Debbi Rawlins - Come On Over

“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.

He had a feeling he was going to need another beer. The fridge door squeaked when he opened it. Just like the other dingy white appliances, the poor old Frigidaire was on its last leg. “Obviously the partnership didn’t work out,” he said, and nodded at Shelby’s nearly empty bottle.

She shook her head. Her resigned expression should’ve made him feel better. It was clear Edgar had stayed and worked the ranch. Had Harold given up his share and moved to Colorado?

Violet wasn’t looking smug as expected, but kind of glum, so he let her be and waited until she was ready to continue.

It was Shelby who finally broke the silence. “I’m not sure what any of this means. Are you saying my great-grandfather sold out to Edgar?”

Violet shrugged her narrow shoulders. “Can’t say one way or the other.”

Okay, Trent wasn’t sticking around for any more of her tap dancing when the truth was plain as day. The tractor wasn’t going to fix itself and he was losing daylight. It wouldn’t kill him to let Shelby stay in the spare room for a night... Yeah, it could. Next thing he knew, she’d be moving her stuff in and taking over the house.

His gaze caught on the rise and fall of her breasts and he had to remind himself he wasn’t interested. Not in her, not in any woman. Now, he wasn’t opposed to some recreational sex once in a while. But with Shelby? As his granddad used to say, Trent had as much chance as a one-legged man in a kicking contest.

“Some folks need to argue about everything. It’s just their way. Those two even fought over naming the ranch,” Violet continued. “Edgar claimed he saw a beaver over at Twin Creek reservoir, and Harold swore up and down it was a marmot. They finally flipped a coin.”

“As fascinating as all this is,” Trent said, grabbing the whiskey and returning it to the cabinet. “I have work to do.”

Violet didn’t protest being cut off, which was peculiar in itself. Then her faraway gaze drifted to the window over the sink, as if she’d slipped into her own little world. “Always arguing like those two did, no one ever paid them any mind...but that Saturday-night poker game at Len’s they had a terrible falling out. Both of them with full-blown cases of booze blind, they said things they couldn’t take back.” She shook her head, the sadness in her face giving the room a chill. “Stupid old mules. A day later, Harold up and left.”

He glanced at Shelby. Hugging herself, her expression sympathetic, she stared at Violet.

When Shelby turned to look at him, he avoided her eyes and took a swig of beer.

“What the hell did you do with my whiskey?” Violet had returned to the present with her usual cantankerous disposition, and Trent couldn’t say he was sorry. At least it helped prove to Shelby that Violet was a nightmare.

“ Your whiskey?” He put his empty beer bottle in the sink. “The tea party is over, ladies. I’m going back to work.”

“Don’t let us stop you.” Violet pulled her pipe out of her pocket.

“On, no. Not in here, you don’t. Put that away.”

Violet huffed in annoyance.

Shelby cleared her throat. “So, I guess we’re back to where we started.”

Not from where he stood. Although she claimed to have a deed. And he didn’t peg her for a liar. Obviously there was more to the story. “I’d be happy to give you directions to The Boarding House Inn. It’s on Main Street. You can’t miss it.”

“Actually, I’ll be staying here until one of us can prove ownership.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“It’s the only fair thing to do.”

Violet chuckled. “Attagirl.”

Mutt barked from outside the door.

“You can let him in on your way out,” Trent said to Violet, who gave him the familiar glare, basically telling him to kiss her ass. He grinned. “Thanks for the beans and cornbread.”