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.

"Nothing 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.