Stirring up the Sheriff (Wildhorse Ranch Brothers Book 3) Page 8

  "I'm sorry, but is this…is this the Honky Tonk? Actually, you know what? I'll come back later." The stranger quickly bowed his way back out the front door, flustered and nearly tripping over himself in the process. He acted like he'd left the oven on.

  Trent wanted to laugh, but the panicked expression on Marianne's face stopped him cold. "Oh, my God. Oh, my God!" she said. She snatched up her tank top and shot her arms through it as she ran after the man. Trent had a mind to call out to her—to remind her that she was still half-naked and in no way ready to meet a potential customer—but the warning stopped in his throat. They were already long past the point of worrying about that. He yanked his jeans up, not bothering to secure his belt as he lurched after her.

  "Marianne!" he called. "It's all right! Just some out-of-towner who happened in."

  "That wasn't just anyone, Trent." Marianne turned away from the window to stare at him in shock. "That was one of the tasters for the Spring Festival…one of your fellow judges."

  11

  Marianne

  "Marianne, you can't keep ghosting on Trent!" Sabrina said disapprovingly.

  Marianne almost dropped her phone at the other woman's accusation. Nearly a week had passed since the incident at the Honky Tonk; in that time, she had barely spoken more than two words to Trent Wild, but she hardly thought that warranted being accused of avoiding him!

  "I'm not ghosting," Marianne said in exasperation. She made a third pass around her barely-used kitchen as she hunted for her car keys. She located them in the sink, of all places. "I've just been busy prepping for Battle of the Brews tomorrow.” Her keys leapt out of her hand like someone had greased them, and Marianne lunged after them. “Once that's over, I'll be able to sit down with Trent and talk," she concluded in the aftermath of her narrow catch.

  "What happened between the two of you, anyway?" Sabrina asked. "Trent said it was something to do with him coming around the brewpub, and that's why you won't let him in anymore."

  An easy excuse caught in her throat. The truth of the matter was, Marianne had no idea what she was to Trent or what he was to her. She had a feeling he had come to mean more to her than anyone else in this town—maybe anyone else, anywhere—and the possibility terrified her so much she was afraid to look at it further. The romance between them had sparked and started before she could decide if she had any room for it in her life, and she was still uncertain what it meant. Was it a distraction? An impediment to her already tenuously-building success? Was it worth dropping everything for so she could figure it out definitively?

  No. It was too much. Better to just avoid this new complication altogether while she got everything else sorted out first.

  "I won't let him in because I haven't been around when he drops by unannounced," Marianne said finally. "I have my own schedule to keep, Sabrina, completely unrelated to Trent, and I…oh, shit."

  She had just stepped out onto the front porch to find the handsome, fully-uniformed sheriff leaning up against her car. He waved to her casually, and Marianne gripped her phone.

  "Sabrina, I'll call you back."

  "He's right there, isn't he?" Sabrina asked gleefully, but Marianne hung up before Sabrina could enthuse anymore about the coincidence. In the back of her brain, she wondered if Sabrina wasn't the one who had given away her location to Trent while she was distracted.

  "Trent!" Marianne exclaimed. "What are you—?"

  "Don't act so surprised." Trent shifted against her car. The loose line of his usual smile looked slightly pensive. "You think the sheriff of Lockhart Bend doesn't know where to find you when you've been avoiding him? You live right next door to me…when you're not living at the Honky Tonk and locking me out."

  "It's not just you I'm locking out," Marianne answered feebly. "I mean, there's still a lot to do before tomorrow. I can't afford any more distractions."

  "Can't afford them, maybe," Trent agreed, "but you're about to get one. C'mon."

  "Wait! I can't…where are we…" Trent's hand was on her wrist before she could articulate a real protest. He didn't drag her far from the easy escape of her car—just through the gate and into his own backyard. Now she had nowhere to look where Trent wasn't in evidence. His imprint lived in that empty chair; the press of his lips lingered on every crumpled beer can.

  He stood right in front of her, waiting for an explanation.

  "Don't do this, Marianne," he murmured. "Don't shut me out. Let me help you—let me be more than just your friend-with-benefits, neighbor-lay who you occasionally allow into your life. Let me be your partner."

  "Simon." The name fell from her lips like a bitter fruit. "My ex-husband's name is Simon. He's the one whose name you found in that old book of recipes. He used to be my partner."

  "He didn’t treat you right," Trent guessed. Obviously he was used to quickly putting the pieces of a broader puzzle together. It was too easy to look at that all-American chin, those rugged, handsome looks, and forget that Trent made his living as a sheriff at least partially on his instinct and deductive reasoning.

  "It was…more than that. And less. I don't know." Marianne tucked a piece of hair back behind her hair and shifted uncomfortably. "Just a lot of stuff I didn't realize until it was too late."

  "He ever hit you?"

  The question was an unexpected blow in and of itself. She gazed at him, the denial drying to dust in her throat. Her mother knew, of course, and so did Aunt Celia, but no one had ever guessed the truth about Simon, much less come out and asked her. Trent stared back at her evenly, patiently; his face was an impassive mask as he awaited her response, although she noticed a muscle in the lower corner of his jaw start to clench as her silence endured.

  "Yes. Simon hit me. A few years into our marriage, and it was only once. But it was enough." Marianne let out a quiet, mirthless little laugh, just to fill the air between them with something that wasn't her personal tragedy. "I'm almost glad he did now, as crazy as it sounds…it woke me the hell up. And that's something I've only ever said to my therapist," she added quickly. "It's not something you can just come out and tell people…at least, not most people."

  "And you came down to Lockhart Bend to get away from him."

  "I came down here because I needed a fresh start," Marianne corrected. "It took me a year after the divorce to get all my affairs together, and when Aunt Celia called me up to tell me she was moving, and I had the money to buy the bar…it seemed like serendipity. Of course, it doesn't hurt that I don't stand a chance in hell of running into Simon here. I heard he moved to Wyoming after the divorce, anyway…I guess the rumors of why we split up dogged him despite the fact I tried to keep a lid on it."

  "You should have shouted it to the world," Trent insisted. "They were damn right to run him out of town. And they lost a hell of a brewer in the aftermath."

  His words confused Marianne, until he reached between them and took her hand. Suddenly she realized his meaning, and her heart tremored.

  "That was the hardest part," she said. "Looking back on all the years we worked together, all the times he derided or downplayed my ideas, and I never even noticed. I thought Simon just had a way with people, you know? I thought I had to work harder to catch up to him. It was only after he took credit for one of my ideas—an idea that he originally shot down in front of all our friends—that I realized what was going on. The night I confronted him about it was the same night…well, everything came to a head that night. I walked away from him after that, and I never looked back."

  "You're the bravest woman I know." Trent pulled her into his arms, clutching her, and Marianne hung onto him like her new life depended on it. Maybe it did. "And…I get it now," he added quietly. "Why all of this is so important to you. It isn't just another brewing project for you."

  Marianne buried her face in his chest and shook her head.

  "I'm sorry if I ever thought…" Trent expelled a long breath that gusted past her ear. "It's just that you rode in here with such confidence…you made it al
l look so easy, like you'd done this a million times before on your own. I thought Lockhart Bend didn't mean anything to you. I wanted to show you every aspect of the town I love."

  "It wasn't easy. And you just happened to be there every time it wasn't," Marianne whispered. "Which, I may as well face it, was from the beginning. I just wanted this to be something I succeed at on my own."

  "You have succeeded." Trent pushed off from her and gripped her shoulders, levelling her with a look. "Marianne, what you've done here is remarkable. One thing you should know about small towns is nobody's going to let you do anything on your own. Everyone's going to stick their nose in your business and have an opinion—and whether or not you give them a say? That's your choice, and it always has been."

  Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, but she wouldn't let them slip free, not yet. She didn't know what to say to him. How could she convey to Trent how happy he had just made her—just by saying that one small, seemingly insignificant thing?

  "C'mon." Trent draped an arm around her shoulder, and she had never felt so safe, so warm. No one had ever made her feel so protected and simultaneously free to be herself. "Let me drive you down to the brewpub."

  Marianne gasped a laugh and wiped her eyes. "You just want to look around and get a hint of what ingredients I'm using," she accused as they walked together toward his car.

  "Nah." Trent grinned. "I didn't say I was going to come in with you. You're locking me out, remember?"

  Marianne punched him playfully as he opened the door for her. "You always find a way in no matter what I do."

  12

  Trent

  The Spring Festival crowd at the Honky Tonk the next evening was enormous. Trent had never seen so many out-of-town faces mingling with the bar's regulars; and now, thanks to what he had once considered Marianne's sparse accommodations, there was plenty of space in the bar area to accommodate everybody. She had traded out Celia's barrels and rusted rodeo props for more sensible furniture and instead mounted decorations on the walls: almost every vertical surface was adorned with framed vintage photographs, coiled ropes, hats, and horseshoes. The town's memorabilia hadn't been lost, after all, but given an almost reverential treatment by Marianne's hands.

  Friends, family, and strangers alike greeted one another with happy slaps on the back and a clink of foaming, expertly-poured beers that hailed from all over the county, including Marianne’s first local brew. Children ran underfoot, laughing and spilling their cream sodas on the floor.

  Marianne didn't seem to mind the disorder—or the resulting mess—in the slightest. She was in her element, serving up drinks and conversation from behind the bar, her flowing dark hair tucked close about her face in what Sabrina had called “pin curls” when she noticed him staring overlong.

  "Our Annie's a real stunner, isn't she?" Sabrina asked as she elbowed Trevor in the ribs. Trent's brother grunted in lieu of a comment; he appeared to be more fixated on his beer and on goosing Sabrina every other minute when he thought no one was looking. Their flirting would have drawn a disapproving comment from Trent, if he weren’t feeling so in-love himself. He caught Marianne's eye when she next happened to glance his way; she blushed and averted her eyes again quickly.

  She was keeping her distance from him now that the judge who had walked in on them had arrived. He was a thin, greasy kid from the city—maybe late twenties—who hovered around the fringes of the room, never staying to involve himself in any conversation for long. His eyes kept darting to Marianne. Trent didn't know if he found the frequency with which the boy glanced her way funny or annoying.

  "All right, everyone. Please take your seats." The portly head judge climbed the little raised stage and motioned for them all to settle in. Trent took his place near the center of the judge's table and kicked back in his chair. He was well aware of the number of eyes trained on him in particular. "As many of you already know, we have a fun little wager in store before we declare the final winners of the Spring Festival's first annual Battle of the Brews. Before the results of this afternoon's tasting are announced, Sheriff Trent Wild has agreed to guess the ingredients of Honky Tonk Brewpub's flagship ale, Wildhorse Rose."

  Sabrina giggled from where she sat in the front, and Trevor's face beside her registered immediate shock. He looked blown away by the revelation of the beer's name. Trent assumed that Sabrina and Marianne had worked together in secret to come up with the name.

  "Mr. Wild." Marianne stepped up to the judge's table and placed a tester in front of him ceremonially. "You only get one guess, so you had better make it a good one."

  "I never guess," Trent replied smoothly. The room rippled with amusement at their banter. Maybe he was only imagining it, but he thought he saw several knowing looks exchanged. He wouldn't put it past some of the more intuitive locals to have already caught on to him and Marianne.

  "Wildhorse Rose." Trent threw his head back and took a long drink, then made a show of licking his lips. As one of the judges for the Battle of the Brews, this was his second taste, but it had no less of an impact for that. His brain raced a mile a minute to compile every faint hint of flavor—and there were a lot. He wondered if Marianne had purposefully brewed a complicated beer to throw him, but then it all came together: an eruption of flavor in his mouth, the aftertaste a soothing balm that followed the exciting bite of the alcohol. It was an incredible comfort he hadn't expected to find in a swig of beer, with an undercurrent of unpredictability—something you wouldn't guess about the unassuming color of the ale to look at it. He knew suddenly, without asking, that Marianne had brewed this drink with Lockhart Bend in mind.

  Even after it had all clicked into place, he held the audience in suspense a moment longer before proclaiming: "Caramel. Oatmeal. Sage. And rosemary."

  Marianne held his eyes for a long moment, then raised the mic to her lips. "Correct," she stated.

  "Yes!" Trent leapt out of his chair and yanked his hat off as the Honky Tonk exploded with hoots and hollers of joy. "Looks like we got our band for the Fall Festival, folks!" he called.

  "Congratulations, Mr. Wild." Marianne obviously tried to school her expression as she spoke, but Trent saw the pride in her face. In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to sweep her up in his arms and share her triumph—because while he had won the challenge, it was her moment of victory, and he wanted to be there with her for it.

  "And that brings me to our final announcement," the head judge said as he retook the stage. Trent sat down, still grinning from ear-to-ear. He had no doubt of what would happen next. "The results of the tasting competition!" The judge continued. The room tittered with excitement as he read off the third-place, then the second-place winners. Trent watched the bodies in the room shift as concerned eyes sought out Marianne. The two that had placed so far were out-of-towners—Marianne's brew was nowhere in evidence.

  "And the first-place ribbon goes to…well, this comes as no surprise, I must say," the head judge said. "The winner of the tasting competition is Wildhorse Rose. First place goes to Marianne Stanton!"

  The look of dawning astonishment on Marianne's face was sweeter than any note of rosemary Trent could have possibly tasted. He wanted to rise and go to her—to embrace her and be the first to congratulate her on all she had managed to achieve with one beer—but he stayed put, leaning back and pursing his lips as she passed him. She shot him an incredulous glance as she climbed the stage.

  "Thank you." She was already starting her speech before the head judge could pass the mic over to her. "I…it was enough just to host the competition and to share some good beer with you all. I didn't even begin to hope that my beer would be voted the winner, too."

  "I object!" the man at the end of the table stood up and exclaimed. Trent recognized him as the man who had discovered them in flagrante the week before. "I'm sorry, everyone. I held my tongue, but I don't think it's right to keep quiet now, knowing the results. I don't think the ribbon should be awarded to Miss Stanton, because I believe
Miss Stanton has compromised one of the judges. This judge." He pointed to Trent, and every eye in the tasting room turned to him. "The two of you are together, aren't you? Your bias skews the results."

  "But she won handily!" Sabrina shouted from the audience. Trevor sat back beside her, but he wasn't looking at Trent, or Marianne for that matter—he was looking at the big-mouthed judge like he wanted to wring his neck.

  But it was Marianne that drew Trent's focus. Her face wasn't rosy, the way it usually got when someone put her on the spot and she wasn't prepared for it. She was as white as a sheet on a line and staring inward at something he couldn't save her from.

  Like hell he couldn't.

  "All right." Trent heard himself interrupt the long pause, as if he were listening to himself speak from a long distance away. The moment was surreal, but it solidified by the second as he rose to address the room. "Fair enough. Marianne and I are an item. It happened recently, but it's not some secret we've been trying to keep. Right, Marianne?"

  "No," Marianne said. She stood frozen at the epicenter of it all, her bright blue eyes wide and riveted on the sea of confused faces. "No, we're not together."

  13

  Marianne

  This was an unmitigated disaster. Everyone was staring at her. Worst of all, Trent looked as if she had just physically slapped him in the face. Even from across the table, Marianne almost couldn't be sure that she hadn't, his look of pain was so devastated.

  She hadn't realized denying their relationship publically would sting him so much. She hadn't realized that it would hurt her as much as it did. In the aftermath of her words, she wished suddenly that she could take it all back.