Wild in the Field (12 page)

He knew—he'd always known—that they couldn't continue on the track they were on for long. Being a climb-in-her-bedroom-at-night-lover had been a lot of fun the first time. And the second. But a romantic impulse was one thing, and not being straight about something important was another. Subterfuge wouldn't work in his life. She couldn't tolerate it in hers. And he'd known a showdown moment was coming. He just wasn't prepared for it at this precise instant.

He drove the back farm road that skirted the acres of the lavender, then farther back, past his McIntosh and Red Delicious orchards, then back to the far nestle of woods.

Several acres of old, virgin hardwoods scattered across a high knoll, then gently sloped down to a spring-fed pond. The MacDougal boys and Campbell girls used to sled that hill every year when they were growing up, the girls trying every girl flirting trick they knew to get the boys to carry their sleds uphill again. The tricks usually worked.

A smile whisked across her face. Although God knows she didn't know it—or admit it—she was getting those unshakably sexy smiles of hers back.

“Yeah,” Pete murmured, as he braked and climbed out of her car. “I remember a dozen winters from when
we were kids. Just this spot. In fact, I specifically remember Daisy begging my oldest brother to pull her toboggan. He couldn't say no to her and breathe. Heck, he couldn't say yes to her without stuttering and turning red as a brick.”

“Daisy could make any boy stutter. And oh, brother, I loved all those winters. I was the young one, tagging after all of you older kids, but I loved every minute. Skating on the pond. Sledding that hill.” For an instant she seemed to forget how mad she was, because she ambled next to him, looping her hands in her back jeans pockets. “You haven't mentioned your brothers in a while.”

He wanted to mention that her asking such a question was a sign that she was seriously ready to join real life again. Weeks ago, she wouldn't have given a thought to his brothers—or anyone else. It was all she could do to get up in the morning. Unfortunately, now that she was better, she seemed unquestionably in a fast hurry to throw him out of her life. And he was bracing for that—he'd expected that point to come for weeks. But temporarily, he hoped some general conversation would ratchet down the tension between them.

“Both my brothers are doing great. Webster's standing in front of a classroom at Stanford. He's married, got two kids and a station wagon kind of life. I don't think his feet have seen mud since he left the farm. Griff's just the opposite—he's in North Dakota. Married a woman with a big ranch in her family. He seems to love the life and the work—and the two of them seem to attract kids like mosquitoes. Last count, they had four of their own and another three that seem to be just living with them.”

In spite of feeling like an axe was about to fall on
his head, Pete almost started to relax. Both of them instinctively seemed to follow the trail down to the water, Cam so easily hiking next to him. No matter how hard she was trying, it just wasn't an easy morning to stay mad. The temperature had already kicked up in the past hour. A warm breeze fluttered the leaves, allowing sunshine to shiver through the forest canopy in yellow polka dots. A rabbit scrambled across their path. The air was soft, tender with spring smells, and the farm pond was just below them, a diamond, with a whisper of morning mist still dawdling on the far side.

In a curve in the path, they startled a doe and her young fawn, who froze at the unexpected intruders. He glanced at Camille. It hurt his heart, how easily he could share a smile with her, share the magic morning. She belonged on this land no different than he did.

He'd fooled himself into believing she belonged with him. No one to blame for that, of course, but himself.

The mama deer finally freaked and bounded off, her fawn gamboling right behind her, breaking that moment of magic silence…but at least Camille was still talking to him.

“When I was growing up, I assumed all three of you MacDougals would end up back on the farm—same as I thought my sisters and I would never grow up and move off. This was home. I couldn't imagine being anywhere else when I was little. But…you're the only one of your brothers who actually did it, came back to the land,” she said.

“Actually, I was the only one who could come back, right at the time my dad needed help. Maybe I would have ended up back here sooner or later, anyway. I never wanted to farm the same way my dad did, but I always felt a draw to the land. I like the heritage and
history. Can't imagine working at something where I couldn't sometimes get my hands dirty.”

“Neither of your brothers felt that way?”

“Not that they ever said. There are plenty of acres here. We could have found room for all of us. Maybe they didn't care…but I think, more than that, most men just plain tend to settle where their women are. It seems to be one of those universals. Men wander around, unsettled and uncommitted, until they meet a certain woman. Web and Griff took up new roots from the day they got married.”

He knew the instant he used the word “marriage” that he'd royally screwed up. She stiffened up like a poker, fastened on a glower, and that was it for the peaceful conversation. “Damn it, Pete. I don't want that damn cat!”

“No?”

“
No
. I don't want a cat. I don't want a dog. I don't want your kids thinking that we—”

He cut in quietly. “Yeah. I know. They were trying to matchmake.” He thought being honest would help, but she looked even more frantic. So he tried to explain further. “Sean—like you would expect—is the one who brought home the cat. He brings home anything that's still breathing. He knew I wouldn't let him keep it—but he and his brother started talking about giving it to you.”

“You could have easily said
No. Don't do that to Camille.
”

“Yeah, I could have. But the fact is, I thought it was a great idea.”

“How amazing. Why did you think that giving me a forsaken mangy cat was a great idea?”

He ignored that question temporarily and went back
to the point. “The boys have talked more and more about the two of us getting together, being together. So has my dad. They think the sun rises and sets on your shadow—which is great, but I just couldn't believe it when they first started with the matchmaking talk. As far as I can tell, you're the only woman they trust—or have come close to trusting—since their mother took off.”

“But that's crazy, Pete. I haven't done anything to make them like me. Or trust me.”

He rolled his eyes to the sky. “I'm not sure you'd see good in yourself if someone slapped you in the face with it. And hell, Cam. That follows through with everything else as well. You can't think of a single reason why I've been sleeping with you either, right?”

She edged back a step. “Of course I can,” she said testily. “Sex.”

“Camille.” He lowered his voice a full octave. “You're coming close to pissing me off. And you don't want to do that.”

“I'm ticking
you
off! Try and get this through your head, MacDougal.
I'm
the one who's mad. You leave me this aggressive, killer dog that acts as if he'll attack anyone who looks at him sideways. Then you leave me a cat that looks so bad its own mother would disown it. Like you think I need trouble, is that it? You really think I need more problems in my life?”

He warned himself that she looked ready to bolt and he needed to keep his cool. But just possibly, he was as ready for a showdown as she was, because he leaned over her, glowering as damn hard as she was. “I think you've done enough feeling sorry for yourself.”

“What?”

“You heard me. I think it's time you kicked yourself
in the keester and figured it out. You've been through hell, but you made it through to the other side. You don't need more coddling.”

“Since when—” her finger started poking his chest, hard “—did you
ever
coddle me?”

“Since never. Because everyone else was doing it. And if all that coddling had helped you, it'd be fine. But it didn't. In fact, it was turning you into a liar.”

“Liar?” Her finger poked him again. A totally enraged finger. “I never lie. I'm the most honest person you'll know or ever know, MacDougal.”

“Horse hockey. When you first came home, you were beat up. You were like the lavender, full of weeds and tangles and too choked up to breathe…and way too scared to care about anything. I get it, Cam. I've been hurt. But these last weeks, it's not that way…”

“Oh? You think you're going to tell me what
I
feel?”

“Nope. But I'll tell you what you've been doing. Lying. Making out like you don't care—about anything or anyone. You're nuts for that dog.”

“I am
not!
”

“And you're going to be just as nuts for that derelict cat. You always did have a gift for animals, used to be able to talk down a scared cat or an injured dog, even when you were a scrawny little kid. Maybe you forgot that, but I didn't. You've got to have something to love or you go nuts.”

“In your dreams, MacDougal. I'm not going to be nuts for that cat! Ever! I'm giving the dog away as soon as I find a home for it. And the same thing with the cat.”

“And cows fly. Furthermore, you're totally nuts for my sons. You love them both. So why the hell can't
you just say so? What, do you think God'll reach down and slug you if you admit to caring about things again?”

“I don't care!”

“And you don't feel anything. For anything or anyone, right?”

“Right. Exactly right!”

Aw, hell. Arguing with her was a complete waste of time. He didn't know he was going to do it—he swore to himself!—but somehow he was hard as rock; somehow he was fighting this impossible, powerful urge to kiss her; and somehow he knew he was going to give into that temptation unless something drastic happened, fast.

So just as her forefinger was aiming to poke his chest again, he clamped both hands on her waist and lifted her in the air. She shrieked before her sandals even left the ground.

She was still shrieking when he turned her in a circle—she was light, but not so light he didn't need to build up a little momentum—and then hurled her into the pond.

He knew the pond well. Off the shore edge, it went straight down for about five feet. It was a fantastic pond for swimming on a broiling day, because it was spring fed—which meant it was fifty-five degrees. Cold enough to make her nipples pucker, for damn sure. And thinking about her nipples puckering was enough to make his tighten like buttons.

She came up sputtering, and oh, man, was she mad. So, so mad.

He was in awe of the sequence of words she strung together. The only other person he knew who could get that eloquent with swearwords in a high temper was
him. The amazing part, though, was watching all that passion and fire pouring from a woman who thought she didn't feel a damn thing.

Before Pete could think twice, he heeled off his boots and dove straight in after her. The shock of icy water slapped every nerve awake. He came up two feet from her, gasping and sputtering. The cold water should have taken care of his arousal. Heaven knew why it didn't.

He'd barely hauled in a lungful of air before he felt a punch of water splashed in his face. Cam splashed him a second time, then in one long stroke swam closer with the clear intention of drowning him—or at least dunking him good.

He deserved it, he knew. And normally he wouldn't mind being emergolated—not by Camille—but just then, there was so much more at stake than her momentary temper. So when she clutched her hands on his shoulders, trying to push him down, he kicked them both several feet toward shore toward shallower water. The instant he could stand, he dragged her wet body against his.

She was right in the middle of reaming him out a new litany of insults when he plastered a kiss on her mouth. The kiss was so wet and hot that it made steam shoot up his veins, where seconds before he'd been shiver-cold. So had she. But she warmed up damn fast, too. When he got around to it, he tore his mouth free.

“Show me,” he said roughly. “Show me again how you don't feel. How you don't give a damn.”

He kissed her again. Again. He used his body to brace her, to walk her out of the water, climbing to the tall prickly grasses on the shore. Their clothes stuck to
them like soggy glue, miserably cold, and still he kissed her. Still she kissed him back.

Out of nowhere, both of them paused—both heaving from lack of breath—and when they tried to gulp in a fresh batch, her eyes opened. Her gaze lost that sexy, foggy haze and suddenly sharpened as if she remembered how mad she was. Her fist came swooping toward his ears, so obviously, he had to kiss her again. Had to peel off her clothes. Had to peel off his.

Sunlight poured down on them as they sank down. The grasses were rough, tingly against bare flesh, and still both of them came together in a frenzy, rolling next to the pond edge, rolling away, the sun blinding him, then her, and always, nothing mattering more than claiming the next kiss, reaching the next level of hunger, inspiring the next touch.

It had never been like this for him. Not even close. His world centered around her taste, her kiss, her touch. For him, she was champagne and velvet, moon and sunshine both. She brought him light. She matched him, passion for passion, touch for touch, stroking him as intimately as he stroked her, braving ways to tease him, to take, as he braved ways to fuel sensations and needs in her.

“So you feel nothing, Cam? No cold, no heat. Especially you don't feel anything for me, right? Beyond a little sexual urge. You don't want anything to do with real life, right?”

“MacDougal?” She lifted up, her hands splayed in his hair, her eyes as fierce as black satin.