Page 5 of Cowboys & Hot Sauce
"And you had the carne asada," she added, arranging containers. "Medium rare, no onions."
I raised an eyebrow. "You remember how I like my steak?"
"You ordered it that way every time we went to Smokin’ Lurline’s after tutoring," she said with a shrug, not meeting my eyes. "Some things stick."
My pulse quickened, a warm pressure spreading beneath my ribs at the realization she'd remembered such a small detail about me after all these years. I'd assumed those tutoringsessions had meant nothing to her—just a means to an end to pass algebra.
"What else?" she asked, returning to her preparations while we talked. "Oh! We should have a cute story about how you tried my hottest sauce and pretended it wasn't burning your mouth off."
"Who says I'd have to pretend?" I challenged.
She paused her organizing, one eyebrow arched skeptically. "Burke Tate, are you saying you can handle heat?"
"I grew up with three brothers who turned everything into a competition. You think I haven't built up a tolerance?"
"We'll see about that," she said, her lips quirking into that mischievous half-smile I remembered from high school—the one that usually preceded something either brilliant or catastrophic.
For the next twenty minutes, we swapped details and anecdotes to flesh out our fictional relationship, our conversation punctuated by Scarlet's cooking symphony—the sharp percussion of her knife against the cutting board, the sizzle of peppers hitting hot oil, the rhythmic scrape of her wooden spoon against the pot as she stirred the simmering sauce. I couldn't help noticing how differently we worked—she moved intuitively, several tasks going at once, while I began creating an efficient customer flow system outside the truck, with clearly marked ordering zones and a streamlined payment process.
"Let's set up tasting stations first, then the menu display," I explained, sketching a quick layout diagram. "That way people can sample your creations before deciding what to order."
Scarlet paused, layering pulled pork onto brioche buns, the meat glistening with her signature marinade. "You'reactually really good at this," she said, surprise evident in her voice.
"Ranch management isn't just about cattle," I explained, organizing a tracking system for inventory and daily specials. "It's anticipating bottlenecks and streamlining operations."
"Well, I appreciate it." She handed me a basket of corn bread squares. "These pair with the smoked brisket tacos." Our fingers brushed as I took the tray, sending an unexpected jolt of awareness up my arm. The tray tipped, and I quickly steadied it, irritated at my own clumsiness. Scarlet busied herself adjusting a sign, her cheeks suspiciously pink.
"So virtual date nights," she continued, seemingly determined to move past the moment. "What would we do?"
"Watch movies together," I suggested, regaining my composure. "You'd pick something with explosions, I'd counter with a classic Western."
"And we'd compromise on a romantic comedy," she finished, the tension dissolving as she smiled. "Hey, this isn't so hard."
Before I could respond, the festival director's voice crackled over the loudspeaker, announcing thirty minutes until official opening. Scarlet dropped the spoon she was holding with a clatter.
"Already? I need to finish glazing the pulled pork and set up the cash box."
"I'll handle the cash box," I offered. "You focus on the food."
She hesitated, fidgeting with the ties of her apron. "Are you sure? I know you've got your own festival duties..."
"Rhett can handle the information booth," I assured her. "Besides, this needs to be convincing, right? What kind of boyfriend wouldn't help?"
The word "boyfriend" hung awkwardly between us for a moment before she nodded. "Thanks, Burke."
We fell into an unexpected rhythm as four o'clock approached. While Scarlet finished final preparations—tasting and adjusting seasonings with the confidence of someone who trusted her instincts—I set up the cash box, making sure enough small bills and coins were placed into the small compartments to handle the evening’s anticipated transactions.
When the Summer's End jamboree officially opened at four, the food vendor area came alive. Kids darted between stands with painted faces, couples studied menus together, and the scent of a dozen different cuisines mingled in the summer air. Our corner stayed steadily busy. I kept an eye on sales and change while Scarlet chatted with customers. A family with three young boys ordered pulled pork sandwiches, an older couple debated which sauce to take home, and a group of teenagers pooled crumpled bills for a sampler platter. Between rushes, Scarlet would wipe down the counter while I restocked napkins and utensils. The afternoon passed in a comfortable blur of customer exchanges and conversations, punctuated by the occasional blast of calliope music from the carousel down the midway.
"Try our signature Prairie Fire sauce," Scarlet called to passersby, gesturing with animated enthusiasm that drew smiles even from strangers. "Sweet at first sip, then a slow burn that'll warm you from the inside out! This one's milder,” she explained to an elderly couple, picking up a cup of Firefly’s Kiss. “It’s perfect for those summer evenings when you want just a littleextra ‘something.’ Pairs well with burgers or as a marinade for chicken."
Just as the first rush began to taper off, I spotted Lurline Landry approaching the truck.
"Well, if it isn't Burke Tate," she said, stepping up to the counter. "Didn't expect to see you working my granddaughter’s booth."
Scarlet spun around at Lurline’s voice, nearly dropping a bowl of corn chips. "MeeMaw! You're back already?"
"Just checking how things are going," Lurline said, her gaze shifting between us. Her mouth tightened at the corners, head tilting slightly as she took in the scene.
