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."