Wild in the Field (14 page)

By then Miss Priss had leaped up on the sink to insure she didn't miss any of the exciting action, whereas Killer had dropped down to all fours and was snoring from boredom.

“He may not come,” she told the cat.

Miss Priss batted at the mascara, tipping it off onto the floor.

She picked it up. “I don't know if he'll understand the message, about the dog. She was like me. Grieving so hard that she stopped living, stopped wanting to live. It's Pete who shook me out of that, you know. Not all the people who were so kind. Pete. Who wasn't kind.”

Miss Priss found the lip liner, and jumped down from the sink with her prize between her teeth—at least until Camille caught up with her. “No,” she said.

Unimpressed, the cat zoomed back on the sink and searched for more things of interest. Such as the blush brush.

“I wasn't coping,” she told the cat. “Pete didn't cope for me. He didn't do anything for me. Instead, he pushed me into doing things. And by pushing me, he forced me to see that I was capable of doing things. I get all that now. But you know what I didn't realize?”

Looking straight at her, the cat batted the brush on the floor.

Camille picked it up. “I didn't realize that he was grieving, too. He's hardheaded, just like me. Too stubborn to realize that getting over the hurt his ex-wife dealt him was terribly hard to do. Moving past any hurt that big is hard. But there comes a point where you have to make a choice.”

The cat deserted her. Which left Camille completely
alone—except for her reflection in the mirror. The woman staring back at her looked almost—almost—like a Camille. Her legs were bare, shown off by the sassy red sundress. Her lips were glossed with a scarlet shine, her dark hair pulled back with two jet pins. She was slim. Way slimmer than she used to be, but her figure was starting to come back, and the dress accented what she had. Its fabric draped over her body perfectly. It made a woman feel like a woman, look like a woman, move like a woman.

The old Camille wasn't back. She'd never again be the young Camille that she used to be.

She'd grown up since then.

This Camille, though, had more depth. More potential. And more, of course, to risk losing.

Her eyes looked sultry with the hint of shadow and mascara, her lashes as soft as velvet against her cheeks. But there was fear in those eyes. Not fear of losing. Fear that she'd already failed to love Pete the way he needed to be loved. And now it was too late.

W
hen Pete finally pulled in the drive, Sean was huddled in the passenger seat of the truck, silent as a stone. His son reminded him of himself in a sulk. He had the same moody eyes, the screw-you posture, the slouchy scowl.

“Come on, Sean. I don't think I'm being unreasonable. I'd rather you worked on the land with me and your brother. You know how much we have to do this summer. But you can work there with the horses for a month. And if you still feel after six weeks that you want a horse, I'll do it.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“You're giving me all this attitude and I don't know why. Give me a break. You know how expensive that horse is going to be.”

“I know.”

“You've loved every animal that was ever born. But
neither of us is familiar with horses. A horse presents a different range of problems.”

“I know that, too.”

“So don't you think it's a fair compromise? Work with the horses, be around them. Get a chance to see if you really like the animal and what it'll take to keep one. Before jumping in.”

“Dad, for cripes sake. Sometimes I get so sick of your being reasonable. Yeah, that's all fair. Yeah, I want to work with them. But I wanted a horse right now, you know? Why can't you just let me sulk in peace for a while?” Simon hurled out of the truck and slammed the door.

Pete stared after him, shaking his head. Teenagers.

Both boys had been pistols for a week now—and their grandfather had been just as huffy. Pete pocketed the truck key and strode toward the house, knowing full well the reason for their testiness. The family had assumed he'd blown it with Camille. All three of them had actually believed he and Cam were going to tie the knot.

He'd
told
them it was never going to happen. He'd told them from the start; he'd told them last week; he'd told them this week. His dad had adored Camille from the day she was born, and the boys were crazy about her—so they'd only heard what they wanted to hear.

Pete could hardly confess the personal details, but he knew the truth. A man couldn't hold a woman through family or land or money or any other peripherals. There had to be something inside him that made her want to stay. Made her want to love. Made her want to commit. And Pete had already discovered the hard way, when Debbie left, that he'd never had that mysterious
something
.

“Hey, Dad!” Simon suddenly barged out the back door, leaping down the two porch steps, his eyes bright with excitement. Sean, who'd walked into the house with an old man's despair, bounded out right after his brother with the same exuberance.

“What's going on?” Pete asked suspiciously.

“We got something to show you. Hurry up, hurry up—it's in the kitchen.”

He followed, expecting anything—God knows the boys had put him through “anything” in the form of surprises before. Still, he could hardly be prepared for the heap taking up a vast amount of space on his kitchen floor.

The dog looked something like a loose puddle of caramel-colored wrinkles—tons of wrinkles. Pete hunkered down, pulled up an eyelid, and then the other. The eyes looked healthy, and the dog blinked, proving it wasn't dead. Beyond a hopeless moan, though, she appeared comatose.

“Who would do this to us?” Pete asked.

Simon chose to answer the questions he wanted to answer. “Her name is Hortense. And she's depressed, because she belonged to a cop and now he died, and so she's grieving. Grieving bad. She needs love, Dad. She needs us. She needs you.”

Pete was unimpressed with those answers. “Who would do this to us?” he repeated.

“In fact, she said that Hortense especially needs you, because you're so great at helping somebody get over grief. And she oughta know.” Simon added, “I got her to eat some ice cream when I spooned it into her mouth. But then she went back to moaning on the floor again. Can we keep her, Dad? Can we?”

Pete lifted the dog's head, looked into its sappy eyes,
and shook his head again. “Aw, come on, guys. Do you two have any idea how stubborn a hound is?”

“She said…that was the point. That you knew how to deal with extra stubborn critters.”

“But this is a bloodhound. You can't tell a bloodhound
anything
.”

“Camille—she said you knew about that, too. She said that was why she thought of you, because you were really great with females who wouldn't listen. She's paying us back, isn't she, Dad?” Sean stood up, hooked his thumbs in the back jeans pockets, exactly the way Pete always did.

“Yeah. And payback in a woman is ugly, son.”

Simon stepped forward, doing the thumbs thing now, too. “Well, I think we should keep her.”

“Who? Camille or the dog?”

The boys exchanged glances. They weren't going to touch that one with an electric prod, but he saw that hopeful glint in both their eyes. “Damn dog is going to eat us out of house and home. And hounds smell unbelievable when they're wet.”

“So? So do we.” This logic was irrefutable to Sean.

“I gotta tell you two more little things, Dad. Although I guess they could wait—”

“Hold it.” When a fourteen-year-old didn't want to tell something, it meant it needed to be told. Yesterday if not sooner. “Spill it,” Pete instructed.

“Camille…she said, like, that you could bring the dog back.” Simon hustled to get more in. “Like you could bring it around seven. For dinner. But I told her you'd be okay with the dog. Not to worry about it. I mean, you know she can't take in
another
animal. Not this fast. Not when we already pawned off Darby and the cat on her already.”

“So I don't have to go over there at seven unless I'm taking the dog back?” Messages relayed from teenagers always needed clarifying.

“Actually, I think she wanted you to come over for dinner to talk. At seven. Dog or no dog. That's how it came across. But…”

“But what?”

“But then there's the other thing,” Simon blurted out. “Someone really messed with her.”

Pete whipped his head around, no longer playing. “What do you mean, ‘messed with her'?”

“You're not even going to recognize her. That's what I mean. That's why I was thinking about not telling you about dinner. Because, like, if you go over there, don't start out telling her she looks horrible. I mean you'll just make her feel bad. Whoever did that to her…well, it's pretty scary. But I don't want Camille to feel bad, you know? I mean, what's the point. Like you always say, judge the person by what they do, not how they look—”

“For God's sake, son, you're starting to scare me.”

Simon threw up his hands in a classic male gesture. “
You're
scared. I took one look and hardly recognized her. So just watch it. It's done now. She can't help it, so be nice about it.”

It wasn't possible—not from his son's description—to have a clue what Camille might have done to her appearance. Still, Pete didn't even consider stopping over before seven.

In fact, at fifteen minutes to seven, he'd showered and shaved and put on fresh clothes—but he still wasn't sure if he was going over there. The issue was courage. He'd been avoiding her. Not that they hadn't regularly seen each other over the last week; he'd
helped her every single day with the lavender. But with the boys out of school, it had been so easy to travel over there as a trio. He hadn't seen her alone once.

Sometimes a guy was strong enough to take a knife in the gut and some days he just couldn't face it.

Still, he climbed in the truck at precisely five minutes to seven. The hound clearly put a line in the sand. And his boys—and their grandfather—weren't about to let him get out of dinner besides. Since they watched him from the window, it wasn't as if he could turn the truck toward Timbuktu. He had to turn toward her place. And since her cottage was essentially next door, he couldn't drag out the ride to any longer than a minute and a half.

When he parked at the cottage, evening sunlight was shivering through the trees in soft yellow patches. Her porch was shady and cool—and damned quiet. The dog and cat were both slumbering on the top step. Neither budged to make room for him to pass, although the cat at least opened her eyes.

“Cam?”

He rapped once on the door, not quite able to see through the screen. But then she opened it. And his heart stopped.

Gone was the waif who'd come home with her heart broken. The woman in the doorway was barefoot, with long sun-kissed legs. She was wearing a scarlet scoop of a dress, held up with a couple of promises—the straps didn't seem more substantial than that—and it sure didn't appear that she was wearing anything underneath it. Her shoulders were as bare as her legs, smooth, golden, the simple fabric sculpting the swell of her breasts and curve of her hips.

Weeks ago, she hadn't had that swell, those curves.
Weeks ago, she'd been all bones, all eyes. The darned woman was still all eyes, but now all that ghastly chopped-off hair was wisping around her cheeks. Her lips were red as sin, her posture sassy. She looked…sexy. She looked…splendiferous. She looked like she could make any man drool without half trying, and she'd made
him
drool even when she'd been a waif.

“You're late,” she said.

“I know. I'm sorry.” He handed her a bottle of wine. The twins and their grandfather had explained that you didn't go to dinner with a woman without wine. They'd moved him to speechlessness—that the boys would conceivably think they could educate him about courtly manners. The same boys who couldn't stand women. The same boys who never wanted a woman in their lives for the rest of their lives. “It's probably the wrong wine,” he said.

“There is no wrong wine. Now before you say anything about the bloodhound—”

He loved dogs, all dogs, any dogs. But just then, he probably couldn't tell a poodle from a pony.

The only thing on his mind was her, and his gaze honed on her face as if irrevocably glued there. He just couldn't look away. She'd changed so much—and changed exactly in the ways he'd hoped. She was visibly on the other side of pain now. Healing, if not fully healed. Spirited again. Full of hell again. Ready for life again.

That's what he wanted for her.

“Pete?” She came closer and peered up at him, as if to make sure she'd gotten his attention. “I realize that Hortense was a bit of a surprise.”

It was hard to understand why his heart hurt so
much. It was just…when she'd been a waif, she'd needed him. And then by accident he glanced past her. Past the open door, through the kitchen, where her back door opened onto her shady back lawn. He couldn't see that much, but pretty clearly there were candles lit on a table out there. A tablecloth. Fancy silver. He looked at her in confusion.

“What's going on?”

“Dinner. In fact, let's get started, and then I'll explain about the dog.” She ushered him through the house, then out to the table, where she motioned to the chair across from her. She poured the wine and started serving, but her vulnerable eyes kept darting to him. Her hands definitely weren't as steady as the sassy dress and makeup implied—and neither was her voice.

“I was walking in the lavender yesterday. It was a real turning point for me. Every time I went out there before, there was a ton of work to do. But not now. Now there's nothing else to do but let it grow. The field's still a long way from perfect, but the mulch, the pruning, brought it back to life. The buds are almost ready to burst. The scent and the color—it's not there yet, but it's so close. My sister's going to have her hands full with the harvest.”

He saw the food. The delicate salad. The roast with a scent to die for. And he wanted to gulp down the wine, but at her last comment, he could barely remember how to breathe. “You're not planning on being here for the harvest yourself?”

“No. Really, the lavender is Violet's project. It's not mine to make decisions about. And I think, finally, that it's way past time I started making decisions about my own life again. It took forever, I know. I've been lollygagging here like a bag lady.”

“Shut up, Cam. You were never like that.”

“Close.” Maybe he wasn't eating, but she was shoveling it in. “What I kept thinking, though, while I was walking through the field was how different lavender is than roses. Roses have to be pampered, tended, fed, cared for. All we had to do with the lavender was give it some lousy soil, trim it up, mulch it a little, and it zoomed back from the dead. When it comes down to it, lavender only thrives on tough love. But you know all about that, didn't you, MacDougal?”

This chitchat was real nice, but Pete had had all he could take. “Where exactly do you plan on being after this?” he asked sharply.

She lifted a finger, indicating that she needed a second to finish chewing, then gulped a bit of wine. “With you.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She frowned, noticing that he'd barely touched her food. “You don't like my French stew?”

“Yes, yes—”

“Then eat, Pete.”

“What did you just say?”

“Oh. About being with you?” Her eyebrows rose impishly. “I thought you guessed my intentions…when I gave you the bloodhound. When I asked you to dinner.”

Okay. He figured out the obvious—that he couldn't rush her; she needed to say things in her own way, on her own time. But he couldn't eat, now that she'd brought up leaving. It didn't matter how many times he'd mentally told himself that she'd only come home to heal and would leave after that. There was still a lump in his throat the size of a mountain. So he just folded his arms on the table and tried to listen.

“Of course, I wasn't sure if you'd come for dinner,” she said softly, putting down her own fork and knife now. “I know I've come very close to blowing it with you. All this spring, I thought I was the one who had trouble with grief, MacDougal.”