Rafe Mendez, 53, has called cattle auctions in the hill country of central Texas for 27 years, his voice rough as weathered cedar from yelling over lowing steers and rowdy bidders. His biggest flaw is that he holds a grudge longer than a ranch dog holds a grudge against a skunk that sprayed him; he’d skipped the town’s annual Mesquite Cookoff three years running, ever since his ex-wife left him for the guy who owned the local feed store, and he hated the way half the town would side-eye him like he was a broken-down cow no one wanted to bid on. He only showed up this year because his 16-year-old nephew begged him to judge the brisket category, said he’d refuse to work the auction barn all summer if Rafe said no.
The air stuck to his skin like melted taffy, 92 degrees with enough humidity to make his pearl snap shirt cling to his shoulders, the smell of hickory smoke and vinegar-based mop sauce thick enough to taste. He was leaning against the beer tent, nursing his third Shiner Bock and actively avoiding the feed store booth across the fairgrounds, when he turned too fast and knocked a plastic cup of spiked peach tea right out of a woman’s hand. The cold liquid splashed across his chest, seeping through the thin cotton, and she yelped, stepping forward fast to swat at the wet spots before he could react. Her palm brushed the bare skin of his throat for half a second, warm and soft, and she smelled like jasmine lotion and coconut sunscreen, the kind they sell at the dollar general by the highway.
He stammered an apology, ready for her to get mad, but she threw her head back and laughed, a low, throaty sound that cut through the noise of the band playing honky tonk by the stage. She was the new county extension agent, he realized, the one who’d come out to the auction barn twice in the last month to give talks on drought-resistant grazing, though he’d never talked to her directly, too busy running bids. Her name was Lila, she said, wiping a stray drop of tea off his forearm with the hem of her gingham shirt, her fingers lingering for a beat longer than necessary. She didn’t step back when he moved to grab a handful of napkins from the table next to them, their shoulders brushing as he passed them to her, the fabric of her shirt soft against his bare arm.
He offered to buy her a replacement drink, half expecting her to turn him down, but she nodded, so they stood in line for the beer tent, her leaning in close to talk over the noise of the crowd, her breath warm against his ear. She told him she’d entered her grandma’s peach cobbler in the dessert contest, had been testing the recipe for three weeks, and he found himself rambling about his own mom’s cobbler, the one she used to make every Fourth of July, before she passed. He hadn’t talked about that to anyone in years, hadn’t even realized he missed it until the words came out. She kept her eyes locked on his the whole time, no quick polite glances away, no checking her phone, like every word he said mattered more than the chaos around them.
When the brisket judging was over, he snuck her a sample of the first place entry, the fat melting on his tongue, smoky and salty, and she made a soft sound of approval that made the back of his neck feel hot. They snuck off to the big live oak at the edge of the fairgrounds, away from the crowd, where the grass was cool under their boots and the noise of the cookoff faded to a low hum. He grabbed two more cold beers from the tent on the way, and she pulled a tupperware of her cobbler out of her canvas bag, still slightly warm, the crust flaky and the peaches sweet, just sweet enough. They sat on the splintered old picnic bench under the tree, their knees knocking together every time one of them shifted, and he didn’t move away when she leaned in to swipe a crumb of cobbler off his lower lip with her thumb.
He told her about the divorce, about how embarrassed he’d been, how he’d avoided every town event for three years because he thought everyone was talking about him, and she nodded, not pitying, just listening. She said she’d watched him call auctions a handful of times, liked the way his voice dropped low and gravelly when the bids got tight, liked the way he smiled at the old ranchers who’d been coming to his sales for decades. He felt something unclench in his chest, something he’d thought was stuck tight forever, like a rusted lock finally giving way.
The first firework went off over the fairgrounds then, bright red, lighting up her face, and she leaned her head on his shoulder, heavy and warm, as the rest of the show started. He could hear the boom of the fireworks echoing off the hills, could feel her breath against his neck, could taste the leftover peach cobbler on his tongue. He didn’t even glance over at the feed store booth, didn’t care who saw them sitting there. He lifted his beer to his mouth, took a slow sip, and let his hand rest on her knee, light and easy, like he’d been doing it his whole life.
