Page 1 of Buck Me, Cowboy

CHAPTER 1

REBECCA

Grandpa would be so proud of you, Becca. Taking his recipe to the Sweetheart County Fair.”

I shift the strap of my bag higher on my shoulder as Grady and I walk through the main gates of the fairgrounds.

“I just hope I don’t mess this up.” My boots crunch on sawdust as we navigate toward the exhibition hall. “The recipe is solid—it’s won so many local awards for forty years—but this is different. With the prizes for this competition, the stakes are the highest I’ve ever competed for.”

Grady adjusts his cowboy hat against the strengthening sun. “And a real shot at a distribution contract if you win. That magazine feature could change everything.”

The weight of possibility sits heavy in my chest. After what happened with Kinwood Foods—their smooth promises about preserving Grandpa’s authentic recipe, followed by their proposal to “streamline” it with cheaper ingredients and artificial preservatives—my grandpa would have rolled over in his grave if I had agreed to that contract.

“This competition is our best shot at getting in front of legitimate distributors.” I pull out my phone to check the time. “I need that magazine profile to prove Grandpa’s recipe can compete with the big brands. There has to be someone better than Kinwood that will work with me.”

“You’re burning for this, aren’t you?”

The question stops me mid-stride. I look at my cousin and nod. He knows the answer. Grady’s known me since we were kids stealing cookies from Grandma’s kitchen. I’m surprised he even has to ask the question.

“His legacy deserves to live on—exactly the way he made it.”

We approach the exhibition hall, a massive metal building that houses everything from quilting competitions to livestock judging. Through the open doors, I can see rows of cooking stations being set up, each one equipped with propane burners and prep tables. The familiar anticipation of competition builds in my stomach.

“Let’s find our station,” Grady says, consulting the paperwork in his hand. “Number forty-seven.”

We wind through the maze of equipment and early-arriving competitors. Some booths already smell like garlic and onions, and I catch snippets of conversation about secret ingredients and cooks good-naturedly debating bean vs no-bean chili and which one is the best. These are my people.

Station forty-seven sits in a prime location near the center of the hall. I set my bag down and survey the space, mentally arranging where everything will go. The cast-iron pan with “Cooper Chili” etched on the side will sit front and center. The space will be cramped with the two of us, but it should work out fine.

“Perfect spot,” I say, running my hand along the prep table’s steel surface. “Grandpa would love this—right in the thick of things.”

Grady chuckles. “Remember when he used to say that? ‘Rebecca-girl, cooking is the most important thing in the world. Cooking with love is nourishment for the soul.’”

The memory hits me with unexpected force. Eight years old, standing on a stepstool beside Grandpa in his kitchen, carefully measuring cumin while he guided my hands and taught me his secret spice recipe. The kitchen windows were open to catch the evening breeze, and his voice carried the firm authority he learned commanding a galley in the Navy.

“The secret isn’t just the ingredients, Becca-girl. It’s the love you put in every stir.”

I touch the turquoise necklace at my throat—Grandma’s, passed down through the women in the family. The weight of it reminds me that I’m not just cooking for myself tomorrow. I’m cooking for every Cooper who worked on this recipe, for every family gathering where it brought people together, for the legacy that deserves to have greater recognition.

“What time do you want to start prep tomorrow?” Grady asks, opening the small notebook where he’s been making notes.

“Early. Seven AM at the latest. It’s going to take time for all the flavors to develop.” I start visualizing the process—browning the meat in small batches to build the foundation, layering the spices at precisely the right moments, letting everything simmer until the flavors meld into something greater than their individual parts.

“Good thing I’m a morning person,” Grady says. “We’ll need to load the cart tonight so we can—”

He stops mid-sentence, his face suddenly draining of color. His hand shoots to his side, clutching just below his ribs.

“Grady?” I move toward him, alarm bells ringing in my head. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know.” His voice comes out tight, strained. “Feels like someone’s stabbing me with a hot poker.”

He doubles over, one hand braced against the prep table, breathing hard through gritted teeth. Sweat beads across his forehead despite the cool morning air lingering in the hall.

“We need to get you help.” I’m already calling 911 on my phone and trying to flag someone down to come over and help us, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Can you walk?”

“I think—” He tries to straighten and immediately hunches over again. “Something’s really wrong, Becca.”

I flag down a security guard, who immediately gets some fairground medics to help while we wait for the ambulance to arrive. Within minutes, paramedics arrive, their calm efficiency both reassuring and terrifying as they whisk him away rapidly.

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