“I don’t.”

“Yeah, 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-”

“That 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’t his 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.

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…