Page 15 of Cowboys & Hot Sauce
Her display looked like something from a magazine spread—elegant cream-colored tablecloth, rose gold accents, and professionally printed cards touting the "elevated culinary experience" of her French-inspired hot sauce. She wore a pristine pink dress that probably cost more than all my cooking equipment combined, her blonde hair falling in perfect waves around her shoulders.
"She's certainly going for a specific aesthetic," Burke remarked diplomatically.
"She's going for pretentious," I muttered, tucking a stray lock of hair back into my braid. "And the worst part is, her blend is actually good. I tried it."
Burke placed his hand on my shoulder, steadying me. "But is it better than yours?"
I straightened my spine. "No."
"Then focus on that." The simple confidence in his voice cut through my jitters like a sharp knife through ripe tomatoes.
To our left, Jim Bob Tucker was setting up his "Grandpappy's Revenge" booth with the help of his teenagesons. Nothing fancy there—wooden crates, mason jars with hand-drawn labels, and a faded photograph of what must have been his grandfather. Jim Bob himself looked the part in suspenders and a well-worn cowboy hat, his handlebar mustache perfectly waxed for the occasion.
"Made the old-fashioned way since 1943," he announced to passersby. "None of them fancy ingredients or tricks. Just good, honest heat that'll put hair on your chest!"
On our right, Doug Porter had taken a completely different approach with his "Five Alarm Fusion" display. His booth featured sleek black surfaces, bright red accents, and an actual fire helmet as a centerpiece. His bottles, labeled with a modern firefighter theme, were arranged in a perfect row.
"Quite the range of styles," Burke observed.
"That's Sweetwater for you," I said, making one final adjustment to my display. "Traditional versus fancy, old versus new, with me somewhere in the middle, trying to find my place."
The words tumbled out before I could stop them. Burke's expression softened, and for a moment, I thought he might say something profound. Instead, he handed me a water bottle.
"Hydrate," he said. "You've been working in this heat all day."
I took a long drink, grateful for the simple concern. The truth was, I needed to win this competition—not just for the prize money and not just to prove myself to MeeMaw, but to prove to myself that I belonged here. That I could build something lasting in Sweetwater without losing the creativity that made me who I was. That I could finally feel good enough.
"Five minutes to public tasting!" announced Mayor Davidson, his voice booming through a bullhorn. "Heat masters, prepare your stations!"
Burke squeezed my hand quickly. "You've got this, Scarlet."
"Thanks," I said, realizing I meant it more than he knew. "For everything."
As he stepped away to let me work, I watched him move through the crowd, my attention lingering longer than necessary. Something had changed between us today—that almost-kiss on the Ferris wheel, the unexpected touch of lips that followed in the photo booth. Even knowing it was all for show, I felt drawn to him like butter to a hot pan.
But there wasn't time to untangle those feelings now. The crowd was gathering, and I had a competition to win.
For the next hour, I fell into the familiar rhythm of engaging with customers. This was the part I loved—watching people's expressions as they tasted my food, explaining the blend of habaneros and smoked peppers that gave Texas Tornado its distinctive kick, sharing the story of how I'd developed the recipe during a particularly wild thunderstorm that had knocked out power to my Houston apartment.
"It's got kick, but there's real depth too," remarked Mrs. Garcia, the retired principal whose opinion carried serious weight in Sweetwater.
"That's exactly what I was going for," I beamed. "Heat that tells a story instead of just shouting at you."
From the corner of my vision, I spotted Burke moving through the festival crowd, chatting with locals, and subtly directing people toward my booth. Each time someone praised my sauce, he'd flash a small smile that somehow felt more genuine than any loud cheer.
Across the way, Bethany Sue was in her element, describing her hot sauce's "notes of Provençal herbs" and"artisanal pepper blend" to an impressed cluster of onlookers. Jim Bob's booming laugh carried over the hubbub as he slapped backs and encouraged people to "man up and try a real Texas blend," while Doug patiently explained the Asian influences in his Five Alarm Fusion.
All four creations were drawing steady crowds, making it impossible to gauge who might be ahead. After tasting, people moved to a neutral table where they filled out scoring cards and dropped them into a large glass jar guarded by Loretta Wilkins, one of tomorrow's official judges.
Just as the visitors at my booth thinned momentarily, I spotted MeeMaw walking with her friend Hattie between the displays. They paused near the voting table, and I instinctively stepped behind a display pillar to listen.
"...certainly knows her flavors," Hattie was saying. "Can't deny the girl has talent."
MeeMaw made a noncommittal noise. "Talent was never the issue. It's whether she'll stick around when things get tough. I'm still not convinced about Scarlet's commitment to staying in Sweetwater. When she gets another wild hair, she's apt to just run off again."
Her words hit me like a splash of hot oil. After everything I'd done this weekend—the food truck success, reconnecting with the community, even appearing settled with Burke—she still didn't trust me.
"Well," Hattie replied, "hopefully that handsome Tate boy will entice her to stay. I don't see him leaving town anytime soon."
