Stirring up the Sheriff (Wildhorse Ranch Brothers Book 3)

by Leslie North

  The head judge looked quickly from Trent's face to Marianne's. He stroked his mustache with a fat thumb and forefinger. Marianne recalled seeing him do that after sampling all the beers he hadn't liked.

  "Miss Stanton," he began, "in light of these allegations, I'm afraid I have no choice but to disqualify you from this year's tasting." His eyes shone with what she thought was sympathy.

  Suddenly all the respect she had worked for—all the validation she had sought on behalf of her dream—felt as if it was crashing down around her shoulders. She wouldn't have been surprised to look up and see the ceiling caving in beneath the falling sky, but her vision was suddenly unfocused, and she felt unsteady on her feet. A remote part of her brain took over all function for her; she watched, as if she were an outside spectator, as she nodded her head in disappointed understanding and passed the ribbon back to the judge.

  "Bad call!" Sabrina shouted from the audience. "Bad call, judge!"

  If others joined her in booing the judge, Marianne didn't notice. She was beyond caring. She exited the stage and wandered toward the back door; she thought she managed to slip out before anyone saw her. She probably looked like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs.

  She had never been so mortified in all her life.

  You let a man get in the way of your success, an awful voice hissed in the back of her brain. Again.

  She had thought her budding romance with Trent could burst into bloom without consequence; now, she could see all too clearly how mistaken she had been. She had let him invade her place of work; she had let him—wanted him to—take her, gasping and moaning, in a moment of weakness, a moment of pure shared bliss. Now her memory of their lovemaking left a bitter taste in her mouth—one that she couldn't replicate in a lab even if she tried.

  Marianne stared out at her tiny garden, arms crossed tightly across her breasts. She hadn't realized how much her image in Lockhart Bend meant to her. She willed herself not to cry, but at least if she did it would water the soil.

  "Miss Stanton?"

  Marianne turned in dull-eyed disinterest. A youngish man with thick-rimmed glasses and a beer aficionado's paunch came around the side of the building to join her. He smiled, and his delight at meeting her seemed genuine enough. He turned to regard the plants struggling to flourish at their feet. "Love the garden. I was hoping I might get to see it for myself."

  "I'm not used to growing anything…least of all in Texas," she said. She wished she could summon more energy to reciprocate his interest. "The sun is a lot more relentless here than it is in Colorado. So are the jackrabbits."

  The man chuckled. "That'd make a great label: a jackrabbit. Could be your logo. Well, whatever trouble you've had here, I just wanted to congratulate you. You really knocked the rosemary notes out of the park. Wildhorse Rose has got to be my favorite beer I've tried this year. I'm sure that every beer drinker in the Honky Tonk agrees with the original results of the contest."

  Marianne studied him. "You're from Colorado, aren't you? I feel like I've seen your face in a brewing magazine before."

  The man nodded. "Lucas Swallow. Of Swallow's Swill." He extended his hand, and Marianne shook it. "I've been following your work since before you left Denver. Now I'm afraid I'm physically following you." He smiled, and Marianne laughed politely to signal she knew he was joking. "Anyway, we just had a brew master position open up in our Denver room. I've been meaning to reach out, and I figured it was worth a trip down." Lucas withdrew his wallet and smoothly flipped her his card. "If you're headed back that way this month, please be in touch. I'd love to show you around the space."

  "Your timing couldn't be better, Lucas," Marianne replied. "I was just thinking about heading up north. I could use a bit of a breather."

  "Marianne!"

  She turned and watched as Trent's strides lengthened when he realized she was out by the garden. Lucas nodded to her in farewell. "My number's on my card. I'll be flying back myself tomorrow. Please give me a ring if you do decide you want to stop in."

  Lucas turned and left, and Trent pulled up immediately in the spot he had been occupying.

  "I've been looking everywhere for you." His handsome face was contorted in misery. He looked so distressed that she wanted nothing more in that moment than to reach out and wrap her arms around his neck, but she resisted the urge, no matter how overwhelming and impossible it felt to do so. "Who was that guy? He offer you a job?"

  Marianne winced at his perceptiveness and quickly tucked Lucas's business card away inside her pocket. "He…did offer to show me around his brewery if I ever happen to be up in Colorado. Which I think I might be very soon."

  "Is this because of what you said in there?" Trent swept his hand back toward the Honky Tonk. "Marianne, I'm not angry, if that's what you're thinking. We all say things we don't mean in the heat of the moment…and even if you did mean it, hell, it's still something I can work with. We never put a label on what we were. It was unfair of me to jump ahead without you. I guess I just wasn't thinking—"

  "It's too late, Trent," Marianne mumbled. "I know I screwed up…I've been screwing up ever since I got here. Maybe it's better for me to just go back to what I know."

  "I swear to God, Marianne, if this is you saying goodbye to me…I'm not mad about what you said. I'm not concerned about any of that!"

  "That's the problem!" She shook his hands off her. "I need to be concerned with it, Trent! My livelihood—my happiness—depends on my work. Any success has to be because of my work." She faltered for an explanation. She had so much time to make up for, so much to do, now that Simon was out of the picture. She had been so certain that the key to it all was independence. How could she have let someone back into her life again?

  Trent seemed to sense what she was thinking. His eyes narrowed, but if he was angry, she wasn't sure it was specific to her. "Marianne, I am not your ex-husband. I know you've been through hell in Colorado…"

  "That's no reason I shouldn't go back." She brushed past him, only because she wasn't sure she wouldn't break apart completely beneath the weight of his gaze. It would be too easy to give up her resolve with him looking at her like that. She had her escape—and now, she had a solid business reason to take it. "I'm sorry, Trent. I…I need some space to think. Lucas did offer me a position at his brewery back in Denver. They're really high-end."

  "You're needed here," Trent stated. "We may not be high-end. Hell, I know for a fact we aren't high-class. But the brewpub is bringing people together, Marianne. The town's coming alive around this thing in a way I've never seen before."

  She hung her head. She wasn't sure she believed him.

  "Please, Marianne." Trent stepped up to her and laid his hand on her forearm. "I need you here."

  "But I don't know what I need." Her voice barely rose above a whisper. "I'm sorry, Trent, but my mind's made up. I'm flying back to Colorado tomorrow. And there's nothing you can say or do to stop me."

  "Wouldn't dream of getting in your way." His own voice sounded bitter, and his touch subsided. Marianne hung back, but only for a moment; then she walked on toward the parking lot, head high. She knew she wasn't strong enough to look back at what she left behind.

  After another long day of brewery tours, Marianne was exhausted. The moment she returned to her hotel, she kicked her shoes off, bypassed the couch, and collapsed face-first on the bed. The mattress was stiff and resisted her weight in all the places she needed it to give; it wasn't her mattress, and it wasn't home, but she supposed it was a start.

  Marianne had known plenty of fellow brewers who left Colorado, only to return when they realized the market for their ideas was decidedly less welcoming the moment they left the Rockies. Lockhart Bend hadn't been that way for her, of course—not in the end—but she wished she didn't have to keep reminding herself that being in Denver again was a good thing. She used to love Colorado. She used to hate to leave it. So what happened to make her feel this restless now that she had returned?

 
Trent Wild happened.

  Marianne flipped herself over on the bed and shielded her eyes with her wrist. She supposed she could just get up and turn the light off, but the idea of lying alone in a dark room was somehow intolerably pathetic. Besides, she couldn't risk succumbing to her exhaustion and falling asleep on accident…especially not when she had her final meeting in just a few hours.

  The rear pocket of her jeans vibrated. Marianne lurched upright and fumbled for her cell. The area code…Lockhart Bend! But a half second later the familiar contact photo loaded. Marianne answered.

  "Aunt Celia?" she asked in bewilderment.

  "Hi, honey!" Aunt Celia's voice called to her gaily from Florida. "What you been up to? Oh, don't tell me! I won't pretend like Trent hasn't kept me fully informed!"

  "He has?" Marianne swung her legs over the edge of the bed and threaded a hand through her hair. How do I explain to Aunt Celia that I've given up the Honky Tonk? She had been putting off this conversation since the moment she left Lockhart Bend.

  "Oh, yes. You don't think that just because I'm married now I don't have time to flirt with my favorite sheriff, do you?" Celia tittered. "He told me all about the projects he's been helming around the brewpub! And the way the town's come together to make your dream a reality while you're away on your trip? Oh, Annie…I admit I had my doubts about what you wanted to do. Not because I ever thought you couldn't do it, but because I know firsthand how set in its ways that town can be. And now look at them!" Celia laughed. "I can't wait to see what you've done with the place when I come and visit you in a year!"

  "Trent told you about…projects?" Tears pricked the corners of Marianne's eyes. She wasn't a crier by nature—she was like her aunt in that respect—but she had no doubt they would be gushing down her cheeks any moment now. Trent obviously hadn't mentioned to her aunt that Marianne's "trip" was meant to be permanent. And on top of that…

  "Oh yes! He said you had so much you wanted to accomplish." Celia chuckled. "He said you wanted to refuse his help at first, of course. You're such a strong-willed woman, Marianne, that I can't say I was surprised to hear it. And Trent can be rather nosy. I just hope you won't willfully miss the good thing you have right in front of you. I know you love Colorado, dear, but it's never been your home. Lockhart Bend has always been your home."

  "Aunt Celia, I…can I call you right back?" Marianne stammered. She was already hanging up the phone before Celia could fully voice her assent. Marianne fell sideways back onto the bed, curled her knees in, and buried her face in the pillow. She could always call down for another one if this one wound up completely drenched in tears, and she was sure no questions would be asked. She wondered how many people had cried their eyes out, alone, in one of these hotel rooms.

  Colorado wasn't home. Not anymore. She had thought she was an outsider in Lockhart Bend, doomed to always exist on the fringes of things, but the town had come together in her absence to build on her dream. She imagined them all there, scratching their collective heads over the layout and decorations, retelling worn stories and reliving fond memories, laughing and passing around six-packs, and maybe, just maybe, imagining what beers her own imagination would brew up next for them to try.

  She had a meeting in three hours to go over the paperwork for her new job. All it would require was her signature, and she could start next week if she wanted.

  But did she want to?

  14

  Trent

  He had almost no taste for beer anymore. Lord knew he tried.

  The familiar pop and hiss of a can brought Trent out of his momentary stupor. He took a long sip as he looked disinterestedly around his backyard. This, too, didn't hold the same charm for him it once had. He had always prided himself on keeping the lawn green and the furniture ready to entertain any guests who might happen to wander his way, drawn by the smell of what he had smoking on the grill. Now, his attention kept wandering to the extra, empty lawn chair. He should just retire it permanently.

  There was only one person he wanted to fill it at the end of a long, hard day's work.

  Trent couldn't even tell if the beer he drank was flat. It didn't spark along his tongue like it used to; it didn't send so much as a weak thrill of pleasure through him to taste it. Beer used to be a comfort to him; now, it was just another reminder as empty as the chair. Marianne had taken his thirst with her when she left.

  She was the one who had inspired it to begin with.

  Trent checked the heat of the grill, laid down a single, lonely burger, then plopped into his chair. He gazed up at the sky, watching the white clouds scuttle across a vast canvas of blue that was somehow dimmer than he remembered. He needed to get out of this funk. He had thought working on the Honky Tonk would lighten his depression, but it only seemed to be making matters worse.

  "Hey, neighbor."

  Trent turned his head, the shadow of his hat brim darkening his view of the solicitor. He thought the voice sounded familiar, but he'd already had three beers by this point. He was starting to see—and hear—Marianne in everything. He was starting to morph into a sad sack sheriff who even Phil Hicks behaved for out of a misplaced sense of sympathy.

  But the shadow of his hat couldn't keep him in the dark for long. The figure by the fence line materialized; Trent tipped his hat back to be sure he wasn't just imagining the woman who addressed him. Dark hair, freshly wet from a shower, sparkling blue eyes, a sheepish, almost pensive smile.

  "Hey yourself," he replied. He still didn't trust his eyes, or heart, to interpret this new reality.

  "Hay is for horses," Marianne said as she let herself through the little gate that separated their properties. "Or so I've heard. You still haven't taken me by Trevor's place to see how the ranch operates."

  "I take it there were no horses in Colorado?" Trent pulled the empty lawn chair closer to him, and Marianne alighted in it. She perched on the edge, as if she didn’t expect to stay long.

  "No. There were plenty of horses…and beer…and opportunities." Her earnest blue eyes met his, before flickering down to the can clutched in his hand. "This is what you're drinking?" she exclaimed. "Ugh! I never should have left!"

  When Marianne did rise, it wasn't to let herself back out the gate—it was to try and snatch the can out of his hand. Trent held onto it, and when she gave it another, insistent tug, he yanked back. Marianne fell forward with a mute cry of surprise, and Trent caught her. He really didn't care about the fate of the beer can; he lost track of it in the struggle. His real prize had been a lap full of Marianne all along.

  "Glad you feel that way," he said. He reached up to stroke a curl of hair back from her startled face.

  "I'm so sorry, Trent," she whispered. "I'm sorry I ran away. I'm sorry I blamed what I was feeling for you for every little hitch and hiccup. You've been my rock in all this, and I…I should have trusted that."

  "I don't blame you for not trusting me," he replied. "Not after all you've been through. I'm just glad you flew back to me." Her eyes were so wide and blue in that moment Trent thought he'd fall straight into them. "So, are you back for good, then?" he asked her.

  "Barring some trips here and there," she replied. She leaned into his touch, affectionately nuzzling her cheek deeper into his palm, and Trent's heart fluttered. He didn't know his heart could flutter like that. "Who else is going to run the Honky Tonk right into the ground with her crazy, half-baked ideas?"

  "Half-baked is right," Trent replied. "Know how I can tell you've been to Colorado? You still smell like—"

  Marianne swatted him with a laugh, and Trent's arms constricted around her in response. "Sheriff, are you implying that I've been smoking the herb?"

  "Jesus, not when you call it that. That is a dead giveaway to me that no laws have been broken today."

  "No hearts, either. Hopefully." Marianne leaned her head against his chest, and Trent exhaled an enormous breath of relief. He felt like he had been holding it ever since she left for Colorado a week ago.

  "N
othing that can't be repaired," he replied. "And you do smell like an herb, you know. You smell like rosemary."

  "It's the smell that always reminds me of you," Marianne murmured. Trent held her close a moment longer, until she raised her head to look at him. God, he would never get used to seeing that angelic face trained toward him. He had almost thought he would never see it again. "Want me to bring over some real beer?" she offered.

  "Hell, yes. So long as you don't plan on disappearing on me again."

  "I'll hurry back." Her cool hand caressed his cheek, and Trent leaned into it to plant a firm kiss to its crease. It wasn't enough. Before Marianne could withdraw from him, he reached around back behind her head and cupped her neck, pulling her in for a long, sensuous, joyful kiss.

  She brought out the expert taster in him, after all.

  Epilogue

  Marianne

  "And if you'll walk this way," Marianne said, "you'll find the Honky Tonk's garden plot located right out back. We grow many of our own ingredients on the property, including the rosemary that rocketed our winning brew to small-town stardom."

  "Don't be modest on my account." The woman at her side, Cheryl Lynn, grinned. "You're looking at more than just small-town stardom after I publish my piece. Trust me."

  She was a writer for Craft, one of Austin's hot new hipster brewing magazines. Trent's celebrity quarterback brother, Charlie, had been the one to put Cheryl in touch with Marianne. One sip of Wildhorse Rose and Charlie had been on the phone pressuring the Craft editors to get a writer out to Lockhart Bend, or so Trent claimed.

  Marianne liked Cheryl. She was as delightfully weird as the city she hailed from: dark-framed glasses, bottle-blond hair buzzed up one side, red cowboy boots that looked hand-painted. The tattoo of a hops plant that Marianne noticed on the journalist's arm won her over completely. She knew the Honky Tonk's image was in good hands.