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 when 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?

"The Honky Tonk isn't just a name. It's a kind of establishment," he mentioned, in case she wasn't aware. Marianne actually rolled her eyes at this, and he didn't blame her. It was condescending as hell to bring up, but he was trying to regain his conversational footing after the unexpected news.

"Well…I might have to put in for a new name," Marianne replied as she bent to twist the hose off. "Maybe we could have the town vote on it. What do you think?"

Trent removed his hat and raked a hand across his scalp. "You really want to know what I think?" he asked.

Marianne straightened, wiped her brow, and crossed her arms. "I can take it," she assured him. Her mouth quirked in a small, ready smile, and Trent was struck once more by how stunning she was. For a moment, any thought of warning her against her plans flew from his mind; instead, he found himself wanting to sample those determined lips for himself. He imagined they tasted as sweet as their candy-pink color suggested.

It had been a while since Trent had so badly wanted to flirt with a woman, and he hated that he had already closed the door on an easy opportunity with Marianne. He wanted to establish himself as firmly on her side. He wanted her to consider him an ally, someone she could trust…so there could be no holding back what he said to her now.

"I think your aunt wants me to look out for you. Make sure you get settled in all right," he said.

"I never asked either of you to do that for me," Marianne interrupted, but Trent put up his hand.

"I would have done it with or without Celia's request." His gaze lingered on her for a second too long, and Marianne's cheeks flushed a little. Then again, maybe it was just the momentary exposure to the sun. "I want us to be friends, Miss Stanton."

"Then feel free to call me Marianne," she invited.

Trent nodded. "And you don't need to call me 'sheriff.' Trent is fine." He turned his hat over in his hands a moment before replacing it on his head. "It's my personal opinion that any changes you make to the Honky Tonk are going to be met with resistance by the town. The bigger the change, the bigger the hassle it might be for you in the long run. I'd like to offer my help, but I can't guarantee that people—myself included—won't be put off by whatever you've got planned here."

"I appreciate your concern," she said. "Really, I do. But I don't need any help." She indicated the neat rows of her garden, the freshly-turned soil (what wasn’t now on her skin and clothes, anyway). "I've got it covered…and I think that anyone resistant is going to like what I come up with. Have you ever tried beer brewed with coriander? It's excellent. A staple of all good Belgian wits. I've never brewed with it before personally, but I'm excited to try. I'll promise you the first sample."

Marianne waggled her eyebrows suggestively, and while Trent couldn't deny it was a cute look, he still had to be the bearer of bad news. "That what you're planting here? Coriander?" he repeated.

Marianne grinned. "Of course!"

"Because what you've got in your hand is rosemary," he stated. "It used to be my grandma's favorite. I'd know it a mile away." He tipped his hat in farewell as Marianne's jaw dropped in dismay. He made his way back around the side of the Honky Tonk, grinning as her expletives followed at his heels. Maybe he had better give the new girl a day to cool off before he tried talking her out of her grand scheme again.

Trent had no doubt that Marianne Stanton would come to see things his way. And if he'd be seeing a hell of a lot more of her in the process…then he considered it a double win.