Page 1 of Cowboys & Hot Sauce
Chapter One
Scarlet
The tires of my food truck crunched over gravel as I pulled into the Sweetwater Summer's End Festival grounds. Sweat trickled between my shoulder blades—partly from the August heat that blanketed Texas, and partly from the nerves dancing in my stomach. I hadn't participated in a Sweetwater community event since before college, only making quick, low-profile visits for holidays and family occasions over the years. Even during those brief trips home, I'd kept my head down, too embarrassed about my unsettled life to face the town's judgment. But somehow, being back for this festival made Sweetwater still have the power to make me feel seventeen again: a little reckless, a little uncertain, and completely determined to prove everyone wrong.
"You've got this," I muttered to myself as I parkedScarlet's Infernoin the designated food vendor area. The truck's fresh red paint gleamed under the late morning sun, the stylized flames and bold lettering exactly as I'd drawn on a napkin eighteen months ago during my lunch break at that stuffy Houston restaurant where I'd worked as a line cook. My pride and joy—and hopefully, my ticket to finally being taken seriously.
Hopping down from the driver's seat, I adjusted the colorful bandana holding back my strawberry blonde hair and stretched my arms overhead. Vendors hammered tent stakes,carnival workers tested the Ferris wheel with shouts and whistles, and the scent of funnel cake batter hitting hot oil made my stomach growl. This was my chance to show Sweetwater—and more importantly, MeeMaw—that Scarlet Landry wasn't just "that wild girl" anymore. After college, I'd tried the conventional route with a soul-crushing job working the fry station at a popular restaurant in Houston, but the fluorescent lights and rigid recipes suffocated my creativity. Finding my calling took time—eighteen months of renovating a used food truck, perfecting recipes in my tiny apartment kitchen, and finally building a following at festivals across three counties. Now I was ready to come home for good. The endless concrete and anonymous faces of Houston never felt right. What I wanted was here—a place where people remembered your name and your family recipe for smoked brisket.
Unlocking the back door of the truck’s kitchen, the scents of chili peppers and spices greeted me with their familiar aromas. Stainless steel surfaces gleamed, and rows of colorful hot sauce bottles lined the shelves—each one my own creation. My signatureTexas Tornadosauce stood front and center, its bright red color a badge of honor. Pride swelled in my chest as my fingers traced the logo I'd designed myself.
"Just like old times, huh? You hiding in the kitchen instead of helping customers?"
MeeMaw stood at the back door, arms crossed over her chest. Lurline Landry was a steel magnolia packed into a five-foot-two frame, her silver hair pulled back in its practical bun, shrewd blue eyes—the same color as mine—taking in every detail.
"MeeMaw." The familiar scent of her rosewater perfume wrapped around me as I hugged her. "Wasn't expecting you until later."
"Clearly." She stepped inside, running her hand along the counter. "Nice setup. Cleaner than I expected."
From MeeMaw, that counted as high praise. "The health department thinks so too." I straightened a row of bottles while she surveyed my space. "Passed with flying colors."
MeeMaw picked up a bottle of myTexas Tornadosauce, turning it over in her hands with the precision of a jeweler examining a diamond. "Fancy. How's it selling?"
"Well enough that I've expanded to three counties." The glass clinked as I adjusted another bottle. "Got five signature flavors now, and I'm developing two more."
"And you make a living off this? Pay your bills on time?"
Counting to three in my head, I bit back a defensive retort. "Yes, MeeMaw. I've been running the truck for over a year now, and the sauce sales keep growing. I'm hoping to pitch to specialty grocery stores soon, but first..." I met her gaze directly. "I want to come home. For good. Houston wasn't for me."
She nodded, replacing the bottle on the shelf. "Your mama mentioned you entered the hot sauce competition this weekend."
"I did. First prize is five thousand dollars and a feature in Texas Taste magazine." I squared my shoulders, standing taller as I spoke. This would be the perfect proof that I was ready to take overSmokin' Lurline's—the BBQ joint that had been in our family for three generations. My sauces would complement MeeMaw's smoked meats perfectly—a new generation of flavor built on the foundation of our family traditions.
"Tough competition this year," she said, tilting her head slightly as she assessed my reaction. "Bethany Sue Walker's entering too."
The name hit me like a bronco kick to the chest. Bethany Sue—high school nemesis, former Homecoming Queen, and owner of the increasingly successfulBethany Sue's Southern Catering, where everything tasted like butter and privilege.
"I heard she's looking to expand," MeeMaw continued, her tone casual but eyes watchful. "Came by the restaurant last week to talk about it."
The metal spoon in my hand clattered against the prep table. "What do you mean, 'talk about it'?"
MeeMaw met my eyes directly. "She's interested in buying Smokin' Lurline's, Scarlet. Says she wants to turn it into a flagship location for her catering business. Keep the name, of course, for the legacy, but update the menu, modernize the décor." Her hand waved dismissively. "Her words, not mine."
My knuckles whitened against the counter. "You're not actually considering it, are you?"
A sigh escaped her as her shoulders sagged slightly. "I'm getting old. These hips don't move like they used to, and I can't keep opening at five to prep the smokers and closing at nine. I need someone reliable to take over, or I need to sell."
"I'm reliable," I blurted. MeeMaw's eyebrow arched higher than the Texas flag on Independence Day. "I mean, I've changed. The food truck, the sauces—I've built this business from nothing but elbow grease and dedication. I can do the same with Smokin' Lurline's."
"The same girl who set off the fire alarm experimenting with ghost peppers? Who slept through the brisket turn three times in one month? Who left Sweetwater swearing life in a sleepy country town wasn’t enough for her?" Each question struck with precision.
Drawing a slow breath, I set down the bottle I'd been fidgeting with. "I was a kid with more dreams than sense. Four years of college, then two years in Houston taught me what matters. That stuffy restaurant kitchen had all the right equipment but none of the heart. No flavor, no connection with the customers." Looking up at her, the words came from somewhere deep and honest. "Turned out I want is right here."
"Talk is cheaper than day-old cornbread, Scarlet Jean." She used my middle name—never a good sign. "Bethany Sue has a business plan, financial projections, and a track record of success right here where people can see it. What do you have besides a painted truck and some sauce bottles?"
The question stuck in my throat. What did I have? Determination? Passion? A desperate desire not to see our family's legacy transformed into Bethany Sue's empire of tiny portions with hoity-toity names nobody could pronounce?
"I have plans too," I said finally. "Just need time to show you."
