Stirring up the Sheriff (Wildhorse Ranch Brothers Book 3)

by Leslie North

  The front room was wall-to-wall bodies; Trent could already see people resigning themselves to standing around the perimeter of the folding chairs set up for the occasion. Many gesticulated to the barren corners and svelte new lighting fixtures, their expressions notably dismayed. Trent personally liked the new amber ambience they provided, but it was as he suspected: the locals were already rejecting the changes. Only he knew that Marianne and Sabrina intended to reinstall and redecorate with a lot of Celia's touches in time for the Spring Festival.

  Trent surveyed the room for a dark head of hair, a flash of blue eyes, and didn't come up disappointed. Marianne stood near the front of the chairs, shaking hands and introducing herself to as many people as she could. She looked swamped. Trent wove through the crowd of bodies, and Sabrina followed in his wake. The moment Marianne saw them, she excused herself and hurried over.

  "They're asking me to do an introduction!" she hissed. In her nervousness, she barreled right into Trent's chest; he put his hands up to catch her, enjoying the feel of having her (nearly) in his arms, but Marianne seemed too preoccupied to notice.

  "Well…yes." Sabrina looked puzzled. "Why wouldn't they? Everybody's dying to meet you and know more about your plans for the Honky Tonk."

  "They want me to speak," Marianne insisted. "They want me to speak about it. Publically."

  Sabrina may have been confused by Marianne's fright, but Trent wasn't. He had witnessed this same aversion to public speaking in his brother Trevor when the two of them had given presentations in the same class. Trevor had mostly gotten over his fear now, but he had also managed to build a life for himself where it wasn't necessary. Trent had never struggled personally, but he knew something about what Marianne was going through.

  "All you have to do is introduce yourself," he said soothingly. "Nothing more." Her blue eyes flew to him; she hung on his every word. Trent wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and shield her from the danger she thought she was in, but she would have to face it sooner or later. All of Lockhart Bend was buzzing with curiosity about Celia's niece and the future of the Honky Tonk.

  "You'll have to have an official opening eventually," Sabrina pointed out.

  "But it doesn't have to be today," Trent insisted. "If they want her to speak, all she has to do is say who she is and thank everyone for coming."

  "I appreciate your suggestions. Really, I do," Marianne interrupted. She glanced back behind her; one of the city councilwomen waved her over. "I saved you seats in front. If you want—"

  "We want. We want." Sabrina pushed Trent along needlessly. They seated themselves as Marianne took the mic from the councilwoman. Her hands were shaking.

  "H…hello, everyone. Lockhart Bend." Marianne swallowed audibly; the sound was louder than any of her words of welcome thus far. "Thank you all for coming. This is the Honky Tonk…but I guess you knew that already."

  "Can't hear you!" a voice hollered from the back. A ripple of agreement ran through the room. Trent could have killed whoever had decided to open his mouth this early into Marianne's introduction.

  Marianne blushed, and fiddled with the switch on the mic. "Is that…is that better?" she shouted. The roar of feedback that followed made several people in the front row wince.

  "Who are you?" Sabrina stage-whispered from beside Trent. Trent leaned back as far as his chair would allow and crossed his arms. He willed Marianne to fix on him—to know he was there and find some modicum of comfort in his proximity—but her eyes shot every which way, bouncing frantically between faces and never settling.

  "Sorry about that. Yes, hello. Welcome to the Honky Tonk. I'm Marianne Stanton. I think most of you knew Celia."

  "Oh, no," Sabrina muttered. She’d been scanning the crowd behind them. "This is what I was afraid of. This whole thing is going to turn into a Q&A. For Marianne."

  Trent twisted around to look over his shoulder. Someone had put up a hand.

  "Um…yes?" Marianne motioned for the questioner to go ahead. Phil Hicks rose and hitched up the front of his belt, looking as self-important as Trent knew him to be.

  "Yeah. I heard a rumor you're changing the name of the Honky Tonk to the Honky Tonk Brewpub," Phil stated. "What I want to know is: what was wrong with how Celia ran things?"

  "Yeah! Wasn't she your aunt?" someone called from the back of the room. "She know about all the changes you're making around here?"

  "First of all…Celia still is my aunt. Not 'was.' But semantics aside," Marianne hurried on quickly when the audience began to shift restlessly, "Celia didn't just entrust the Honky Tonk to me, she sold it. So the bar—former bar—does legally belong to me. Nothing I'm doing here is against my aunt's wishes or being done behind her back. The renovations are my prerogative, and they're coming out of my pocketbook."

  "Your prerogative aside, what makes you think you know better than Celia?" Phil asked. His command of the room was more natural and came to him more easily than Marianne's. Guess that happens when you're a spotlight-seeking prick, Trent thought.

  But why bother thinking it when he could speak up himself?

  Sabrina's eyebrows shot up as Trent rose and stepped forward to join Marianne at the mic. Maybe he was only imagining it, but Marianne didn't look at all affronted by his bold move; if anything, she looked relieved to be sharing the makeshift stage.

  "Marianne knows better than Celia how to run a brewpub," Trent stated. "Hell, she knows better than any of us. She came all the way down from Colorado to set up her business here, and I think it's a damn fine idea."

  He let his eyes fall to every single familiar face in Marianne's audience before raising them to fix on Phil Hicks’s. Phil looked astonished that Trent had come to Marianne's defense, and Trent realized he couldn't really blame him; hell, he couldn't blame any of them. They were only voicing his own concerns, although he liked to think he had been more tactful about saying them to Marianne's face.

  Maybe coming to her defense hadn't been tactful, though. He glanced at her to check her response, and Marianne returned the look with a relieved one of her own. He imaged she was too happy to have a champion to be surprised that it was him.

  "You really think this is a damn fine idea, Sheriff?" Phil resumed. "Or could it be you find something else about this development 'damn fine'?"

  Marianne stifled what sounded like a small groan. In the front row, Sabrina's face registered complete shock, but Trent kept his cool. "You know, Phil, I'm surprised at you. Considering the number of calls I get to come around your place, I had you pinned as a man who enjoyed his beer."

  The room erupted into gales of laughter at this. Phil flushed sheepishly, but Trent's remark hadn't been aimed to humiliate. Everyone in Lockhart Bend knew about Phil's occasional episodes of drunken misbehavior; hell, Trent suspected the man himself considered it a point of pride. He watched as Phil waved off their laughter now and finally took his seat.

  "I think most people enjoy their beer," Marianne joined in. "I know I certainly do. And it's not all fancy flavors, I promise you. I've made it something of my mission to come up with the best recipes that not only satisfy the taste buds, but push the limits of how much alcohol a single beer can contain. My first batch will be ready just in time for the Spring Festival. Why don’t you reserve judgment until you’ve tasted it?"

  The crowd murmured approval at this. Trent glanced sideways at Marianne, but she seemed to be off and running now. When he moved to retake his seat, he felt her hand come up—behind his back and out of the audience's view—to grip a corner of his shirt and keep him in place. He stayed.

  "How much alcohol is that exactly?" someone asked, and Marianne launched into a quick explanation of alcohol content levels and legal limits, one that seemed surprisingly accessible to those who didn't know the first thing about brewing.

  Trent listened as Marianne fielded questions. Every successful answer seemed to loosen her grip a little on the mic; every questioning audience face she left satisfied seemed to relax her po
sture just a little more.

  "Will there still be live music?" someone asked.

  "Hell, yes there will be," Trent interjected before he could stop himself. Marianne's boot heel suddenly found his foot and dug itself discreetly into his toe.

  "Well, Sheriff Wild, I have a proposal for you," Marianne said. "Why don't we subject you to a tasting? We'll have a Battle of the Brews during the Spring Festival—we'll invite brewers from all over the county to compete! And if you can name all the flavors in the beer I present to you then, I'll let you pick what band the Honky Tonk Brewpub hosts for the Fall Festival."

  "That's a great idea!" Sabrina squealed from the front. Trent shot her an annoyed look, but his blood was already starting to pump at the prospect of Marianne's challenge. Not only was she offering him an opening to see his suggestions implemented, she was giving him a chance to impress her with all the brewing knowledge he might acquire in the meantime. He couldn't resist.

  "You're on."

  He caught her hand in his and shook on it. The room applauded their show, and the audience broke apart to chatter amongst themselves as the town council rose to set up their panel.

  Marianne held his gaze as their handshake slowed. Trent felt a stirring in his loins, one that had everything to do with the way she was looking at him—and the way he was touching her. He was curious to see how far he could take it. He dropped his arm, but held Marianne's hand still clutched in his. He pulled her out of the spotlight and toward Sabrina. His brother's girlfriend had risen in the commotion and moved off to the relative privacy of the shadows behind the bar.

  "Phil Hicks is a distasteful specimen," Sabrina told Marianne as soon as they pulled up.

  "He's a son of a bitch," Trent confirmed. The two women laughed at his directness. Some of the tightness around Marianne's eyes softened, and she looked at him in a way that made him feel suddenly weightless—like he could do anything and would do anything for her.

  "He's this way at every town hall, complaining about whatever the current topic of discussion is," Sabrina explained. "I should have warned you he might show up."

  Marianne shook her head. "No. No, this is…good. For me. I've never been great at the whole public speaking thing." She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, a habit of hers that Trent found more endearing than he'd realized. "I guess the more curveballs I get thrown now, the better it is for me in the long run."

  "You threw a few of your own up there," Trent said approvingly. "You really think you can beat me in the little challenge you've cooked up?"

  "I know I can." Marianne was all confidence…until she realized that he still held her hand in his. She tugged to get away, and Trent held her fast for a moment longer, wanting her to know his strength, then he let her slip out of his grasp. He grinned as she scoffed and rolled her eyes at the little power play. His hand still tingled with the memory of her as she turned to address a smaller cluster of Lockhart locals.

  "You underestimate me. I have a memory like a steel trap!" he called after her. "I've seen what you're growing out back in your garden, and don't think I missed all the little labels you had plastered onto everything in the brewing room! I'm coming for you, Marianne Stanton."

  She turned her head with a defiant flip of her hair. "I'm counting on it!"

  7

  Marianne

  The town meeting had turned out better than expected. God help her, it had even been kind of fun as soon as the spotlight was off her. Marianne had gone into the next week thinking she had a handle on things. For the first time, all her hard work seemed to finally be paying off: Lockhart Bend was no longer resistant to her arrival, they were interested. The town was alive with the sort of buzz that the best marketing team in the world couldn't generate. Sabrina had taken on the tasks of finding other brewers to enter the competition, recruiting judges, and publicizing the event. Trent would be one, but the rest came from outside Lockhart Bend.

  So why was she knee-deep in churned-up soil and on the brink of tears only a few days later?

  "I'm not going to cry. I'm not going to cry." The five words left her lips in a steady stream as Marianne crouched in the dirt of her ruined garden. The tattered remains of every sprig she had managed to coax to life were strewn around her. The rosemary was an especially sore point. It was as if whatever-it-was that had done this had seized on her very first mistake and decided to shred it all into confetti to celebrate her failure.

  "Marianne?" a voice called from the parking lot. "You out back?"

  "Shit!" Marianne shot up and glanced about herself quickly. Trying to hide this mess before Trent found her was hopeless. She didn't even bother trying to tame her hair into something more presentable as he came around the backside of the Honky Tonk.

  He was dressed in full police uniform today. His crisp khaki presentation was a stark contrast to her mud-stained, bedraggled appearance. Trent paused the moment he saw her, before letting his eyes drop to the wasted garden at her feet. He was carrying two steaming Styrofoam coffee cups in his hands; he set them on the porch railing. His expression was carefully neutral, almost passive.

  But Marianne swore she could still see the hidden mirth behind his eyes. Did he really think this was funny? Her entire operation was at stake because she had made a misstep. Somehow, somewhere…she had missed something. And her oversight had cost her the life of every tiny little plant in her garden.

  "Just tell me you know what did this, Trent. Please."

  "Jackrabbits," he said with conviction. "Little fuckers get into everything over at Wildhorse. Sorry, I meant 'buggers.'"

  "Rabbits did this?" Marianne cried. She gestured at the carnage that surrounded her. "Little fluffy rabbits?"

  "Not little. Not fluffy," he corrected. "They're not the pet store kind, if that's what you're imagining."

  He must have seen the dismay in her face, because he hurried on quickly. "You're not the only one struggling with them, Marianne, I promise you. They even get the better of Trevor on occasion, and he's been living out here his whole life. Hell, Grandma used to rave against them—she called them varmints, and she went after them almost indiscriminately with my Grandpa's shotgun until he took it away from her." Trent smiled at the memory, but Marianne couldn't bring herself to share in his nostalgia. "We just have to erect a fence around the garden. Maybe lay down some tarp."

  "'We’?" She hated the way the word sounded when she echoed it: choked, angry, almost mocking. "Trent, this is my brewpub. My Aunt Celia entrusted her property to me. There is no we in this scenario."

  "You have got to be kidding me," Trent hissed below his breath. "I'm not trying to invade your space. I'm not trying to plant a flag and take the Honky Tonk from you. I'm trying to offer you a solution to your problem. I've been living in Lockhart Bend all my life, Marianne—you don't think what I have to say, what knowledge I might have to offer, might be worth something?"

  "You're right, Trent!" she fired back with a harsh laugh. She threw up her hands. "What do I know? I'm just a dumb out-of-towner who will never offer up an idea of her own that anyone will truly like. So the knowledge I have must be worthless!"

  "Marianne, this isn't an attack on you! You couldn't have known this would happen!"

  "But I could have prevented it!" Marianne cried. "If I had been prepared! I never wanted this damn garden, and I didn't commit to understanding what I was getting into…I didn't work hard enough! I got distracted by other things, and now look where it's got me." She hooked her toe beneath a clump of dirt and kicked it away from her. "This is a compost pile!"

  "Maybe you were right not to prioritize the garden," Trent said. "Maybe it isn't worth getting this worked up over. Come on, Marianne. Relax." He reached for her shoulder, and Marianne flinched out of his way. She immediately regretted the move; she hadn't meant to do it. She had been operating on an old instinct long past its expiration date.

  Trent withdrew his hand as if she had stung him. "Do you ever let down your guard?" he whispered heatedly. "
It's not all bad letting others in to help you!"

  "I don't need help!" Marianne exclaimed. "So stop trying to save me with your ideas! It's like you think I'm incapable of succeeding without your intervention."

  "This isn't a failure." Trent gestured to the once-living wreckage strewn around her. "This is a setback. This is something that just happens in the world outside a brewing room. You can't measure out chance, or hope the right temperature will make your luck hold shape. Shit happens. This is something you can fix—and you don't have to do it alone."

  Tattered shoots, wilted plant sprouts, and turned dirt sure as hell didn't look like a roaring success to Marianne. She ran a hand through her snarled hair as she took it all in again, trying to see it from his perspective. "You must think I'm a control freak," she said.

  Trent surprised her by removing his hat and stepping into the carnage with her. "Thought it didn't matter to you what I think," he murmured. Marianne glanced up at him. The look was meant to be fleeting, to take in any details of his expression and divine the emotion behind his words. She had gotten good at doing that with Simon toward the end…or so she had thought.

  But their eyes held, and Marianne found she didn't want to look away from Trent. She didn't want to have to tackle everything on her own. "I never used to be like this." She didn't mean to say the words out loud.

  "I like you just fine the way you are," Trent replied. "Hell, I more than like you. I can't stop thinking about you."

  "I haven't been sleeping." Now that the floodgates had opened, her own confessions came pouring out. "Knowing you're right next door."

  "That makes two of us."

  "Maybe I should move out."

  "Maybe you should stop talking."

  Trent dropped his hat and wrapped her in his arms. Marianne pushed up onto her toes to meet him, her own arms lacing around his neck, her fingers taking hold of his short black hair as best they could as Trent ducked his head and caught her mouth with his.