Free Wild in the Field by Jennifer Greene

long ago, because the hurt seems pretty fresh. The boys really talk up how much they don’t miss her. How much they don’t love her. How much they don’t care.”
    Pete chugged down the coffee, but only so he could set the mug down. He hadn’t come here to talk about this. “Yeah, well, it’s been a couple years. Almost three. It’s my dad who feeds them that kind of anti-women talk, making out like it’s fun to live like bachelors, not need women, all that. You know my dad.”
    â€œI used to.”
    â€œSo you know he adored my mom. Nothing anti-women about him. I don’t understand why he keeps pushing the attitude on the boys. It seems as if he thinks we’ll all be hurt less if we just pretend we don’t need women in our lives.”
    â€œThey really do seem like good kids, Pete.”
    â€œThey are. But it’s always there, you know? Hiding in the closet. That their mom left them. That she loved them so little that she could just take off and not look back. Reality is, she took off on me , not them. But that’s not how kids see it.” Pete frowned. He wasn’t sure why he was spilling all this stuff. He couldn’t remember talking this much about Debbie or the divorce. To anyone.
    And Camille was suddenly frowning right back at him. “It’s none of my business.”
    â€œActually—it isn’t.”
    She was on her feet faster than a flash. “It’s not as if I care. I only started this whole conversation to tell you that I didn’t want your help, or your boys’ help, or anyone else’s help.”
    He stood up, too, thinking the damn woman was more mercurial than a summer wind. For a minute there, she’d not only listened about the scope of the lavender problems—which she sure as hell had no way to know about, coming in cold to the farm after all this time. But she’d also asked about his sons and the divorce situation as if she actually cared. Without thinking, he murmured, “I keep getting glimpses of the Camille I remembered. The Camille you used to be.”
    Wrong thing to say. Scarlet streaked her cheeks faster than fire. “Well, I’m not that person. That girl’s gone forever and never coming back, so if you were thinking—”
    â€œI wasn’t thinking anything, so don’t be tearing any more bloody strips off me.” His voice dropped low. Lower than a bass tenor and quieter than midnight. “Cam, I understand anger. If I’d been through what you have, I’d be tearing the bark off trees. I’m sorry you’ve been through such hell. But I’m not part of anything that hurt you. I’m just an old friend who happens to have the means and time to help you with the lavender. And I’ve got two sons who are teenagers, which means they’re selfish as hell, and that means it’ll do them good—for their sakes—to put in some hours doing something for someone besides themselves. Now, that’s all that’s going out there, so quit giving me a murdle-grups .”
    Her father used to use that Scottish term— murdle-grups . It meant bellyache. And Pete thought using it might make her smile. But apparently she’d scared herself, having a conversation with him as if she cared. She didn’t want to care. Not about him. Which she seemed obligated to make crystal clear.
    Her chin went up a notch. “I’m not keeping the dog.”
    â€œNo?”
    Her chin shot up another defiant inch. “I’ve been tending him. I admit that. But I’ve only been taking care of him because I didn’t want him put away. The very instant he’s better, I’m finding him a home and getting rid of him.”
    â€œYou do that. That’ll show me how mean you are,” he goaded her.
    â€œI am mean.”
    Aw, hell. It was such a stupid conversation that he couldn’t think of a single reason to continue it.