Wild in the Field by Jennifer Greene Read Free Book Online

worthless mutt.
    It quit snarling and lunging when it smelled the ground beef. The tail didn’t wag, the fur didn’t stop bristling, the eyes didn’t look any less feral…but at least the damn dog let her push the bowl within its reach.
    Then it fell on the food as if it hadn’t eaten in a week, looking up and growling every few bites—but still, gulping down the chow almost without stopping to chew. By then, Camille had managed to get the heavy mixing bowl of water secured within its reach, too. God knew why she was going to so much trouble. The dog was pitiful. Too mean to love, too ugly for anyone to care, and definitely not her problem. But pitiful.
    She never meant to go inside and wash windows. She hadn’t done a single thing to make the cottage more livable, and still didn’t plan to. But because she had to keep glancing out to check on the damned dog, the filthy windows were distracting. And once sherubbed a spot clean, the rest of the window looked disgusting. And then once one window got cleaned, the others looked beyond disgusting.
    She’d used half a roll of paper towels when the dog’s sudden fierce, angry barking made her jump and look out.
    Pete was out there, leaning over the fence, his jeaned leg cocked forward, wearing an open-throated shirt as if it were a balmy spring day…which actually, Camille guessed it was. He was just…hanging there…looking at the dog, not appearing remotely disturbed by the canine’s aggressive, noisy fury.
    For just an instant, she felt the most curious fear, as if she should hide behind the door, not go out, not risk being near him again. There was an old Scottish phrase her dad sometimes used. Ca awa. It meant something like “proceed with caution” and that’s what she thought every time she saw Pete. Something in those sexy, ever-blue eyes made her feel restless and edgy. Something in his long, lazy stride, in his tree-tall height, in those slow, teasing smiles of his made her stomach drop.
    She wasn’t aware of him as a man.
    She couldn’t be.
    She certainly didn’t want him. She didn’t want anyone. She never planned to want another man as long as she lived. But damn…he did bug her.
    Quickly, she shook off the ridiculous sensation. Pete MacDougal was no one she needed to feel cautious around. She knew that. He was a neighbor. He was interfering and bossy, for sure, but being afraid of him at any level was absurd. And more to the immediate point, he’d obviously noticed the dog.
    So she hurled out the door lickety-split. Immediately Pete glanced up and motioned toward the shepherd.
    â€œI see you managed to give our boy some food.”
    â€œOur boy,” she repeated, abruptly realizing that Pete already knew the dog. “Peter MacDougal! You did this to me?”
    â€œI did what?”
    â€œYou left me this dog? You tied this mean, godforsaken, dangerous dog to my tree? Why in God’s name would you do such a thing?”
    He smiled. As if she hadn’t just screamed abuse on him up one side and down the other.
    â€œHis name is Darby. Used to be a show dog. Hard to believe, the way he looks now, isn’t it? But he’s a thoroughbred shepherd with a long, pretty lineage. The neighborhood kids used to play with him, he was that sweet and gentle….”
    She crossed to the fence, her gaze sweeping the ground for a log big enough to brain him with.
    â€œâ€¦belonged to Arthur Chapman. You remember him, don’t you? Quiet guy, lived down Cooper Street and across the creek, that property on the left after the bridge. Good man. Dog lover. But then Art got Alzheimer’s. Naturally, people realized he was getting strange, but you know how folks are tolerant in White Hills. So they just tried to let him be. Nobody realized that in his own house, he’d gotten mean, was beating and starving the dog. It wasn’t really his fault. He wasn’t in his