Come On Over. Debbi Rawlins

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