“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.”
ANYONE BUT VIOLET.
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.”
