Javi Mendez, 52, spent 18 years as a professional rodeo bullfighter before a 2000-pound Brahman gored his left knee in 2017 and ended his career. Now he runs Mendez Feed & Supply on the edge of Marfa, Texas, keeps his shelves stocked with alfalfa pellets and horse wormer, and avoids anything that smells like small-town drama like it’s skunk spray. His biggest flaw? He’s spent 8 years convinced loneliness is a choice he prefers, ever since his wife packed her bags and moved to Austin with a realtor she met at a 4H auction. That Saturday, he’s manning his booth at the annual Presidio County chili cookoff, a faded 2009 San Antonio Rodeo championship buckle glinting on his worn Wranglers, his knee throbbing from standing too long on the uneven park grass. The air smells like mesquite smoke and roasted peppers, a mariachi trio plays corridos under the pavilion, and he’s halfway through his second Shiner Bock when she walks up.
She’s Lila Carter, the new town librarian, 48, moved to Marfa three months prior, and half the town’s been gossiping about her ever since she brought back late-night poetry readings and banned the county sheriff from holding his off-duty book club in the library basement for making lewd jokes about the female poets. He’d only spoken to her once before, when she came into the feed store to buy sunflower seeds for the bird feeder outside the library, and he’d fumbled the change so bad he’d dropped a handful of quarters down her boot.
She leans in to sniff the pot of chili simmering on his propane stove, her flannel sleeve brushing his bad arm, and he flinches so hard he sloshes beer down his jeans. “Sorry,” she says, grinning, the corner of her mouth tugging up like she knows exactly how flustered he is. She holds out a hand for a sample cup, and their fingers brush when he passes it to her, her skin soft where his is calloused from hauling feed sacks and fixing fence posts. She takes a sip, hums low in her throat, and steps closer, so close he can smell lavender perfume mixed with the campfire smoke stuck to her hair. “You put bourbon in this,” she says, not a question. He nods, and she holds his gaze for three full beats longer than polite, her dark eyes glinting in the golden afternoon light.
His old rodeo buddy Earl wanders by a minute later, nods at Lila over his beer, and mutters under his breath “That’s Sheriff Riley’s ex-wife, Javi. Dude’s got a temper worse than that bull that gored you. Don’t go poking that bear.” Javi’s first instinct is to step back, to mumble an excuse about checking his chili, to go back to the safe, quiet life he’s built for himself where no one bothers him and the only drama is when someone’s goat gets out and eats the neighbor’s rose bushes. The sheriff already has it out for him, ever since Javi called him out last spring for writing $200 speeding tickets to three high school kids heading to prom down on Highway 90. The last thing he needs is the sheriff showing up at his feed store at 7 a.m. looking for trouble, or rumors spreading around town that he’s messing around with the sheriff’s leftover woman.
But Lila doesn’t move. She taps the silver buckle on his belt, runs her finger lightly over the engraving that reads 2009 Bullfighter of the Year, and asks him how he won it. He finds himself telling her about the bull, a black brute named Nightmare, how it tossed the rider and turned on him, how he took a horn to the ribs but got the kid out safe, how he didn’t even feel the pain until he was in the ambulance. She listens, leaning in, her hand still resting lightly on his belt buckle, and when he finishes she says “That’s the coolest thing anyone’s ever told me in this town.”
Sheriff Riley storms over 10 minutes later, his uniform shirt stretched tight over his beer gut, his face red as a ripe tomato. “Lila,” he barks, like he’s talking to a misbehaving dog. “What the hell are you doing over here?” Lila doesn’t even look at him, keeps her eyes on Javi. “Eating the only good chili at this cookoff,” she says, slow, sharp. “What’s it to you?” The sheriff glares at Javi, points a finger at his chest. “Stay away from what’s mine.” Lila snorts, so loud a couple people at the next booth turn to look. She grabs Javi’s hand, laces her fingers through his, and her palm is warm against his. “I haven’t been yours in 14 months, you delusional asshole,” she says. “I’ll talk to whoever I damn well please.”
She yanks him away before the sheriff can say anything, around the back of the pavilion where no one can see them, and she kisses him, slow, the taste of his bourbon chili and cinnamon gum on her lips. His knee throbs so bad he has to lean against the wood siding, but he doesn’t care, he wraps his free arm around her waist, pulls her closer, his calloused fingers brushing the small of her back, and he can feel her smile against his mouth when he tangles his other hand in her long dark hair.
They leave the cookoff an hour later, her riding in the passenger seat of his beat-up 2008 Ford F150, the windows rolled down, the wind blowing her hair in his face. He drives out to his ranch 10 miles outside of town, parks the truck on the hill overlooking the desert, and they sit on the tailgate, passing a cold six pack back and forth, watching the sun sink below the Davis Mountains, painting the sky pink and tangerine and deep violet. She rests her head on his shoulder, plays with the championship buckle on his belt, and he doesn’t even think about the sheriff, or the gossip, or the 8 years he spent convincing himself he was better off alone. Somewhere down in the valley, a coyote howls, and she shivers a little, so he wraps his wool rodeo jacket around her shoulders, pulls her closer. She tilts her head up, kisses him again, soft this time, and when she pulls back she asks him if he wants to come inside the ranch house and show her his collection of old rodeo buckles. He nods, stands up, holds out a hand to help her down off the tailgate, his bad knee barely even twinging when he steps onto the dirt.
