Stirring up the Sheriff (Wildhorse Ranch Brothers Book 3)

by Leslie North

  "You don't like being mistaken for you brother."

  "No." Maybe Marianne was trying to deliver a sting comparable to the one he had given her, but her observation only surprised Trent. People didn't generally notice that sort of thing, and here Marianne was calling him out on it. "It used to happen a lot more in our youth," he explained. "I blame my grandma especially. She used to love dressing us in the same outfits when she took us to Sunday school."

  "I bet that was cute."

  "You should see us when we do it now."

  Marianne laughed at this, and Trent couldn't hold back a chuckle himself at the image.

  "Are you close with your brother?" she asked.

  "Yep. Close with both my brothers." Trent paused beside her at the next tank. "One runs Wildhorse Ranch outside of town, and the other plays football for the Texas Teamsters. Though I suppose you're more interested in hearing about my twin, Trevor."

  "Because what would be interesting about a professional football player?" Marianne laughed, and Trent caught what he thought was an admiring glance from her out the corner of his eye. "You know, Sheriff, there's more going on with you than I first thought."

  "I'm not just a pretty face," he said. "Hell, even if I was, I'm still one of a pair."

  "So how can I avoid mistaking the two of you when you're in plainclothes?" she asked.

  Trent figured he would never have to worry about it with Marianne, but he answered her anyway. "We're different enough. Trevor's got more of a tan, for one thing, and always smells like a barn."

  Marianne smothered a laugh with her hand.

  "It's our dispositions that really set us apart," he continued. "I'm an easygoing guy. Toe the line and you've got nothing to worry about from me. Trevor's the one who's too serious for his own good. Pretty sure he sat down on a riding crop at some point, and that explains the stick up his ass."

  It was an old joke, and one that Trevor hated him telling with a passion, but relaying it now to fresh ears and being rewarded with Marianne's surprised laugh made it worth it.

  "He can't be that bad!" she exclaimed. She finally set her clipboard aside and gestured back the way they came. "You said Sabrina's his girlfriend, right? I can't imagine her getting along with someone who matches your brother's description, much less falling for him."

  "They had their share of struggles coming together," Trent said. "But they pulled through. You might say their differences make them good for each other." He crossed his arms. "But I stand by what I said. I love my brother, but he really is that bad."

  Marianne shook her head. "I just don't see how it's possible.

  "Hm?

  "I mean, isn't only one of you supposed to be the bad twin?"

  The question surprised Trent, and when he did a double-take, he realized Marianne appeared to be fighting back a smile. "Are you saying you think I'm the bad twin?" he asked incredulously.

  "I'm saying that remains to be seen." She turned her back to him to adjust another bottle's position in the assembly line. Trent gazed at the elegant curve of her neck and at the exposed bit of shoulder her listing shirt collar revealed. He took a step toward her before he realized what he was doing.

  You have no idea how bad I can be, he thought. Normally he wasn't the sort of man to let his imagination get the better of him, but finding himself alone with Marianne in the low-lit backrooms of the Honky Tonk was starting to seriously test his self-control. He had a feeling that beneath that all-business exterior, he’d find a feistiness just waiting for an excuse to be let out—at least, a part of him hoped there was.

  He had been staring too long, and Marianne had noticed the intensity of his attention. Her cheeks flushed again, the same way they had when he made that crack about peeking under her tarp, and suddenly Trent couldn't hold himself back from picturing every inch of her laid bare beneath him. That creamy skin of hers still didn't have so much as a farmer's tan. He wanted to run his hands along every exposed inch of her body and commit it to memory before she darkened like everyone else around here.

  "Do you have…any other questions for me?" she inquired. Her voice was hushed and hesitant now, but it succeeded in breaking the spell that had come over them. "I'm wide open. A wide-open book, I mean. Fielding unexpected questions is great practice for when I give future brewpub tours."

  Trent found the most pressing question he wanted to ask her was completely unrelated to beer. He wanted to know the reason Marianne had changed her last name from Mantel to Stanton. As Lockhart's sheriff, he was as much an investigator as he was an enforcer, so he thought he could make a guess.

  Still, Celia had never mentioned it to him. Then again, Celia had also failed to mention her niece was one of the sexiest damn women on the planet.

  "What's that?" Trent pointed to a small cooler in the corner. The door was glass; in it, he could see frosty bottles of something light and cloudy. "Doesn't look like beer to me."

  "Try it," Marianne encouraged. When he hung back uncertainly, she opened the cooler herself and passed him a bottle. Trent opened it on his belt buckle—a little trick he had picked up for the sole purpose of impressing a pretty woman—and raised the bottle back to his nose for a whiff. It smelled unexpectedly and cloyingly sweet, like the air around the cotton candy booth at the county fair.

  "This isn't that nasty 'come butcher' stuff, is it?" he asked suspiciously.

  "You mean kombucha?" Marianne laughed. "No. Believe me, I thought about whipping some up, but I think this will be a more acceptable nonalcoholic alternative."

  Fuck it, Trent thought. He wasn't going to let Marianne think he was too afraid to try one of her concoctions. He threw his head back and took a long, deliberate swig. The liquid that rushed down his throat was refreshing and sugar-sweet. "Cream soda," he said in wonder as he pulled back from it. "I haven't had one of these since I was a kid. There used to be a shop just down the street that sold them."

  "You like it?" Marianne's pretty face was turned up to him, her petal-pink lips blossoming in a smile. "I overheard a couple of people reminiscing about that shop the first day I got here. I figured I could put my skills to good use and offer a little stroll down memory lane. Not everything has to be shiny and new."

  "You made this?" Trent realized it hadn't occurred to him just how talented Marianne had to be to pull this sort of thing off. He couldn't imagine the measurements, the timing, the math involved in creating something that sparkled with this much flavor. Marianne nodded in affirmation as she watched him. He wondered if he was the first person in Lockhart Bend to sample her wares.

  "I have a setup in my garage that I've been brewing out of. I loved cream soda when I was a kid, too," she divulged. "I'm thinking about offering it to my underage clientele. What do you think?"

  Trent didn't know how he felt about the idea of kids at the Honky Tonk. The bar had always been strictly a twenty-one-and-over operation. He found himself torn between the idea of losing the adults-only space and warming slightly to the mental image of families being able to gather together and enjoy the atmosphere.

  If there's any atmosphere left to enjoy, Trent thought as he looked around. "I think all this is impressive," he said finally. "And you've got a lot of ideas."

  It was the most diplomatic comment he could muster at present, but Marianne's eyes narrowed as if she knew he had more going on in his head than he said aloud. Trent raised the soda. "Mind if I polish this off?" He meant it as a peace offering.

  "Of course, Sheriff. I don't mind at all if you finish your cream soda."

  Trent chuckled despite himself, and some of the inflexibility in Marianne's mouth eased up. She laughed, too, as the two of them exited the brewing room and returned to the front of the Honky Tonk.

  "How did it go?" Sabrina asked them brightly. She had a twinkle in her eye, and Trent knew she'd demand a fuller account of his private tour on the ride back to Wildhorse.

  "Well, I can't deny she's got hustle," he admitted.

  Marianne fisted her han
ds on her hips and glowered up at him. "And?" she prompted. "Don't keep us in suspense, Sheriff. I assume you're just bursting with ideas on how I might improve the place."

  "The Honky Tonk doesn't need improvement," he stated. "I'll be honest with you, Marianne. I don't think the brewpub vibe you're going for is going to work. Lockhart Bend might be stuck in its ways, but it isn't stuffy."

  "Stuffy?" Marianne repeated. "You really think that's what I'm going for?"

  Behind her, Sabrina was gesticulating for Trent to cut himself off, but he couldn't stop himself. If Marianne didn't take his advice now, the Honky Tonk would suffer a loss in its customer base that she might not be able to recover, with the Tin Horseshoe right down the road. He didn't want to lose the Honky Tonk, but he also didn't want to lose her, right when he was just starting to get to know her a bit better.

  "Of course I don't think that's what you're going for, but it's what you're going to get if you don't walk a careful line between the new and the established around here. You're not going to attract Lockhart Bend regulars with family-friendly cream soda and fancy expensive tastings. And now that you've torn out all the character pieces and replaced them…" He waved toward the spindly, identical stools lined up along the bar. "With this bland, modern junk, you've cut the bar's balls off."

  "That's an interesting description you have there, especially when you consider this place has always been run, successfully, by women," Marianne snapped. "And while we're on the subject, you cowboys may care about your decorations, but I don't." She raised up on her toes to attempt to match him in height—not going to happen, Trent thought—but he was suddenly too aware that she had brought herself within easy kissing distance, and that he wanted to kiss her, even if they were fighting in full view of Sabrina. Even if locking lips appeared to be the last thing on Marianne's mind. "My brewpub's going to be warm, welcoming, and uncluttered. It doesn't need all that kitschy excess. Sorry," she added quickly to Sabrina, who shook her head and gave the thumbs-up at the description of the stuff she intended to haul away. Kitsch was Sabrina's bread and butter. "I'm going to brew great beer, and I'm going to serve the hell out of it. That's all a place needs to be successful."

  "God, you really believe that." Trent stared directly down into her storming blue eyes. Marianne had more height on her than he gave her credit for; their noses were practically pushed together. "What the hell did they teach you at that fancy brewing school of yours?" he demanded.

  "Guys." Sabrina drew up beside them and put her hands out. "I hate to be the one to break it to you, but you're both right. I think a good brewpub—great brewpub," she self-corrected when Marianne's steely eyes flickered to her, "could really thrive here in Lockhart Bend. That's where Marianne's right. If she's as talented as she says, this could be a great thing for the town's tourism industry. On the other hand, Trent also has a point. You're going to need the business of Bend locals just as much, if not more. I know better than anyone how mistrustful country folk can be of a big change." Sabrina grinned. "It's more than just 'decorations' that make this place the Honky Tonk, Marianne. You need music. You need line-dancing. You need conversations and laughter bubbling around here at all times, not just beer. That's what's going to pull people in."

  Trent watched Marianne's expression carefully. He could see that she was at war with herself, but why? Sabrina had summarized his point better than he ever could. Didn't she see that all three of them wanted her to succeed?

  "I don't know," Marianne said finally. "Event planning outside of tastings isn't exactly my strong suit. And the whole reason I moved here was to get away from Colorado. All the distractions, I mean," she added too quickly. Trent shot a glance at Sabrina, and she returned his look with an inquisitive one of her own.

  What was Marianne really trying to escape by coming so far south?

  “But I admit it sounds like fun. Dancing, I mean," Marianne said. She crossed her arms and squinted, as if trying to picture the space in a different light, then she sighed. "I'll have to think about it," she said.

  "Any time you want to chat, and maybe bounce some ideas around, call me," Sabrina enthused. "I'll give you my number. Trent?"

  "What?"

  "Aren't you going to give Marianne your number?" Sabrina batted her eyes innocently at him. Trent had heard more discreet hints come out of the mouth of his quarterback brother, Charlie. "She might need it," Sabrina continued. "You know. In case of an emergency."

  "There's a specific number set aside for emergency purposes," Trent said in amusement. "I hear it's the same in every area code. You want my personal number?" He asked Marianne pointblank, just to get the spotlight off him and onto somebody else.

  Marianne flushed. "Actually, my aunt already gave me the number for your cell. And she has it posted behind the bar just in case."

  "Perfect!" Sabrina said. "Then you're all set. We won't trouble you anymore. I'll just have Trent help me haul some of this stuff out for you, if that's okay?"

  "More than okay," Marianne replied. "You're doing me a huge favor. Although…maybe leave a few of the decorations I tore down," she added. "I'll find space for them. You can even let Trent decide which ones he likes the best."

  "Hey now," Trent protested, but Sabrina just laughed and turned away to start the move-out process. He caught the flash of a smile on Marianne's face before she suppressed it. "You like giving me a lot of shit," he noticed. "You're almost too good at it. Guess I better watch myself around you."

  "Guess I better do the same," she said.

  "Marianne…" He stepped closer, and she didn't back away. He ached for any excuse to touch her. He wanted to say the right thing, to give the right advice…hell, to ask her out for that drink they had talked about when they first met in her garden.

  "Yes?" Her gorgeous blue eyes were round and expectant. Any trace of the acerbic, defensive edge was suddenly gone. It was an opening. He could make amends for any insult he had paid her; he could drive home a real point to his earlier flirting and try to convince her to see him again in a more private setting.

  "Don't work too hard," he concluded. Marianne looked about as disappointed as he felt by his own words, but it was only for a moment. She nodded and straightened a little. Trent could see Sabrina struggling with the front door, and duty called. He clapped a parting hand to Marianne's shoulder, letting it linger; he heard her sigh as he let go. It was a sound he would take with him and mull over for the remainder of the day.

  5

  Marianne

  She finished varnishing the Honky Tonk floors by three.

  "Well, that's the first thing that's gotten done ahead of schedule," Marianne muttered as she checked it off her to-do list. Her gaze traveled back up the crisp, neat rows of items, trying to identify anything she had missed for today. "Guess there's always the coriander," she murmured to herself.

  But even planting proved less of a hassle today, and by the time she had finished patting the last of the dirt into place, it was only nearing five. The sun blazed in the Texas sky like it had never in its celestial life considered the notion of setting; a waxing gibbous moon hung on the opposite end of the horizon, looking as if a particularly strong breath might blow it off like a puff of smoke.

  Marianne went back inside to check on the floors, until the overpowering smell of varnish chased her out again. She grabbed her laptop and purse and twisted the key in the door behind her, though she figured the fumes were enough to keep any would-be burglars at bay. That, and I've got Sheriff Trent Wild on my side, she thought as she slid in behind the wheel of her car. Even if he doesn't quite know it himself yet.

  Her heart gave an insistent throb in her chest at even the passing thought of him. He had occupied her mind all day, before and after his surprise drop-in with Sabrina. Maybe it was just the floor varnish making her feel confused and muddled. She had told herself that seeing Trent again would weaken her interest in him—wasn't that what familiarity was supposed to do? Instead, she found herself wishing she had
thought of a way to prolong the tour, to make him chuckle just once more, to casually bring up the drinks mentioned in their first conversation.

  She pulled into her driveway ten minutes later. She made a beeline for the shower—Trent Wild wasn't the only hot thing on her mind.

  After her shower, Marianne changed into a fresh pair of shorts and a crisp white tank top. She had just stepped out on the back porch to enjoy some sunshine while she called for pizza when the divine smell of sizzling meat mixed with charcoal smoke drifted to her.

  Marianne's thumb hovered over her cell's keypad. Her stomach groaned in revolt. It didn't want to hold out another half hour for dinner to arrive, but she wasn't just going to waltz over to her neighbor's house and beg to be fed alongside a proper introduction.

  She considered her phone a moment longer, before stuffing it in her pocket. She would go over and introduce herself, then she would order out. And if her neighbor happened to disrupt her dinner plans and extend an invitation…

  "I'm only doing as the sheriff suggests," Marianne muttered under her breath as she stepped down onto the lawn. "Getting to know the locals and their preferences a little better."

  The aroma wafting over from her neighbor's yard became more mouth-watering the closer she got to the source. The sight of who was responsible for her present temptation, though…well, more than the food was worth salivating over. The tall figure bent over the grill was distinctly masculine, distinctly muscular, and distinctly familiar. His neck was tinged with a light sunburn beneath the close-cropped dark hair, and the cowboy hat discarded on the table beside him bore a distinct gold badge.

  "Trent?" Marianne exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"

  Her mysterious neighbor was none other than Lockhart Bend's sheriff.

  Trent glanced up from the smoking grill and froze. "Marianne?" He sounded as perplexed as she felt. "What are you…?" His eyes traveled to the house behind her and back again. "I wasn't aware the place next door had sold."