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Which meant he had no end of patience. He might have to kick a tree, soon and hard, but he could hold on to his patience until then or die trying. “If you don’t want to get rid of it, then you have to find a way to make it viable. I really don’t think your sister could identify the front end of a tractor from the back—”
    â€œDon’t you start on my sister again.”
    â€œBut I do know your dad always kept two Masseys in the barn. The farmer your dad hired when he retired—Filbert Green, wasn’t it?—he used to keep them well maintenanced, at least until your sis kicked him out of the job. If you want me to check them out—”
    â€œI don’t.”
    â€œYeah, I agree, there’s only so much tractors can do for you in this situation. I’m afraid what you’ve got is a ton of handwork. I’ve got a crew trimming my apples, won’t be done for a couple more weeks. And they’d have to be taught what to do with the lavender. They wouldn’t have a clue, but they’re dependable, steady. If you want the bodies—”
    â€œThat won’t be necessary, since I won’t be having any strangers on the farm. I don’t want your crew. Don’t want anyone’s crew. Don’t want anyone’s help or advice. Now, damn it, Pete, stop being nice to me! ”
    She whirled around to stomp off, tripped on her sagging jean hem, yanked up her trousers and then stomped off.
    Pete didn’t grin—there wasn’t a damn thing funny about what shape that woman was in—but he did stand there, thoughtfully stroking his chin.
    Camille had to think he was the most obnoxious jerk to ever cross her path—since she’d done everything but stand on her head to make him butt out. She didn’t want help. That was obvious. She didn’t want a friend. That was obvious, too.
    But she’d at least roused enough to snap at him. According to her sister, that was major progress.
    When a man found a wounded deer in the road, he didn’t just drive by. At least a MacDougal didn’t. That woman was so wounded she was over her head, sick with it, sad with it, in a rage with it. And no, she wasn’this problem, but it had been so long since a woman touched him—much less snagged a feeling from his heart—that Pete was unwilling to walk away. At least not yet.
    For her sake, but just maybe, for his, too.
    Â 
    Camille woke up to a damp pillow, sore eyes, mental flashes in her mind of a dark alley, her screaming, Robert, the blood, the three faces of drug-crazed kids, the sick feeling of terror…
    Same old same old.
    She crawled out of bed and took her exasperated scowl into the bathroom. She’d just started to wash the sleep from her eyes when she suddenly heard an odd sound, coming from somewhere close to the front porch outside. A growl? Like an animal growl?
    When she didn’t hear it again, she assumed that she’d imagined the sound. Still, once she tugged on a sweatshirt and jeans, she glanced out the murky window in the living room—and then almost dropped the socks in her hand. As fast as she could cram on shoes, she yanked open the door.
    There was a dog, tied by a rope to the maple tree. The instant it saw her, the dog sprang to its feet and lunged, starting a teeth-baring, vicious, snarling and barking routine. If it hadn’t been snugly tied, Camille was pretty sure it would have been happy to tear out her throat.
    Considering she was afraid of almost everything these days, she wasn’t sure why the dog didn’t terrify her. Possibly it was because the poor thing just looked so pitiful. It had the look of a full-blooded German shepherd—but it had obviously fallen on disastrous times. Its skinny ribs showed. Its right ear had a nip.The eyes were rheumy, the golden-brown coat crusted with old mud.
    â€œTake it easy, take it easy,” she coaxed. But the dog showed no