Jennifer Greene - Wild in the 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.”