what?”
“I forgot about the nature of lavender. It looks fragile and frail—but it’s actually a very tough plant. In fact, it won’t thrive at all if you pamper it. It has to have sun, of course, but otherwise it’s happiest if you just leave it completely alone. So that dry, rocky spot actually ended up perfect for it—”
“Violet. The point is—it’s everywhere.”
“Oh, well. I guess. How do you like the potato salad?”
“Pardon?”
Violet motioned. “The potato salad—it’s got dried lavender buds in it. I found the recipe from a really old French cookbook.”
“The salad’s fine.” Camille’s attention was diverted. “I don’t want you cooking for me. Taking care of me like this.” She added more clearly, “I hate it.”
“I cook anyway. I like cooking. It’s no trouble.”
“That’s not the point. The point is, I’m not your problem. I’m no one’s problem.” She yanked her hair back, said lowly, fiercely, “I can’t work yet, Violet. I will. It’s driving me crazy, living off you, not pulling my share, but—”
“Oh shut up. How many times do I have to say it? The land belongs to all of us. You know how Mom and Dad set it up. Dad’s still positive that one of us will want to farm if he just waits long enough.” Violet added, “And Dad’s always asking how you are. If you’re talking about Robert yet—”
“Don’t.” Camille heard the sharp slap in her tone, but couldn’t help it. She wasn’t talking about Robert.
“Okay, okay, take it easy.” Violet fluttered to her feet, pivoted around with another dish from the counter. God knew, it was probably more fish. “You need some money?”
“No.”
“Spending money. Everyone needs spending money—”
“I don’t need or want anything!” She jerked to her feet at the sound of a truck engine. Someone was coming, pulling into the driveway. She all but ran to the hall for the ragged barn jacket and cap.
“Camille, come on, you don’t have to run away—”
“I’m not running away. I just…” She was just having trouble breathing. Gusts of air felt trapped in her lungs, yet her heart was galloping at racetrack speeds. She didn’t want to be mean to Violet. She didn’t want to be mean to anyone. She just wanted to be left alone—where all that rotten moodiness wouldn’t hurt anybody. Where she didn’t have to work so hard to be nice, to be normal. She shoved her feet into the damp field boots and yanked at the back door—only to realize that someone was pulling the same door from the other side.
She almost barreled straight into an oak-straight, oak-hard chest. “Whoa, Cam. Easy.”
Even without jerking her head up, she recognized Pete MacDougal’s gentling tenor, somehow recognized the grip of his big hands steadying her shoulders.
For the briefest millisecond she just wanted to fold into his arms—big, warm, strong arms. She didn’t want to fight. She just wanted to be lifted, carried, swallowed up somewhere the anger couldn’t get her. But that millisecond was fleeting, of course. It was a crazy impulse, anyway.
Even a moment with Pete hit her the way it had the first time, days ago. He was a slam of strong, vital male. A reminder of what she’d lost, what she’d never have again.
She said nothing, just felt the panic squeeze tighter around her heart, and bolted past him and out the door.
He called something.
She ignored him. She ignored everything, just hurtled cross-field toward the cottage. Away from Violet. Away from Pete. Away from life.
The way she wanted it.
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