—any more than he'd liked hers. But that wasn't the problem. The problem was the singe of memories.

She pushed that box aside and determined, cracked open a giant-sized crate. This one held kitchen supplies—only not the usual array of practical pots and pans—but wedding gifts. Sterling silver cake plates and fondue pots and butter warmers and waffle makers—still as new as the day she'd opened them and warmly
promised the gift givers that she'd cherish and use their gift every day of their married lives.

Okay. So that was another throat-tightening box, but stubbornly she reached for a different one. This carton should have been memory-safe, because it held nothing but clothes—winter sweaters, hers, nothing that belonged to Robert. Except that the first item on top was the green sweater he'd bought for her last birthday. She remembered opening it, remembered saying, “Oh, I love it, you darling!” but she also remembered having the traitorous thought that Robert couldn't possibly really know her, because she'd never be able to wear that vomit-green color in a thousand years.

Camille slammed down that box, too, making Killer jump. “We're going to throw all these things out tomorrow,” she told the dog. And when Killer didn't look particularly believing, she said, “Come on! I'm not being a coward. It's not like that. For heaven's sake, it's almost eight o'clock and we've been running all day. It's ridiculous to start anything this huge this late at night.” But when Killer still looked skeptical, she said a four-letter word and knuckled under.

She couldn't just throw out boxes without looking at the contents, because there were serious belongings in some of them—things she'd need once she got around to putting her life back together. So she sorted, then put box after box in the trunk of her car, then carted two entire trunk loads to the dump. That was all she could possibly handle, though. When she drove back home after the second trek, the sky was midnight-black; the wind had a scissor-sharp chill to it, and she was so whipped that her head was pounding.

She pushed her shoes off at the door, peeled off clothes as she walked, and then simply threw herself
into bed. There was no doubt in her mind she'd sleep like the dead.

Or that was the plan.

It didn't seem to quite work out that way.

The dream started with memory flashes from her wedding. Her mom, Margaux, was fluffing her hair, fixing her dress, looking at her with serious-mom eyes. It was her mom who'd waited until they were alone to give her a private present of some lethally sexy French satin lingerie. And her mom who'd said, “You're the most beautiful bride I've ever seen. But if you're not sure, we'll stop this right now, darling.”

And then her dad was suddenly in the dream, Colin with his far-seeing blue eyes and the pipe he sneaked away from his wife. To her dad, she'd never been able to do wrong, yet it was her dad who wrapped her in a burly hug and said gruffly, “I never thought a city boy'd make you happy, Cam, not you, but if he's what you want, I'll love him. Just so you know that I'll shoot him if he isn't good to you.”

She kept tossing and turning in the dream, because she wanted her dad so badly. She wanted her mom. Just once she wanted to be young again, a girl, safe in her parents' secure arms, Margaux with her wildly emotional nature, and her dad who'd tromp the woods with her, rain or shine. Daisy was suddenly there— Daisy, who was always so exotic and sexy and striking compared to her and Vi. “Don't go to Boston,” Daisy said. “He's nice, sweets, but there's just no way he'll hold you for long. Pick a man who opens your world. Don't go to Boston, don't go to Boston.”

The dream turned dark so fast. The wedding suddenly became a wild thunderstorm, and the beautiful white dress somehow turned into a devil-black cloud
that choked her, pressing tight, smothering he. Suddenly there was an explosion of pain, when a fist slammed into her face. She heard Robert's helpless cry of pain, heard the judge's voice say, “First offense, first offense. Let's not compound this by making more of a tragedy than it already is.” She woke up in the hospital, knowing he was dead, knowing her life was over. She heard the scrape of her broken ribs when she tried to move, the fear, the sickening fear of those men in the dark; she could still hear their drug-crazed laughter….

“No, no, no. Cut that out. You're not alone.”

Even though it was a dream, she recognized Pete faster than a snap and thought
thank God, thank God.
Like a miracle, he was just suddenly there right when she needed him. Like magic, she could rope her arms around him and be held, as fiercely as she wanted, as strongly as she needed. “I'm so tired of having this stupid damned nightmare,” she said.

“Well, you're not going to have it anymore. I'm right here. We're going to chase it away.”

 

A swoosh of a kiss made her head fall back into the pillows. That kiss…it seemed so real. She could taste Pete, smell his night-cool skin, feel the flannel of his shirt, the weight of him in the bed next to her. Somewhere, a window seemed to let in the drift of cool air—real air. Somewhere, Killer grumbled at the intrusion and jumped off the bed—as if the dog had really been snoozing at her feet.

It was amazing, how real some dreams were. Even better, though, was knowing that she could do things, say things, in a dream that she obviously could never do in real life.

“I'm afraid, Pete,” she whispered.

“Of course you've been afraid.”

“And I just can't seem to stop feeling…guilty. That he died and I didn't. That he tried to fight them off for me, and I couldn't fight them off for him.”

“We're not going to talk about him,” Pete said, and kissed her again.

Naturally she'd had erotic dreams before—who hadn't? But nothing like this. There was another mysterious dream kiss, than another—each hotter than passion, wetter than a river, kisses that flowed and waved and ebbed all around her. His flannel shirt disappeared faster than a poof, just like magic. She heard some vague shuffling sounds—like his boots dropping—then felt the whoosh of cold night air when the sheets were skimmed off her bare body.

For an instant, she was disorientingly aware that maybe this wasn't a dream, because she really was cold. But then, so swiftly, so easily, she wasn't. Pete's long, strong body covered hers, wrapped her up in his long limbs and warm torso. He showered her with more kisses—kisses like presents, each wrapped differently, each packaged like a surprise. Some were pretty and tender, some soft and bright, some so erotic and exotic they took her breath away.

Some skimmed down her body with his tongue, taking in everything, breast, tummy, navel, thigh, one lick at a time. A night beard teased her tender skin, inflamed her senses. He kept whispering, whispering, “Forget everything, Cam. Just think about this. Just be. Just let me love you.”

Something was suspicious.

Mighty suspicious.

Still, she was almost positive the only thing intruding
on this extraordinary dream was her conscience. It was terribly disturbing to realize that she'd never felt this way with Robert. This wicked. This thrilled. As if she could soar, just from the lush sensations of wanting and being wanted, loving and being loved.

Damn it, she'd
loved
Robert, with everything she had, with everything she was. And she was tired to bits of living with that conscience hounding, hounding, hounding her all the time…and tonight, she didn't care what was suspicious or not. Tomorrow she'd try harder to be mean and ornery again, to push people away, to protect herself. But tonight…

Tonight she desperately wanted this dream. She wanted…

Pete.

No one and nothing but him. The lush, wicked sensations of being taken over, taken under. His mouth, teasing hers, taking hers. His hands, moving her to madness, coaxing her to want, to need, to hunger, to feel, to sense, to touch back. To feel alive.

In the velvet shadows, he climbed over her. She felt his thighs, tight, hard, when he coaxed her legs around his waist. He tested her for readiness, found her hot, wet, impatiently more than ready for him, before he plunged in, taking her or maybe her taking him by then—who could possibly tell the difference? They were part of each other, inseparable. Each strained for the next height, climbing together, both furiously wanting by then, not having fun, not anymore. Ecstasy was a serious business. Joy took intense concentration, intense giving.

“Pete, Pete….” She wasn't sure if she said his name aloud. It seemed as if her heart called him, wooing him, wanting him.

And then they both tipped off the sky, spilled into the universe of each other. One sweet, fierce release followed the next, until she sank into the pillows, into his arms, still panting hard, too spent to talk…but not so tired that she lost the energy to hold and be held. She smiled at him in the darkness, tenderly touched his lips with her finger.

“I didn't know,” she whispered. She didn't finish the thought. She wasn't sure there was a finish. It seemed as if everything inside her was a tender beginning, created by Pete, possible because of Pete. She smiled again, nuzzling her lips into his neck, and fell asleep heavier than a brick.

 

The next thing she knew, sunlight was streaming through the bedroom blinds in ribbons. She felt the warmth on her skin, the sensation of well-being and sleepy security, and lazily opened her eyes. There was Killer, his snout on her sheet, eyes staring hopefully at hers from mere inches away.

“I take it you want to go outside,” she murmured.

The dog woofed.

“Exactly when did you start sleeping in my bedroom? The last thing I knew, you worthless mutt, you were sleeping outside.”

The dog laved her hand lovingly.

“I'm not keeping you, remember? You don't belong to me. Nothing belongs to me, Killer. So don't get attached.”

The dog woofed again, and then reached over to lovingly wash her face. The feel of that long, wet tongue got her out of bed bouncing-fast.

She let the dog outside, then stumbled back into the bedroom and sank on the bed's edge, just for a few
moments, struggling to get her emotional bearings. Last night simply had to have been a dream. Really, there wasn't even a question in her mind about that. In real life, she'd never have done those things, felt those things. It was unfair to make herself feel guilty for a dream. It was just disconcerting because everything about their lovemaking had seemed so exquisitely real. The sex was part of that, but the invasive memories that shook her far more were her feelings for Pete, the feelings he'd shown her, how they were together, all the love and tenderness and sensitive caring he'd given her so freely. Obviously, it had been fantasy. A superb fantasy, but nothing she had to worry was conceivably true….