Manny Ruiz, 53, has been a cattle auctioneer outside Amarillo for 27 years. His voice is permanently graveled from yelling over bawling steers and the rumble of feed trucks, his left knuckle bears a faint scar from the time a spooked yearling slammed its head into the auction block rail, and his biggest flaw is that he holds grudges longer than he keeps pairs of work boots. He’d avoided the town’s annual fire department chili cookoff for 12 years running, ever since his ex-wife’s cousin showed up drunk and called him a thief in front of half the county over a botched steer sale, but his part-time auction assistant had begged him to enter this year, swearing his brisket chili was good enough to take the $500 grand prize. He’d caved, mostly because he needed the new fence posts for the north pasture, and now he’s leaning against the cinder block wall of the fire station bay, sipping a lukewarm Shiner Bock, watching people mill between crockpots set up on folding tables.
The air smells like smoked paprika, charred hamburger patties from the grill out front, and the faint acrid tang of diesel from the fire engine parked behind him. Peanut shells crunch under his scuffed work boots, and a Trace Adkins song hums low from the speakers strung up over the bay doors. He’s half debating bailing early when she walks up, the new county extension agent he’s seen around the sale barn three times now, the one every guy in town has been whispering about because the sheriff has been leaving sunflowers on her porch every Sunday and glowering at anyone who so much as says hello to her. She’s wearing high-waisted jeans and a faded Texas A&M hoodie, her dark hair pulled back in a braid that falls over one shoulder, and she’s holding a paper plate stacked with saltine crackers.
She stops in front of his crockpot, nods at the handwritten sign that says Manny’s Brisket Burn, and grins. “Heard this is the only entry here that doesn’t taste like canned tomato sauce and regret.” Her voice is warm, a little rough, like she spends half her days yelling over wind out in pastures too. He grunts, grabs a plastic sample cup, scoops some chili into it, hands it to her. Their fingers brush when she takes it, and he feels a jolt run up his arm, the kind he hasn’t felt since he was 19 and snuck into a honky tonk with a fake ID. She blows on the chili, takes a bite, and makes a low, soft sound in the back of her throat, closing her eyes for half a second. “God, that’s perfect. My grandma used to make it just like that, before she moved to San Antonio.”
She leans in closer when he talks, because the crowd’s getting louder, a group of volunteer firemen are whooping across the bay after someone spilled a beer. Her elbow brushes his forearm every time she gestures, and he can smell lavender laundry detergent on her hoodie, mixed with the faint earthy smell of hay she must have been around earlier that day. He tells her about the time he accidentally dumped a whole jar of cayenne into a batch of chili for a ranch hand cookoff, and she laughs so hard she snorts, clapping a hand over her mouth. He notices a smudge of chili powder on her upper lip, and he has to fight the stupid urge to reach up and wipe it off with his thumb. He can see the sheriff across the room, leaning against a grill, watching them, his jaw tight. Manny’s stomach twists. He doesn’t need the drama, doesn’t need a target on his back at the sale barn, but he can’t make himself step away from her, either.
The sheriff walks over a minute later, wiping his hands on his uniform pants, slapping Manny hard enough on the back that he almost spills his beer. “Manny, didn’t think you ever came to these things. What’re you doing hogging our new extension agent?” Manny tenses, ready to make an excuse, say he’s heading out, but she slips her arm through his, leaning into his side so he can feel the warmth of her hip through his jeans. “We’re making plans. He’s gonna give me a tour of his spread next week, I need to sign off on his rotational grazing grant application. You got a problem with that, Sheriff?” Her tone is light, but there’s a sharp edge to it, the kind that says she doesn’t answer to anyone. The sheriff huffs a laugh, holds his hands up in surrender. “Fair enough. Don’t keep her out too late, Ruiz.” He winks at her, then walks back to the grill.
They announce the winners 20 minutes later, and Manny takes first place, gets a cardboard check for $500 and a cheap plastic trophy shaped like a chili pepper. She helps him carry his crockpot and the check out to his beat-up Ford F-150 parked in the dirt lot across the street. The sun’s going down, painting the sky pink and orange, and the crickets are starting to chirp in the grass along the curb. He sets the crockpot in the bed of the truck, turns around, and she’s standing so close he can feel her breath on his neck. He reaches up before he can talk himself out of it, brushing his thumb over her upper lip to wipe off the last faint smudge of chili powder. She doesn’t pull away, her eyes fixed on his. He tells her he’ll pick her up at 10 a.m. next Saturday, and hands her a jar of his extra chili to take home. She nods, leans in, presses a quick, soft kiss to his cheek before she turns to walk to her own car. He leans against the side of his truck, twisting the plastic chili pepper trophy in his hand, watching her taillights fade down the road.
