by Leslie North
Stirring up the Sheriff
Wildhorse Ranch Brothers Book Three
Leslie North
Contents
Wildhorse Ranch Brothers
Stirring up the Sheriff
Blurb
Mailing List
1. Marianne
2. Trent
3. Marianne
4. Trent
5. Marianne
6. Trent
7. Marianne
8. Trent
9. Marianne
10. Trent
11. Marianne
12. Trent
13. Marianne
14. Trent
Epilogue
End of Stirring Up The sheriff
Thank You!
Sneak Peek
Wildhorse Ranch Brothers
Breaking the Cowboy’s Rules
Healing the Quarterback
Stirring up the Sheriff
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.
RELAY PUBLISHING EDITION, JUNE 2017
Copyright © 2017 Relay Publishing Ltd.
All rights reserved. Published in the United Kingdom by Relay Publishing.
No part of this book may be reproduced, published, distributed, displayed, performed, copied or stored for public or private use in any information retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any mechanical, photographic or electronic process, including electronically or digitally on the Internet or World Wide Web, or over any network, or local area network, without written permission of the author.
Cover Design by LJ Anderson of Mayhem Cover Creations
www.relaypub.com
Blurb
Moving back to Lockhat Bend wasn’t easy for Marianne Stanton. But the smart and sassy firecracker has come with a plan. She’s going to turn her Aunt’s old Honky Tonk into a sleek and successful brewery in the heart of Lockhart Bend. Proving that while her life didn’t go as planned, she could still take the town that judged her harshly as a child by storm. She’s set out to win the upcoming Battle of the Brews at the county festival. The plan is to do it solo...no matter what the annoyingly hot town sheriff has to say.
Sheriff Trent Wild has a dream—a dream that his favorite honky tonk will never change. For years he can kick back with a cold one and listen to country crooning on the jukebox as couples two-stepped their way around the floor. It’s a dream that’s in peril since master brewer Marianne came back to town, all grown up—and looking damn good—to burst his bubble. Now Trent needs to persuade Marianne that the Honky Tonk is perfect as it is...and that he could be perfect for her, too.
What starts off as a welcome back to town quickly becomes a battle of wills. Marianne and Trent will find themselves fighting for their separate dreams until a cherry chapstick flavored kiss proves juicier than expected. Now they’ll have to decide if living the dream is worth missing out on the love of a lifetime.
Mailing List
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(Wildhorse Ranch Brothers Book Three)
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1
Marianne
Marianne Stanton absolutely hated dirt, and Lockhart Bend was lousy with it.
You can do this, she coached herself as she squatted down in her garden plot. Don't forget you're a Colorado girl. You love nature, and you definitely don't shy away from manual labor.
Still, she wasn't used to being so personally…entrenched in it. It's not like she could maintain a manicure anyway, being a brewer, but today her nails were coated with soil and positively wrecked. She fancied her hands were barely recognizable as human anymore. What was the point of gardening gloves if all the dirt got into them anyway? Hell, what was the point of gardening, when you got right down to it?
She would get down to it, of course. Besides the broader importance of feeding mankind and sustaining a healthy population, in her case, she wanted her brewpub to have a display garden to showcase her ingredients. The little house she had purchased on the edge of town, almost a week ago now, had a patch of lawn that certainly tried to be verdant in the oppressive Texas heat, but at the end of the day it was only ornamentals. If she was going to turn her aunt's Honky Tonk Bar into a real brewpub, then she wanted every growable ingredient used in her recipes to be seen by her customers.
If she could convince the people of Lockhart Bend to be her customers.
"Be ready for some pushback," Aunt Celia had told her, right before the older woman had passed her the keys to the bar. Marianne still remembered how heavy they had felt in the crease of her palm, weighted with a thousand expectations and baring just as many teeth. "It may not look like much, which is why I sold it to you for the price I did—that, and we're family." Celia had grinned at this. "But this town is close-knit, Annie, and like it or not, this rundown little labor of love of mine has made itself a fixture. Besides the Tin Horseshoe up the road, this is the only watering hole Lockhart Bend has got. You might find that even the beer-swilling good old boys turn their noses up at your craft brews if they find them too fancy."
"Don't worry about me, Aunt Celia." Marianne remembered trying to appease her aunt's worries with a bright smile and a dose of radiant Colorado confidence. "You just promise to enjoy newlywed life in sunny Florida. I can look after myself here just fine."
"I know you can, honey." Aunt Celia's face, already looking ten years younger with the excited expectation of the new chapter ahead of her, had collapsed on itself in a moment of unguarded grief. "Oh, Annie."
Her aunt had pulled her into a tight embrace then, and Marianne had gone unresisting. She had been anticipating that moment for a while.
"I can't help but think how awful it is that my marriage is starting just as yours is ending. It isn't right!"
"It's all right, Aunt Celia, really." Marianne had rubbed her aunt's back awkwardly as she assumed the role of momentary comforter. "It's been more than a year now. My divorce is long finalized. Please don't trouble yourself with any more thoughts about it. I sure as hell don't." Marianne had drawn herself back and beamed to let her aunt know she meant it. "I'm thrilled for you. Now go on—get out of town. And call me as soon as your flight lands."
"Will do, honey. I love you." Aunt Celia had smoothed Marianne's hair back from her forehead, like she was still the cherished, innocent child that had grown up in Lockhart Bend—and not a divorcee on the cusp of thirty, whose first agenda item upon moving back was to piss off everyone in town.
Maybe that last part was a bit of an exaggeration. Despite her aunt's misgivings, Marianne had yet to properly meet any of the locals. Even her next-door neighbor was absent most of the day, in total service to whatever job he or she held for what seemed like sixteen hours a day, seven days a week. Then again, Marianne had often been away from home herself while she saw to the bar's renovations. Lockhart Bend may have been small and sleepy on its face, but the locals who lived there took their various vocations seriously.
She was determined to be no exception.
"Fresh start," Marianne muttered to herself now as she stared down at two hand-labelled, identical-looking seed packets. "This is your fresh sta
rt, Marianne. Don't screw it up."
It was hard to feel fresh when her entire body was sweat-soaked beneath the clinging second-hand clothes she had purchased to garden in. The men's cotton dress shirt she wore stuck to the small of her aching back, and the sunhat sheltering her was beginning to make her scalp itch in earnest. Marianne removed it and wiped the back of one filthy wrist across her forehead to dash the sweat away. She knew she was only stalling. The perspiration around her hairline would return with a vengeance in no time, and she wasn't any closer to telling “lavender” from “coriander.”
"How is that even possible?" she muttered as she squinted at the clerk's penmanship. "How do you make two different words look exactly the same?" It was like deciphering ancient runes.
A peal of shared laughter drew her attention. The Saturday morning farmers’ market appeared to be wrapping up. Aunt Celia had always welcomed shoppers to park in the Honky Tonk spaces during the bar's off-hours, and that was at least one tradition Marianne wasn't going to part with anytime soon. A couple strolled back to their car, their arms loaded down with more produce than either of them could comfortably carry, but they were obviously enjoying the day and each other's company. A black lab wearing a bandana bounded at their heels, jaws smiling and tongue lolling as if he was a third party to their joke. Maybe he was.
Marianne felt a sharp pang of longing, so strong the shock of it nearly knocked her out of her galoshes and into the trench she had just dug. The feeling startled her, and she blinked, stupidly watching as the picturesque couple assisted one another in loading up the back of their pickup.
It couldn't be that she actually missed Simon, could it? No way in hell. The mere thought of her ex-husband was enough to make her ill, and that was absolutely a good sign. No, what she missed was the collaboration, the comradery, that came with working toward a mutual goal alongside someone you absolutely gelled with…and that wasn't something she had ever had with Simon. It had only taken getting away from him to realize it.
Maybe it was something she never had at all.
Could a person really miss something they had never experienced in the first place? Maybe I should just get a dog, Marianne thought as she split open a packet of seeds. A dog is a surefire way to avoid cat lady status, right?
"Shit!" she said out loud—drawing attention from the couple, their dog, and the man just rounding the corner.
2
Trent
It was another sun-drenched, slow-and-easy Saturday morning in Lockhart Bend, and Trent Wild preferred it that way. He strolled down the long line of vendors' stalls at the farmers’ market, fielding happy greetings and politely declining any offers of free produce similarly thrown his way. He was well-liked as far as town sheriffs went—which sure as hell made his job a lot easier—but it never got any less awkward turning down gifts. People wanted to reward him for wearing a uniform, but it was the uniform that urged him to politely decline their generosity. Any man in a position of authority had to be especially careful he didn't take inadvertent advantage, and Trent lived by the edict as much as he lived by the badge.
"Morning, Trent. Looking for anything particular?" one of the Bend's beekeepers called his way. The old man was a staple, more than twice Trent's age and still slinging honey. He insisted it was all the stings that kept him young; he claimed to barely notice them anymore.
Trent returned the man's wave. "Howdy, Orson. Told Celia I'd check in on her niece, and I'm afraid I'm a bit late on an introduction. You see anybody around the Honky Tonk this morning?"
"Yep. She pulled up early, just as the rest of us were setting up." Orson nodded toward the backyard of the bar and chuckled. "You watch yourself, Sheriff."
Trent raised an eyebrow but didn't inquire further. He would find out for himself soon enough what Orson meant. He gave the beekeeper a parting tip of his hat and strolled toward the old bar.
The Honky Tonk, like Orson, was a fixture of Lockhart Bend. The bar was old and rustic on the outside and in violation of more than a few minor building codes, but Celia had always taken care of them promptly when she had the money, and Trent had never been one to press her on it. The free pints she slid his way were the only gift he was willing to accept from anyone in town, and their arrangement had always been under the condition that she would call in a repayment when she needed it.
Now Trent found himself in a position to repay his debt, and he was determined not to let Celia down. Time to introduce himself and extend every Lockhart hospitality to her niece.
As he rounded the corner to the bar's backyard, that last thing he expected to find was such a hospitable view. He had been so absorbed with thoughts of what he might say to welcome Marianne that he hadn't anticipated being welcomed by the sight of a very curvaceous female backside wagging in the air.
The view stopped Trent dead in his tracks. He watched as the denim-clad ass bobbed and wove before him like a hypnotist's pendulum, swaying with complete unselfconsciousness, as the woman it belonged to cursed up a storm.
"Fucking dirt! Fucking store-wrapped goddamn mystery seeds! Argh!" Her growling and grumbling was almost bestial. If it wasn't for her tantalizing figure, Trent might have mistaken her for one of the rougher cowboys he had to deal with sometimes down at the Tin Horseshoe. He listened for a few seconds longer, his smile hitching itself up one side of his face, before he cleared his throat to let her know he was there.
The woman shot up like a startled cat and dropped the seeds she was holding. She revolved more slowly to face him, her expression one of dismay before they had even locked eyes. Trent's smile died instantly, but it wasn't due to anything the woman had done wrong.
He hadn't expected her to look so…angelic. In contrast to the mature figure and salty language on full display, the woman had a round, youthful face, with wideset sky-blue eyes and a pensive pink mouth. Her skin—where it wasn’t covered with dirt—was porcelain-white, a complexion he hadn't seen on anyone around these parts for a very long time. She removed her sunhat quickly, revealing a gorgeous head of chocolate-brown hair tied back messily at the ivory nape of her neck. She was a vivacious mix of color contrasts, none of them local, and Trent took a second to catch his breath before asking:
"Marianne Mantel?" She looked too young to be Celia's adult niece.
"Stanton. Marianne Stanton." The woman removed one gardening glove to shake his hand. "And you're Sheriff Wild, aren't you? I mean…I guessed as much from the uniform," she carried on hurriedly.
Trent relaxed his posture and hooked his thumbs through his belt. "My reputation precedes me."
"My aunt used to talk about you a lot." Even as she spoke, Marianne's eyes wandered to the seeds scurrying away from her. A thin stream of water from the garden hose was sweeping them off down one of the trenches she had dug. "Not sure I can promise you the same bottomless pint Celia always had on tap for you, but I'll try my best."
Trent grimaced. "I certainly don't expect it, ma'am."
"Sorry," she added quickly. "I didn't mean to come across as…I just meant I'm expecting a lot of growing pains with the transition. As you can see." She laughed and gesticulated toward the little garden plot she was in the process of drowning. Trent liked her laugh. It was clear and breathless and genuine, a pretty rebuke to all outward evidences of stress. "Really. I promise I'm not being stingy. I'd love to buy you a drink."
"That won't be necessary," Trent said.
"Did I say 'buy you a drink’?" Marianne's laugh came again, more forced this time, and she looked embarrassed. "I meant offer. Offer you a drink."
And I'd sure as hell like to take you up on that offer, Trent thought. Instead he said aloud: "Anything I can do to help?"
"No! No, thank you, I've got everything covered here."
Trent ignored her refusal of his help—politely—and squatted down to scoop up the errant seeds that came his way.
"Never saw the point in gardening alone," he said. "Never saw the point in gardening at all, to be honest, but wh
en my grandparents started it up every spring, they always did it together."
"I'm definitely new to it," Marianne admitted as she dropped down beside him. Trent let the excess water drain from between his fingers before passing the seeds back to her. "But it sort of comes with the territory of owning a brewpub."
"Brewpub?" Trent paused in his rescue mission, and a few seeds slipped past his boot. "Celia never said anything about a brewpub."
Marianne bent behind him to recover the seeds he missed. "Honestly, I didn't break the news to her until she had already transferred the property. I didn't think she cared one way or the other what I might decide to do with the place." She kept her tone carefully neutral. When her eyes flickered to him briefly, Trent realized she must have detected the note of resistance in his own voice.
"Look, it's not that I can't get behind a good brewpub," he explained as they rose together. "But the Honky Tonk's been around since before your aunt Celia was even born. There's a lot of history involved here. It's hardly changed at all since it was originally established, and folks like it that way."
"It's not my intention to make a huge splash in Lockhart Bend, Sheriff," Marianne said quickly. "I have huge respect for the traditions of this town. I promise it's nothing personal. I'm just trying to eke out a living doing what I do best…and what I do best is brew some damn good beer."
Her confidence should have been reassuring, but it wasn't. Trent glanced at the back porch, remembering all the off-duty nights he had spent leaned up against the railing under the stars, chatting with familiar faces behind the soft glow of cigarette embers. This place didn't just hold tradition in the grain of its wood beams—it held truth. Things men and women couldn't say to each other by the light of day—their worries and fears, their small-town tragedies and triumphs—lived on at the Honky Tonk long after closing time. How could he hope to express it all to this well-meaning outsider?