Come On Over (2 page)

He caught the screen and smiled when he saw that Mutt was doing his job. Violet stood near the barn, spewing curses and trying to evade the dog's long eager tongue. She liked the mooch well enough, even slipped him treats, but she couldn't stand him licking her.

“Come on, boy.” Trent waited for the dog to bound up the steps and charge inside.

Yanking off his hat, he walked into the living room. Looking terrified, Shelby stood frozen, against the far wall where Mutt had cornered her. Jesus, he hadn't considered...

“Come,” Trent commanded, but Mutt ignored him.

* * *

S
HELBY
FIGURED
IF
the dog was going to bite her, he'd have already done so. She tucked her purse under her arm, and crouched to pet the big shaggy fur ball that had to be over sixty pounds. She loved dogs but couldn't for the life of her identify his breed.

“Well, aren't you a cutie pie trying to look all ferocious.” She found his sweet spot—a patch low behind his ear—and lightly raked it with her nails until his big eyes rolled back in contentment. “He has mud on his paws,” she said, eyeing the dusty wood floor. “If you care.”

She immediately regretted being snide. Trent ignored it, but she knew he'd heard. It wasn't like her to be rude. But she was tired, hungry and not completely enamored of the run-down Eager Beaver ranch. Stupid name, anyway. She'd look into changing it first thing.

And then there was Trent, whoever he was...besides tall and hot. Though being good-looking didn't work in his favor. Not with her. She'd had it with men. And their expectations. And...well, just about everything.

“How many times have I told you to use the doormat?” Trent said to the dog, then ducked out and returned with a faded towel. “He get any mud on you?”

She shook her head, then looked up. Trent's eyes were an unusual gray. She hadn't been able to tell earlier, but she'd noticed the strong jaw shadowed from a couple days' growth of beard. With his dark wavy hair, tanned skin and long, lean body, he was the perfect image of the untamed cowboy conquering the rugged West. If a woman had a fanciful imagination, which she did not. Anyway, she was from Colorado and knew better. Not all cowboys were equal. But all men were.

No, that wasn't fair. She looked at her left hand, where her engagement ring used to be. She was still raw from Donald's betrayal. From the proof that while he wanted to marry her, he didn't know her at all. In time the sting would fade. She had to believe that if she wanted to start fresh, prove to herself she could be successful on her own terms.

“Come here, boy.” Trent crouched beside her and gave the dog's collar a light tug until his front paws were on the towel.

Huddling between Trent and a console table felt too intimate so she stood. “What's his name?”

“Mutt. Actually, it's Ugly Mutt. Sometimes I call him Ugly. But mostly just Mutt.”

She stared down at him, ready and waiting to disappoint him when he looked for her reaction to his baiting. But he never looked up, simply concentrated on cleaning the dog's paws while her gaze followed the play of corded muscle along his forearms.

“You're kidding, right?” she said finally.

“About?”

“His name. You don't really call him Ugly.”

“Sure I do.” He gave the dog an affectionate pat. “Look at him.”

“That's awful.” How could he treat the poor animal that way? “
You're
awful.”

Trent smiled. “You know he doesn't understand, right?”

Her gaze caught on the laugh lines fanning out at the corner of his eye. Then slid to his muscled bicep straining the sleeve of the T-shirt. When she finally noticed that he was giving her a funny look, she realized she'd stopped listening.

She cleared her throat and surveyed the room. “We need to straighten out this mess.”

Trent glanced over his shoulder and frowned at the magazines and newspapers littering the coffee table. A pair of boots, one turned on its side, butted up to the burgundy recliner. “Which mess are we talking about?”

“The Eager Beaver,” she said, as it slowly dawned on her that the place was furnished with chairs, a high-quality leather sofa, a flat-screen TV, rugs... Trent wasn't simply squatting or passing through. “And how quickly you can clear off my property.”

He wasn't taking her one bit seriously. With a lifted brow he slid his gaze down her body. “You suddenly found that deed somewhere?”

“No. I explained where it is. But you seem so sure of yourself, I'm assuming you have one.”

That wiped the smirk off his face. “I do. Not here. My folks have it in their bank safe-deposit box.”

“In Blackfoot Falls? Shouldn't take you long to get it.”

“They live in Dillon, four hours from here.”

“Oh, how convenient.”

“Says the woman who claims her papers are in transit.” He pushed to his feet, bringing him a good five inches taller than her even with her three-inch heels. “What kind of—” He cut himself off, clamped his mouth shut.

They were standing too close to each other. Boxed in by the wall, table and Trent, she could feel his body heat and a hint of his breath on her cheek. Oddly, he smelled good, sort of woodsy, even though she knew he'd been working outside in the sun.

When he wouldn't move, she slipped around him. “You were saying?” she said, sneaking a peek in the bright yellow kitchen, surprised to see an open laptop sitting on a table.

“Nothing.”

“Please.” She turned to find him meticulously wiping his hands with the towel. “By all means, finish what you were about to say.”

He looked up, his gaze narrowing.

Okay, that might've come out a bit haughty.

With his sights locked on her, he said, “I was wondering what kind of idiot packs important legal papers with their belongings instead of keeping the documents locked up or with them.”

Heat surged up her neck and into her face. Someone who'd left in a hurry. Someone who'd been foolish enough to overstay where she hadn't belonged in the first place.

“I deserved that,” Shelby said quietly. “I'm sorry.”

His gaze lowered before he looked away. “We'll get this straightened out, but I'm warning you, it won't be the outcome you want.”

She bit her lip. He seemed awfully sure, she thought, again taking in the furniture, most of it quite nice. The truth was, she didn't really have the deed in her possession, only her grandfather's will. Of course she'd call the attorney who'd drawn the will up. Something she would've already done if she hadn't been in such a rush to get away from her ex-fiancé and his family.

“You should try The Boarding House Inn in town. Better hurry, though, it's getting late and there isn't another inn for miles.”

Shelby studied his expressionless face. Naturally he was trying to get rid of her. “Hmm, I could ask around about you.”

“Good idea. Most folks know me, or at least they know my family. They'll confirm what I've told you.”

Her mouth went dry. Her heart sank. This wasn't looking good at all. Maybe he was bluffing.

“Hey, how about that cold drink I promised? I've got orange juice, water, beer...”

Annoyed that he must've noticed her difficulty swallowing, she shook her head. “How far is it to town?”

“Sixteen miles.”

“And you don't care if I inquire about you,” she said, watching him closely.

“Nope. Ask anyone.”

A knock at the door had them both turning their heads.

Through the screen she saw it was the older woman who'd been sitting in the rocker. She was holding a covered dish.

Trent looked at it and groaned. “Really, Violet?”

Shelby didn't know why he sounded grumpy. It smelled like cornbread and something else, maybe molasses. Whatever it was, the aroma was divine.

The woman glared at him. “You gonna let me in?” She was tiny, not even five feet, her voice surprisingly rough.

When Trent didn't respond, Shelby looked at him. Why the hesitancy? The woman was obviously his neighbor...

Unless...

Shelby hurried to open the door. “Of course, this is perfect timing,” she said, then glanced at Trent, who sighed with disgust. She smiled sweetly. “You did say I could ask anyone.”

2

A
NYONE
BUT
V
IOLET
.

Damn, no telling what the old busybody would say. She'd stir the pot just to see what bubbled over. She did it to him all the time.

Shelby held the door open wide.

Trent didn't try to hide his irritation. “I see you're making yourself right at home.”

“Thank you, dear,” Violet said, smiling at Shelby as she crossed the threshold.

He didn't miss the shrewd gleam in the troublemaker's eye. Shaking his head, he caught the door when Shelby let it go and kept it open. “Violet, I know you're not one for visiting. Don't let us keep you.”

“Don't mind him.” Violet passed the foil-covered dish to Shelby. “Nobody does.”

“As a matter of fact, this young lady isn't staying, either.” He swatted at the fly he'd let in. “She needs to get to Blackfoot Falls before The Boarding House Inn is full.”

Shelby shook her head and smiled at Violet. “I'm Shelby.”

“Shelby, huh?” Violet completely ignored him. Which was what he generally preferred, just not at the moment. “What a pretty name. I'm Violet Merriweather.”

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Merriweather.” Shelby sniffed the dish she held. “Is this cornbread?”

“Homemade. Along with my own baked-beans recipe. It won me a blue ribbon at the 1989 county fair. I use a couple shots of bourbon. And, honey, I'd be pleased if you call me Violet.”

Trent would call her a cab and gladly pay the fare all the way to California if he thought that would get rid of her. She hadn't been inside the house even once since he'd moved back. As far as he knew, anyway. Probably came in to snoop when he went to town for supplies.

“For pity's sake, Trent Kimball,” Violet said, wildly waving a hand around. “Must you let in all these damn flies?”

“They were invited. You weren't.”

When Shelby stared at him as if he had the manners of a baboon, he let the screen door slam. But only because the flies were getting out of hand. Good. Let Ms. I've-got-the-deed know what ranch life was like. Full of flies, hard work and no time for this kind of bullshit.

“I've been here eight months now, and this woman has never offered me so much as a crumb,” he said, gesturing to Violet. “She's nosy and is up to no good. Plain and simple.”

Shelby blinked. “I thought you said your family's been here for generations?”

Trent sighed. He needed a beer, or preferably a whole bottle of tequila.

“Ah. I see...” Violet said, her face lighting up as she gave Shelby a head-to-toe inspection. “You must be the wife.”

“Wife?” Shelby darted him a stunned look. “His? God, no.”

Trent clenched his jaw. He wasn't so much insulted by Shelby's reaction as he was pissed at Violet for bringing up his failed marriage. Which she was dying to know more about. She could be a pain in his ass but this was the first time she'd made it personal.

Signaling for Mutt to follow, Trent headed for the kitchen. It didn't matter that he glimpsed a trace of regret in the old woman's pale eyes. If remorse got her out of his house quicker, then good, otherwise he didn't give a shit.

After he'd filled Mutt's food bowl and the dog was wolfing down his supper, Trent grabbed a beer out of the fridge. The two women could stand out there yakking for the rest of the afternoon for all he cared. Let Violet do her worst. Hell, Shelby could bunk with her in the double-wide.

He twisted off the bottle cap, threw it at the trash can and missed. Maybe Violet's comment was innocent. She hadn't actually said anything about him being divorced. Not that he kept it a secret. He just didn't like talking about it. Especially when some things about Shelby reminded him of his ex. The way she dressed, for instance. Designer jeans and high-heel boots around here? And those soft slim hands, she couldn't use them for much. So what the hell did she want with a ranch, anyway?

A nagging thought finally took hold. Violet hadn't put him in a sour mood. Well, no more than normal. Shelby's horrified reaction at being mistaken for his wife had done it. Which made no sense. He didn't know the woman and only wanted to get rid of her. Sure, she was attractive but he honestly wasn't interested.

The horde of flies he'd let in weren't helping his mood. Jesus, they were everywhere. He swatted at the persistent little bastard buzzing near his ear. And missed. He had a mind to set out Violet's beans and cornbread. That should keep them busy for a while.

Dammit, that one fly seemed determined to drive Trent crazy. It dive-bombed his ear again. He stayed completely still for a few seconds, waiting, waiting for the perfect moment, then spun around and slapped...

Shelby. Right in the face.

He stared at her and she stared back, eyes wide, lips parted. He looked at his hand again. What the hell...

When he looked back at Shelby, she'd hardly moved. Or blinked. It was some kind of miracle that she hadn't dropped the casserole dish.

He went to take it from her and she reared back.

“Jesus, I didn't mean to... I was going for a fly...then you were...you were in the living room... I didn't hear you. I swear I would never...” He nodded at the dish that was starting to sag. “Maybe I should just take that from you?”

He moved slowly, wishing she'd stop staring at him like he was the devil himself. Thankfully, she let him have the dish with no fuss.

Her head tilted a smidge as she blinked. “You slapped me.”

“No, I was— There was this fly,” he said, wondering why, the one time in his life when he'd needed a fly, it had vanished into thin air. “I'm truly sorry. Let me see,” he said, reaching for her.

She moved back again, lifting a tentative hand to her face.

“It wasn't on purpose.” Trent couldn't see any kind of mark or discoloration but that didn't make him feel much better. He'd never hit a woman in his life, and he hoped to never do it again. Even by accident. “Why'd you sneak up on me?”

“I did no such thing.”

“Sorry, I didn't mean... Please, let me have a look...”

“I'll live.” She slowly flexed her jaw. “For your information I was bringing in the food, not sneaking up on you.”

“What happened?” Violet rushed in with a concerned frown.

“I hit Shelby.”

“It was an accident,” she said, giving him an exasperated look.

“Well, I expect it had to be,” Violet muttered. “Trent can be a stubborn jackass just like his great-grandpa, but he wouldn't strike a woman. Where did he get ya?”

“Really, it's nothing.” Shelby turned her head, away from their prying eyes. “I could use something cold to drink.”

He saw her eyeing his beer and he grabbed another one from the fridge. “What about you, Violet?”

“Wouldn't mind some whiskey if you got it.”

No surprise there. He opened Shelby's beer and as he passed it to her, he snuck a look at her jaw. He doubted it would bruise, it hadn't been that hard. But that wasn't the point. Shit. He got out the Jack Daniel's from an upper cabinet, wondering if he could convince Shelby to use some ice on her face.

Violet took the bottle from him, then helped herself to a glass sitting on the draining rack.

He watched Shelby take an impressive gulp of beer. “How about—”

“No,” she said, her voice firm. “Thank you.”

“You don't even know what I was gonna say.”

“No ice. I'm fine.”

Trent hid a sigh by drinking his own beer. He hated when women did that. Pretended they could read your mind. He hated it even more when they were right. Well, screw that. “Not ice. I have a thick T-bone in the fridge.”

Shelby let out a short laugh. “You're not serious.”

He wasn't but she didn't need to know that.

“I'm not putting a slab of raw meat on my jaw.”

“It's supposed to work for black eyes.”

“That's a foolish, archaic old wives' tale.”

“Good. Because I've changed my mind. I'm frying that steak for my supper.”

Violet threw back a healthy shot of whiskey and poured another. “Is it big enough for all of us?”

“No.” It wasn't enough that she was guzzling down his whiskey? She wanted his steak, too? He noticed Shelby checking out the silly daisy wallpaper he hadn't had time to get rid of yet.

“Yep,” Violet muttered. “You're just like your great-grandpa. Cut from the same ornery mold.”

Trent looked at her. “What was that crack earlier? I'm not stubborn, and neither was Gramps.”

Violet snorted. “Like hell.” She nodded at Shelby. “So was yours. I reckon that's why you two are here in this mess.”

“Excuse me?” Shelby stared at her. “How could you know my grandfather?”

“Can't say I ever met
him
, but I knew your great-granddaddy. You said your last name is Foster. Harold Foster was your great granddad, wasn't he?” Violet said, and Shelby nodded. “Harold was a kind, mild-mannered man most of the time.”

“Wait. Hold on. What mess?” Trent asked, knowing in his gut he wouldn't like the answer. “Because I was doing just fine before...” He glanced at Shelby, saw her absently probing her jaw, felt a stab of guilt and closed his mouth.

“While you were in the kitchen swatting at flies, this young lady told me why she's here,” Violet said, “and I've got a fair notion as to what might've happened.”

Shelby's green eyes brightened. “You think I really do own the Eager Beaver?”

“Look here, Violet, you can't just make up stories because you're bored,” Trent warned. “I swear to God, if you stir up trouble, I'm gonna sic Mutt on you.”

Shelby inhaled sharply. “You wouldn't.”

He ignored her, determined not to let Violet off the hook even if Mutt would just lick her to death. “This woman has driven all the way from Colorado and—”

“How do you know where I'm from? I didn't tell you.”

“License plates.”

“Oh.”

He wished she'd quit wetting her lips and distracting him. “How's the jaw?”

“Don't change the subject.”

“Well, excuse the hell out of me for being concerned.” Trent started to take a pull of beer but pointed the bottle at Violet instead. “Tell her how long my family's owned this ranch. You ought to know. I remember you had that old brown trailer when I was a kid living here with my folks. You'd just gotten the double-wide when I visited Colby six years ago. Now, go on and tell Shelby that this property rightfully belongs to the Kimballs. Please.”

Violet ignored him. As usual.

Shelby looked like all the air had left her lungs. If she hadn't been set on taking his last chance away from him, he would've felt sorry for her.

He turned back to Violet, who was watching the byplay as if she'd have to testify in court. “You have no intention of straightening this out, do you? Makes sense, since it would be the first nice thing you've done since I came back home. I don't even know why I let you stick around. I should've given you the boot.”

Shelby gasped.

He looked at her. “What?”

“Could you be any ruder?”

“Sweetheart, you have no idea.” Trent tossed back more beer, and then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “You got a problem with my etiquette, there's the door.”

“Huh.” Shelby sniffed with disdain. “I'm surprised you know such a big word.”

“What?” He snorted. “You mean a Neanderthal like me?”

“Now you're just showing off.”

Violet's rusty cackle reminded them she was still there.

Shelby blushed and took a dainty sip.

He probably should've offered her a glass. “You gonna tell her, Violet? Instead of letting her get her hopes up.” He did a quick once-over of Shelby, from the top of her tawny hair all the way down to her city boots. “Not that she'd last more than twenty minutes out here.”

“Honey,” she said, her chin lifting, “
you
have no idea.”

Trent met her feisty green eyes. She had grit, he'd give her that, but with those dainty manicured hands and soft skin, she'd chosen the wrong zip code.

“Well, ain't you two a pair?” Violet muttered, sounding more troubled than amused. “It's like watching Harold and Edgar all over again. This isn't good. Not good at all.”

They exchanged frowns, then both turned their attention to Violet.

Edgar was Trent's great-grandfather, though he'd died when Trent was eleven, so his memory of him might be a little fuzzy. “So, out with it,” he said. “Say what you want to say.”

“Pigheaded and impatient. You're just like him,” she said, her fondness for Edgar obvious in the small smile tugging at her weathered mouth. She nodded at Shelby. “Harold was another one. You couldn't find a pair of mules more ornery than those two boys. Both of them twelve years my senior and acting like kids. Fighting all the time, mostly over nothing at all. Makes a body wonder how they ever became friends much less business partners.”

He watched Violet pour more whiskey, then he glanced at Shelby. From the dread on her face, he figured she was thinking along the same lines as him. Hell, he sure hoped his folks had an honest-to-goodness deed in their possession or this could get sticky.

“Business partners,” Shelby repeated. “What kind of business?”

“Well, the Eager Beaver, of course.”

Trent muttered a quiet curse.

Sighing, Shelby rubbed her left temple.

Mutt stood at the kitchen door and barked. After Trent let him out, he saw Shelby frowning at the unsightly grooves on the doorframe, remnants from Mutt's habit of scratching to go outside. The job required the wood to be sanded before he could paint. It was on his to-do list along with a hundred other chores.