by Dylann Crush
“Yeah. Whoever took it left it on my front porch. Had to be my brother. I’d love for you to take a look at it though. Are you around all week?”
“Sure am. How about tonight?”
He hesitated. Breaking his plans with Dixie wasn’t an option. “I can’t tonight. How about tomorrow morning? I can brew a pot of coffee, and we can meet up here.”
“I’m looking forward to it.” She squeezed his arm then took off toward a vendor across the aisle selling pig-shaped popsicles.
Amped to finally have a chance for Leoni to hear him play, he jogged to catch up to Dixie. She stood in front of a table full of what looked like dog supplies. As Presley approached, he saw that the guy behind the table held a tiny piglet in his arms.
“Presley, come see this. It’s a mini potbellied pig. It looks just like Pork Chop, don’t you think?”
To him, a pig was a pig whether it was black, brown, or pink. But having gotten more familiar with Pork Chop in the past couple of days than he’d cared to, he had to admit the little pig did resemble the stubborn sow. “Yeah, the resemblance is uncanny. It’s almost like they’re the same species.”
“I meant the coloring. People keep them like pets. Aren’t these accessories adorable?” She fingered a set of pint-sized feathery angel wings. “I’ve seen Charlie and the others dress up the pigs like Baby Back and Pork Chop for the pageant, but I’ve never seen stuff like this.”
Having emceed the annual Rambling Rose Sweetest Swine pageant for the past five years, Presley had to agree…there were some pretty crazy costumes and even crazier pig owners out there. “Does your landlord allow pet pigs?” he asked, half-joking.
“Who, Gram? Probably not.” She reached out to scratch the little pig behind the ears.
Presley grabbed her hand. “Hey, how about I treat you to some ice cream?” He tugged her toward one of the many food truck vendors that had come in for the weekend.
“Sure, ice cream sounds good.”
“How could it not? It’s got to be at least a hundred and two out here.” He stepped into line behind his brother Statler.
“Hey”—Statler turned to face them—“how’s the weekend going?”
“Good, real good.” Presley nodded. “Once we make it through this afternoon, we’ll be halfway done.”
“I’ve heard people talking about how well organized everything has been. You’ve done a real nice job.” Statler nodded toward Dixie. “Charlie would be downright proud.”
Presley grinned as Dixie soaked in the compliment. She’d been working her ass off this weekend, and she deserved the praise.
“I couldn’t have done it without your brother.” She nudged her chin toward Presley. “He’s actually been pretty helpful.”
“Really?” Statler clapped Presley on the shoulder. “Nice work.”
“Thanks.” Presley pointed toward the window. “Looks like you’re up.”
“See y’all around.” Statler turned toward the window to order his ice cream, leaving Presley to question Dixie’s comment.
“You really mean what you said?”
“What?” She squinted at the blazing afternoon sun behind him. “That you’ve been helpful?”
“Yeah. Careful, that almost sounds like a compliment.”
“Hey, I don’t mind doling out the compliments when someone deserves them.” She gave him a half smile.
“I think I’m going to let that statement just sit there for a while. Don’t want to screw it up.”
Dixie laughed. “So what kind of ice cream are you going to get? So many choices.” She turned to study the huge menu of flavors written on the side of the truck.
“Oh, I always get vanilla.”
“Really?” Clearly surprised at his response, she quirked her lips into a doubtful frown.
“What’s wrong with vanilla?” He shrugged his shoulders. “A good vanilla is just as complex as at least half of the flavors on that list.”
“Mmm.” The sass in that one syllable let him know she didn’t agree.
“Why? What are you going to get?”
“I can’t decide between chocolate overload and very berry cheesecake. They both sound so good, but I’ve never had either one. What if I don’t like what I pick?”
“And that’s why I stick to vanilla. No matter how they make it, I know it’s going to taste good.”
“You’re impossible.”
He stepped to the window to order. “One scoop of your best vanilla for me, and the lady will have a scoop of chocolate overload and another of very berry cheesecake on the side.”
“Presley! I can’t eat all that.”
“Hey, I’m not a member of the clean-plate club. I don’t care if you eat one bite or scarf the whole thing. What matters is that you try something new.”
“And if I don’t like it?”
He grabbed their ice cream from the window and handed Dixie her overflowing cup. “How do you know you won’t like it unless you try?”
She took it from him and dipped her spoon into the chocolate scoop first. “Delicious.”
“See?”
“It’s really good. Aren’t you going to taste yours?”
“Yeah, hold on a sec.” He glanced around, looking for the taco truck he’d seen earlier. Dixie followed him as he made his way to the condiment table. “There we go. Now it’ll be perfect.”
“What in the world are you putting on your ice cream?”
“Hot sauce. A little habanero chili balances out the sweetness.” He lifted a spoonful of vanilla dripping with sauce and offered it to her. “Want to try?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Hot sauce and ice cream?”
His mouth closed around the spoon. He let the flavors roll over his tongue and swallowed. “So good.”
“But hot sauce and ice cream go together just about as well as…” Her voice trailed off.
“Me and you, right?” He winked at her as he scooped up another bite. “Yeah, seems like a weird combo, but somehow it works. Now, we’d better keep moving. The judges should be done by now.”
Dixie shook her head. “Yeah, you ready to go make the announcement and wrap this up?”
Presley had never been more ready for an event to end. He had big plans…track down Cash, get ready for his night out with Dixie, and hopefully have a chance to show Leoni his fiddle tomorrow. “Let’s do it.”
They made their way to the stage where the judges sat, finishing up their scorecards.
“How’d we do today?” Dixie asked.
Blanche wiped her mouth with a hot-pink napkin. “We had some interesting samples. I think my least favorite was the twist on bird-nest soup.”
“For chili?” Presley asked.
“Yes. It wasn’t exactly my cup of chili, if you know what I mean.”
“Presley, you want to collect the cards, and we’ll go score them in the back?” Dixie grabbed the trash can and cleaned up the remaining sample cups.
He swept the paperwork into a pile. Looked like it would take forever to enter it all in. They probably wouldn’t be done for hours.
“Thanks so much for judging. Can you meet back here in about an hour for us to announce the winners? I’d love for the three of you to be in the pictures and hand out the trophies.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” Buster stood and put on his hat.
Grady nodded as he rose from his chair. “It was a tough call on the samples from today. We’ve got some budding chili experts out there.”
“See y’all in a bit.” Dixie took the papers from Presley and headed toward the back of the stage where she’d set up her laptop. “I think the easiest thing to do is have you read the entrant number and the scores to me. Then I can type them in, and we’ll breeze through them lickety-split. Sound good?”
“Okay. Whatever you think.” Compute
rs weren’t his thing. Statler was the numbers guy. Dixie should have asked him to come in and ten-key everything. Presley settled into the chair next to her. As he sat, that same fruity smell from before wafted in front of his nose. Had to be Dixie. Damn, she smelled good.
“Let’s get started. What’s the first entrant number?”
Presley looked at the top sheet. “Number sixty-nine.” He snorted.
“And the scores?” She sat, fingers poised above the keyboard.
“Oh, shit. Seriously?”
“Presley, language! Just tell me the scores.”
“Okay. Sixty-nine, sixty-nine, and, oh, a seventy-two.” He shook his head. The judges must have had a sense of humor too.
“Next?”
“No reaction?”
“Reaction to what?” She glanced up, clearly irritated.
“Sixty-nine?” He waited for her to catch on. “You know…sixty-nine.”
“Yes, I know what sixty-nine means. But if you’re going to sit here and crack juvenile jokes over every score, we’ll end up working all night.”
Presley sheepishly ducked his head. “All right, boss.” Although, now that she’d mentioned it, the thought of spending all night long with Dixie wouldn’t be so hard to swallow. He scanned the rest of the scores while she got resettled on her chair. When had things shifted? Somehow in the past few days, he’d garnered a new appreciation for Dixie Mae King. Now the only question was what did he want to do about it?
Chapter Sixteen
Dixie’s fingers flew across the keypad. Within an hour they had all the scores entered and were ready to announce the winners. She held a sheet with the winners’ names written on it out to Presley. “Would you like to do the honors? You’ve got more stage presence and experience at this than I do.” Seemed like he had more experience in everything than she did. Well, after her scheduled flirting lesson tonight and her date with Chandler tomorrow, maybe she’d be on her way to catching up. Not that she wanted to join Presley in the level of debauchery where he currently resided, but she’d been thinking it was high time she started putting herself out there again.
The interest Chandler had shown her made her realize how long it had been since anyone besides the drunk patrons of the Rose had given her any kind of intimate attention. Granted, Chandler wasn’t going to be “the one” thanks to his yet-to-be-proven ulterior motive. But still…it was high time she began to entertain the idea of getting involved with a man. Presley was right—she’d dated boys before. Her daddy might have been able to bully seventeen-year-old Mateo Hernandez, but any man worth dating would be able to withstand potential negative attention from her father.
Presley had awakened something inside her. He’d made her realize she was as much to blame for letting her dating life go to hell as her overly critical dad. She’d let her father’s scare tactics prevent her from putting herself out there, a move that had probably secured her position as the oldest virgin in the state of Texas. If Presley wanted her to vamp it up for Chandler, maybe she could get something out of the deal too. Or lose something…something she’d never intended to hold onto this long.
“You with me there, Red?” Presley snatched the sheet out of her hands, disrupting her private thoughts.
“Yeah, you go ahead. I’ll watch from back here.” She wheeled the table containing the trophies out to the stage while Presley took the mic. Then she darted back to the safety of the wings.
“Ladies and gentlemen, can I have your attention, please?” Presley’s deep baritone filled the outdoor venue.
Heads turned, and patrons started pressing toward the stage. Dixie smiled and took a few pictures with her phone to text to Charlie. The weekend had gone better than either of them could have planned.
“Howdy, thanks for coming to the first annual Rambling Rose Chili Festival.” A chorus of cheers and yeehaws erupted in the crowd. “Settle down now so I can announce the winners of our first weekend of competition. First off, we’d like to thank our esteemed judges. Mayor Blanche Mayfield’s love for chili began as a child when she’d stand next to her granddad while he stirred his original ranch-style chili over an open fire for days at a time.”
Mayor Mayfield took the stage and dipped into a deep curtsy while the crowd applauded.
“Her husband, Buster, is a renowned local food critic”—Presley snorted—“self-proclaimed, I might add.”
Buster frowned. “I’ve earned the title, son.” His hands splayed over his rather rotund gut.
“I concede. You’re right, you must eat enough to qualify as a critic. Anyway, he’s been judging cook-offs since he was tall enough to reach for his own spoon.”
Buster walked along the front of the stage, waving and nodding at the crowd.
“And, finally, our own Grady Groveland, whose chili recipes have received five-star reviews from as far away as Dallas and Amarillo.”
Grady bowed slightly to the applause.
“Another big thanks to our judges. Any comments on how you came to your decisions?”
Mayor Mayfield took the mic. “The competition was fierce. Entrants surprised me with the quality of the ingredients, the savoriness of the sauces, and their sheer creativity. All in all, it was a struggle to pick a winner.”
“Thank you, Mayor.” Presley handed the mic to Buster. “How about you, Mr. Mayfield?”
He leaned over to speak into the microphone. “I just really enjoyed eating your chili, everyone. To me everyone’s a winner.”
“Grady, want to say a few words?”
Grady took the mic. “It’s been an honor to judge this group of chefs. I could taste the sweat of your effort in the spice of your sauces.” Presley cringed and reached for the mic, but Grady turned to the side to avoid him. “I could taste your blood in the quality of ingredients.” The crowd groaned, but he didn’t stop there. “And I could taste your tears, yes, I could taste your tears of frustration in the unique flavor combinations.” He nodded, finally handing the mic back to Presley.
“Well, thank you, Grady, for making all of us never want to sample anyone’s cooking again. So without further ado, let’s hand out some trophies for the chicken chili category.”
The crowd erupted into applause. Dixie shrank in the wings.
“First up, in third place for her White Bean and Squawker Chili, we’ve got Maybelle Mitchell.”
Dixie craned her head to see Maybelle walk toward the stage. She hadn’t even seen Maybelle’s name on the list. How could she have missed it? Presley handed Maybelle a trophy and read the next name on the list. “In second place, we’ve got Allistair Poutine from Texarkana. Wow, thanks for making the trip, Allistair. His prize-winning chicken chili recipe is called, creatively enough, White Chicken Chili.”
Allistair climbed the steps to the stage and took his award.
“And in first place”—Presley squinted at the name on the sheet in front of him—“Grace Pepper?”
Grace bobbed toward the stage. Dixie clapped along with the rest of the group, happy to support a local winner.
“Any words for the judges, Grace?”
“I’d just like to thank them all for donating their time and taste buds to judge the contest. And a special thanks goes out to Statler Walker for being the first person to taste my recipe and make me think I had a chance to make something out of it.”
Dixie scanned the sea of people for Statler. He stood next to the fence line. She watched along with most everyone else in the crowd while his face turned a bright shade of red and he tipped his hat toward Grace.
“Well, there you go.” Presley gestured toward the winners. “Let’s give all of the winners and, heck, everyone who entered a huge round of applause.”
While the clapping died down, he directed the winners and judges to pose for a quick picture. Dixie brought out the trophies for the next set of winners—the exotic meats catego
ry. She shuddered at the thought of having to judge that particular contest.
Presley ushered the winners off the stage. Dixie stopped Grace to offer personal congratulations. “I’m so happy for you on your big win.”
“Thanks,” Grace said, holding the trophy with both hands. “I hope Statler’s not mad I called him out in front of everyone.”
Dixie flicked her hand in dismissal. “Well, if he is, that’s his problem, not yours. Y’all aren’t still seeing each other, are you?”
“No.” Grace ran a hand over the shiny gold metal of the trophy. “I keep trying to get back in his good graces but haven’t seemed to figure out how yet.”
Dixie couldn’t understand why she’d want to get back with a Walker brother. The good ones like Waylon and Cash had been taken. Even though they’d been older than her in school, Dixie knew the single brothers who remained were nothing but trouble. Presley especially.
“Well, good luck.” She gave Grace a quick hug and turned her attention back to Bad Brother Numero Uno, who was calling the third-place winner onto the stage. Sage climbed the steps to take the trophy. Her Rattler Chili came as no surprise.
“Next up, in second place with a chili containing armadillo, let’s welcome Sherman Totskill to the stage.”
An elderly man who reminded Dixie of Kermit hobbled toward the stage. He gripped the railing with both hands, and Presley met him at the top of the stairs to hand him his trophy.
“Thank you much.” He lifted a hand toward the crowd and waved.
“And our last award for the weekend, let’s put our hands together for the first-place winner of the exotic meat chili cook-off. You’ve got to be kidding me.” Presley’s gaze sought hers. “Really?”
Dixie nodded.
“All right. First place goes to Dwight for his Roadkill Chili Creation. Seriously, dude?”
Dwight didn’t use the stairs, just hopped straight onto the stage. “Thanks, y’all. Glad to be a part of this here contest.”
“Tell us, Dwight. What’s your secret ingredient? Surely not actual roadkill?”
Dwight shrugged. “Can’t make no promises there.”
