Manny Ruiz is 62, retired border patrol K9 handler, lives in a cinder-block house 10 miles outside Van Horn, Texas, fixes up vintage horse trailers for extra cash, has not let a woman sleep over in 12 years, not since his ex-wife packed their silverware and her border collie and drove to Phoenix without a note. His biggest flaw is he writes off everyone who works a government job as a bored, power-hungry stick in the mud, a habit he picked up after 30 years of dealing with bureaucratic red tape every time his K9, Max, needed new vet care or he tried to file an incident report after a bust.
He’s manning his chili booth at the annual Van Horn Summer Cookoff when he spots her. That’s the health inspector, the one who shut down Rosa’s street tamale stand last month, the one half the town has been calling “the chili killer” on local Facebook groups, the subject of half the jokes slung over beers at the only dive bar in town. He tenses, already ready to snap, when she walks over, not in the stuffy navy uniform he expected, but in frayed cutoff Wranglers, scuffed work boots caked with red West Texas dust, and a faded 1979 Waylon Jennings tour tee that fits tight across her shoulders. She’s got a silver ring through her left nostril, smudged black eyeliner, and a digital thermometer tucked into the back pocket of her jeans, a lanyard with her ID swinging loose around her neck.
She leans in before he can say a word, elbow brushing the bare skin of his forearm where his denim shirt’s rolled up to the elbow, and he smells coconut shampoo and a faint whiff of menthol cigarette, sharp and warm under the heavy cloud of chili smoke, grilled corn, and charcoal hanging over the fairgrounds. “165 degrees,” she says, pulling the thermometer out of his brisket chili pot, nodding like she’s genuinely impressed, wiping the tip off on a paper towel she pulls from her pocket. “Most guys around here skimp on the cook time to save propane, serve meat that’s still half raw under the spice. You don’t.”
Manny snorts, crossing his arms over his chest, the scar across his left knuckle pulling tight when he flexes his hand. “Figured you’d be here to write me a ticket for too much cumin or some garbage. You gave Rosa a $300 fine for selling tamales, last I heard from Earl down at the auto shop.”
Her smile drops, and she tucks a strand of sun-bleached brown hair behind her ear, leaning in a little closer so the group of rowdy cowboys hovering by the next booth selling ribeye sliders don’t hear. “Rosa’s cooler compressor was busted. She was holding pork tamales at 40 degrees for 6 hours, would’ve made half the town sick if I’d let her keep selling. I didn’t fine her, I filled out the paperwork to get her a $1,200 small business grant for a new cooler. She picked it up last Tuesday, brought me a dozen carnitas tamales to say thanks.”
Someone slams into Manny’s back, shoving him forward, and she stumbles, her hand slapping flat against his chest to catch herself, her palm warm through the thin worn fabric of his shirt, her fingers brushing the edge of the old K9 handler patch he still sews on all his denim shirts. They get pressed up against the side of the pavilion by the crowd, her hip pressed tight to his, her breath fanning over the side of his neck, rain dripping off the brim of his beat-up Resistol cowboy hat onto her shoulder. No one’s looking at them, everyone too busy yelling about the rain, laughing, shaking water off their hats, passing around flasks of bourbon to warm up. She looks up at him, her eyes dark and crinkling at the corners, the corner of her mouth tugging up in a half smile, and Manny’s heart thumps so hard he swears she can feel it through his shirt.
He doesn’t know why he says it. He hasn’t invited anyone back to his house except his cousin’s 16-year-old kid to help fix trailers in two years, has spent most weekends alone drinking beer and watching old westerns. “I got a 12 pack of Modelo in the fridge at my place. Porch has a metal roof, so we don’t get dripped on. We don’t have to listen to Earl’s terrible 90s country cover band, either, they’re set to play as soon as the rain lets up.”
She blinks, then laughs, a low rough sound that makes his stomach flip like he’s 17 again asking a girl to prom. “Lead the way, chili man. I’m Lila, by the way.”
The drive back to his place is 10 minutes of rain slamming against the truck windows, Lila tapping her boot to the old George Strait tape he has stuck in the deck, not talking, not pushing him to make small talk, which he appreciates more than he can say. His house is quiet, the porch strung with fairy lights he put up last Christmas and never took down, Max’s urn sitting on the mantel next to his K9 Handler of the Year award from 2017, the chipped ceramic mug Max chewed the handle off of sitting on the coffee table.
Lila spots the framed photo of him and Max, black and tan German shepherd, sitting on his old patrol truck hood, and she leans in, pointing at the scar across Manny’s left knuckle. “Training accident?”
He nods, telling her the story of Max nipping him when he tried to take away a chew toy he’d found stuffed with coke in a bust near the border, then telling her about Max passing two years after he retired, about his ex leaving, about how he’d stopped talking to most people except the guys at the bar and the customers who bring him trailers to fix. He doesn’t know why he’s telling her all this, he never tells anyone this stuff, but she’s listening, leaning her elbows on the porch rail, not interrupting, not looking sorry for him, just listening, nodding when he talks about how much he missed Max.
They finish two beers each, the rain slowing to a soft drizzle, crickets chirping in the mesquite brush at the edge of his property, the smell of sage drifting over the yard. She leans her head on his shoulder, slow, like she’s giving him plenty of time to pull away, and he doesn’t. He’s spent 12 years telling himself he’s better off alone, that letting anyone get close just means they’ll leave, that all people with government jobs are just out to mess with guys like him, and none of it feels true right now, not with her shoulder pressed to his, the faint smell of coconut still clinging to her hair.
He reaches for her hand, calloused fingers brushing over the chipped red polish on her thumbnail, and doesn’t let go.
