by Dylann Crush
Chapter Three
A few hours later Dixie had turned her niece over to her sister, Liza, changed into her Rambling Rose T-shirt, and settled underneath a striped pop-up canopy at the competitor’s check-in table. She’d lost count of the number of people who had approached her with questions or needing help figuring out where to go. Charlie had been so excited about making their first chili cook-off the biggest and best in Texas that she might have been a little ambitious when she planned all of the events that would happen over the next two consecutive weekends.
Thankfully Dixie had it all outlined on her spreadsheets. Tomorrow would be the white chicken chili contest. Sunday was for exotic meats. Based on a quick internet search, Dixie expected she might see ingredients such as rattlesnake, alligator, and maybe even grasshoppers. Thank goodness she wasn’t eligible to judge. Next weekend they’d tackle the final categories: vegetarian and competitor’s choice.
Some of their competitors had signed up to take part in all four competitions. That meant they’d have a couple of hundred extra people in Holiday for an entire week, not to mention the vendors and attendees who would be selling their wares and sampling chili. How would she keep it all straight?
She glanced through the schedule of events one more time while she waited for the next competitor to check in. An hour-long set by the regional favorites Boss Hawg and the Scallywags would kick off the festivities later on tonight. The first official event was scheduled for eleven o’clock tomorrow morning—a jalapeño-eating contest—followed by a full day of watching competitors work their best recipes into an attempt at winning that first-place blue ribbon.
The sound of someone clearing his throat made her look up. Her gaze lifted, landing straight on the stranger’s crotch. A well-endowed crotch, she realized. Heat hit her cheeks like she’d just stuffed them full of ghost peppers.
He cleared his throat again, and she raised her head, her eyes moving past a snug, pec-hugging T-shirt, over a stranger’s clean-shaven, clefted chin, pausing to appreciate the way his lips curved over brilliant white teeth, and finally coming to rest on a pair of ocean-blue eyes. Blue like the water just off the coast of South Padre Island. She wouldn’t mind deep diving into those baby blues. They crinkled at the corners, and Dixie’s cheeks heated another thousand degrees.
“Dixie? I must be hallucinating.” He held out a hand.
Her heart catapulted into her shoes. He knew her name. This gorgeous stranger knew who she was, and she had absolutely no idea how. “I’m sorry, do we know each other?”
“Yeah, we went to middle school together before my family moved out west. Chandler Bristol. Remember me?” He thrust his hand at her again.
Chandler Bristol. The boy who sat behind her in English and sent her a note asking her if she’d be his girlfriend during the sixth-grade spelling bee. She’d read it then bombed out on an easy word in the first round, earning her the yearlong nickname of “Choker.”
“I remember you.” She finally took his hand. The last time she’d seen him he’d been tall and lanky, a much more awkward boy version of the man who stood before her now.
“I can’t believe it’s you. So you’re still in Holiday?” he asked, clutching her hand in his.
She nodded. “Yep, I’m still here. Not much has changed. But you… Tell me what brought you back.”
He gave her hand a final squeeze then glanced down at her lists. “The chili cook-off. Is this where I register?”
Register… “Oh, yes. I can help you with that.” Dixie snagged a pen, trying to keep her hands busy so she didn’t find herself reaching for him again. “Are you a competitor?”
“I haven’t decided yet. Figured I’d stick around for the weekend and see how it goes. I’m an amateur.”
“So you’re just going to hang around this week?”
“Yeah.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Maybe you could show me around a bit, point out what’s changed. If you have time, I mean.”
Time was one commodity she’d never have enough of. But a break from the predictable dullness of her social situation like Chandler Bristol might never land in front of her again, so she found herself agreeing. “I’d love to.”
“Great.” He pulled his phone out of his back pocket. “What’s your number?”
Dixie rattled it off and felt her phone vibrate in her pocket. She reached for it to see she had a text. “Area code 949… Where are you living now?”
“Malibu.”
“California?” Duh, what other Malibu could he be talking about? Especially when he looked like he surfed 365 days a year. “You’re a long way from home then.”
He shrugged. “I’ve always had a thing for Texas. It just about killed me when we had to move away.”
“I’ve never lived anywhere else.”
“It suits you.” He graced her with another one of his pearly smiles.
Dixie grinned back.
A palm landed on the table next to her, breaking the magical moment. “Hey, Fireball, I need a hand with one of the bands. They’re supposed to have a place to board their giant hog. You know anything about that?”
Figured Presley would have an impeccable sense of awful timing. “Just a minute. Let me finish up, and I’ll be right with you.”
Chandler tilted his phone her way. “I’ve got your digits. I’m going to go get settled, and I’ll track you down later for that tour, okay?”
“Okay,” Dixie sighed. She waited until Chandler walked away before turning her attention to Presley.
“You done making goo-goo eyes at that guy and ready to give me a hand?” He hooked his thumb through his belt loop and straightened, towering over her and casting shade onto the table with the brim of his straw Stetson.
“Hold your horses.” Dixie shuffled through her paperwork.
“It’s not horses I have a problem with, it’s a giant ball-busting hog. They said they talked to Charlie about a place to pen their mascot. Name’s Ham Bone, and he’s gotta be the biggest, most ornery boar I’ve ever heard of.”
Dixie made it to the end of her pile. “I don’t see anything about a requirement for penning a pig. And takes one big ornery boar to recognize another, doesn’t it?” Going on the offensive with Presley was her best line of defense. Otherwise she’d sit around and daydream about that magic touch of his all day. He’d cleaned up nice, and she couldn’t help but wonder how it might feel to nestle her cheek against his pecs like her niece had been able to do earlier.
“In order to maintain the state of our present partnership, I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that. Now, can you get real and help me out with this?”
Rolling her eyes, Dixie offered what she assumed was an acceptable suggestion. “Can’t you put it in the pen next to Pork Chop?”
“Hell no. That’s all the Rose needs…another litter of piglets. By the way, who was that pretty boy you were talking to?” Presley glanced in the direction Chandler had disappeared.
“Chandler Bristol. He used to live here back in middle school.”
“Bristol, huh? Is he related to ol’ Leroy Bristol?”
“I don’t know. He came all the way from California to check out the chili cook-off. Charlie ought to be excited word has traveled all the way out West.” This being the first year they’d tried a cook-off event, they hadn’t been sure what to expect.
“Hmpf.” Presley shook his head. “Doesn’t look like someone who travels the chili cook-off circuit.”
“And you’re familiar with the chili cook-off circuit?” Dixie shot him a scowl. Leave it to Presley to ruin the one good moment she’d had today.
“Probably more familiar than you. Seeing as how I don’t think you ever go anywhere except work and church.”
Dixie laughed so hard she snorted. “Oh, please. How would you know whether I attend church? Like your boots have ever cr
ossed the threshold of a house of God.”
Presley set his jaw. “You stick to smoothing the feathers of the pretty boys, and I’ll do the hard work.”
“Fine. Good luck then.” Dixie stood to stretch her back as Presley stomped off toward the stage.
As she took her seat in her chair again, her phone pinged.
A text from the 949 number. Think you’ll have time to take a quick break for dinner tonight?
She was tempted. Oh, how she was tempted. Everyone needed to eat, right? Liza would be home with Bea tonight, and Gram had plans at the senior center. The check-in table closed at seven. She ought to be able to spare an hour or so. Besides, hanging out with Chandler might take her mind off how closely she was going to have to work with Presley over the next week. Years ago, she might have welcomed the opportunity to work side by side with Presley Walker in the hopes he might finally see her as something more than a dorky teen who’d crushed on him hard. But these days she knew better. He’d never be anything but a playboy and a cad. She’d do best to steer clear of him no matter how much her traitorous teenage dreams wanted to work against her.
With a million reasons to decline running through her mind, Dixie Mae King did something she hadn’t done in a very long time.
She accepted a man’s dinner invitation.
* * *
Presley replayed the interaction with Dixie time and time again. Why should he care if she was making googly eyes at some blast from her past who’d be in and out of their neck of the woods within the space of a week? Didn’t make sense. He’d always enjoyed giving Dixie a hard time even though he knew she’d always be off-limits. He drew the line at corrupting the preacher’s daughter. But the way her cheeks flushed when he paid her a little extra attention had always given him a bit of a thrill. Looked like she might have moved on. That fact shouldn’t bother him, and he didn’t have time to think about it anyway. There was a boar waiting on him. A boar with big balls and an even bigger attitude.
He rounded the stage and found the spot where Boss Hawg and the Scallywags had circled their campers, creating a miniature compound within a sea of tents and trailers housing the other musicians and cook-off competitors. He didn’t know which camper Boss Hawg had claimed as his own, so he knocked on the screen-door frame of the first trailer he came to. A tall brunette came to the door. Her hair hung in a curtain of chestnut around a heart-shaped face with big brown eyes. He recognized her as the band’s fiddle player. The CD cover he had in his truck didn’t do her justice.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
Presley cleared his throat. “I’m here to help with your hog.”
“Excuse me?” A smile morphed her features from good-looking to dazzling.
“Yes, ma’am. I believe his name’s Ham Bone.” Presley swept his hat off his head and held it at his waist. “Presley Walker, at your service.”
“Well, come on in, Presley Walker.” She pushed the screen door open, and he squeezed past her onto the steps leading into the trailer.
The scent of vanilla and musk tickled his nose. He stepped up into the main seating area of the trailer where other members of the band sat around, their instruments in their laps.
“Hey, y’all, Presley here has come to help us with that hog you insisted on bringing along.” She sat down on the lap of a grizzly-bearded man who Presley recognized as Boss Hawg himself.
“Thank God.” Boss Hawg thrust his hand at Presley. “Nice to meet you, Presley. I’m Boss Hawg, and this is the gang. Skeeter over there thought it would be a great idea to gift my lady friend a potbellied pig for the holidays so we could have a real-life mascot.” Boss pointed at a lanky man who’d folded himself into the built-in bench.
“Aw, Boss, it seemed like a good idea at the time.” Skeeter shrugged, his bony shoulders pointing skyward before he sank back into the bench seat.
“Little did we know that darling potbellied pig was actually a full-sized hog.” The fiddle player patted Boss on the chest. “Now we need to find a place to put him while we’re holed up here for the next week or so.”
Presley shifted his weight from foot to foot. “The pigpen we’ve got here at the Rose is taken. Pork Chop, our resident mascot, gets first dibs on that. But my folks have a place not far from here, and I’m pretty sure we can make Ham Bone very happy there for the duration of your visit.”
“Or longer,” the fiddle player sighed.
“Leoni here isn’t too fond of her Christmas gift,” Boss said with a chuckle.
“He’s mean.” She grinned at Presley then climbed out of Boss’s lap. “I’ll show you where we have him if you want to take him over now.”
“Sure.” Presley figured he’d have a chance to warn his oldest brother, Waylon, who’d taken over managing their folks’ ranch, but maybe it would be better if he just showed up with the hog. Surely they’d find a place for him, especially if they knew they’d be helping Charlie.
“Okay, let’s go.” Leoni led him down the steps and back out into the late-afternoon heat.
“So Ham Bone is only six months old?” Presley asked.
“Who knows?” Leoni waited for him to catch up with her before she took another step. “Skeeter swears he picked him out from a litter, but I think he won him at a poker game when we were performing in Texarkana.”
They’d reached a dented horse trailer attached to a souped-up diesel dually. Grunts, snorts, and thumps came from deep inside. Sounded like they were housing a sleeping dragon.
“I’ve gotta tell you, I sure do appreciate your skills with the strings.” Presley snagged his chance to share his admiration.
“Aw, thanks. I started off thinking I wanted to be a concert violinist.”
“Really?” As far as Presley knew, there wasn’t too much crossover between musicians who saw the violin as an instrument for playing classical music and those who did their best to force a wild country tune from the strings.
“Yep.” She stepped onto the back bumper of the trailer. “Then I met Boss and the others and figured I’d have a hell of a lot more fun fiddling.”
Now or never, Presley told himself. If he ever wanted to explore the side of himself he’d been hiding from the world, this was as good a chance as any. “I’ve done a little bit of fiddling myself.”
“Oh yeah? What do you play?”
He let out a nervous laugh. “I’m playing on one of my granddad’s old fiddles, but I’m working on making one myself. It’s probably not any good, but he used to be pretty well known for his craftsmanship, and I’ve always wanted to try my hand at carrying on the family tradition.”
“Seriously? I think it’s awesome you’re making your own. I’d love to check it out sometime.”
Even though he’d been angling for an opportunity to turn the conversation to fiddling and maybe get some feedback from one of the best, Presley was still blown away by the offer. “That would be great. I’d love to hear what you think. Seems to play pretty smooth to me, but then again, I haven’t had any formal kind of training. Just sitting on my granddad’s lap when I was a kid and then messing around on my own as I got older.”
“It would be my pleasure. But first, what do you say we get this pig out of here before he busts out on his own?” She peered over the top edge of the trailer. “Hey, Ham Bone, you want to stretch your legs a bit, bad boy?”
Something slammed against the door of the trailer, sending Leoni sailing from the bumper and onto her ass. Presley offered her a hand and helped her to her feet. She brushed off her butt before she landed a kick to the trailer door.
“You sure that’s just one pig in there?” Presley asked.
“Yep, one badass, bone-headed boar.” She handed him a coiled piece of rope with a clip on the end. “Good luck.”
Presley took the rope and stepped onto the bumper. The inside of the trailer was dark and stank like pig shit an
d wet hay. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could just make out the outline of a giant beast hunkered down in the far corner of the trailer. He glanced back at Leoni, who offered an encouraging smile. This was his chance. If he couldn’t handle their pig problem, she’d have no reason to give him the feedback she’d promised. And unless he wanted to spend the rest of his life doling out samples of vodka and trying to convince tightwad bar and liquor store owners to spend an extra dollar on a local libation, he’d better figure out a way to take the ornery boar off their hands. At least while they were playing in Holiday.
With a grin at Leoni and a swagger that held all the confidence he wished he felt, Presley lifted the latch on the trailer door. He wasn’t sure if he’d burned all his bridges to heaven above, but he offered a silent prayer in that direction just in case.
Then he stepped inside the trailer and let the latch close behind him.
Chapter Four
Dixie twirled in front of the full-length mirror hanging on the door of her gram’s closet. She’d sneaked away from the Rose just long enough to throw on a sundress and dust a little bit of makeup across her nose. She was meeting Chandler in front of the Rose in twenty minutes, and she wanted to look more presentable than she did in her standard hot-pink Rambling Rose T-shirt and denim shorts.
They wouldn’t have time to leave the honky-tonk, not with the live music lineup starting this evening, but at least she could treat him to a slab of Angelo’s famous baby back ribs. Presley didn’t appear to want her help on his side of things, so she’d be more than happy to take a backseat and just enjoy the evening.
With a final glance in the mirror, she realized she’d forgotten to put on some earrings. She went back to her room, searching for her favorite pair. She’d made them herself, back when she was first starting out. Hopefully by this time next year she’d expand from her little online store and have a real shop set up to sell handcrafted jewelry and items from other local artisans instead of working the chili cook-off.
She secured the sterling silver posts, letting the hammered silver chain links dangle down. She’d strung tiny flower charms on the ends, making them look like a bouquet of flowers spilling from her ear lobes. She missed making jewelry. She missed having free time. But most of all, she missed that piece of herself that she connected with deep down inside when she made something beautiful with her own hands.
