He placed a cat under each arm and posed. “My mother always walked her cat, Prissy, every day at four o’clock.”
“Smile, please.” I snapped away.
He lowered the cats to the ground. “They enjoy exploring, same as dogs, but I don’t let them out among the great unwashed.” The cats locked their maleficent tawny eyes on Lenny, hunting for signs of weakness.
My canine sidekick dropped his behind in the dirt. “It’s okay, Lenster, they won’t hurt you.” As soon as I spoke, they raised their backs and began to spit and hiss like furry teakettles.
Russell gave me a sly grin. “Your dog doesn’t like cats.”
“He likes friendly creatures of all makes and models.”
“Yip.”
“If you mean me, I’d be a heck of a sight more friendly if I hadn’t had to move my site first thing this morning.”
He had a point. “I apologize for all the trouble.”
Without taking their eyes off Lenny, the cats perched on their owner’s giant feet. “Weren’t your fault. Guess Lucky wasn’t so lucky after all.” The giant guffawed.
“Hardly seems fair to laugh.”
Russell came at me faster than a bobcat chasing a chicken. “Fair! That jerk stole Becca away from me when I was laid up in the dad burn hospital.”
“The blonde on his phone?”
“When’d you see her!” He erupted with anger, and my flight response flared.
“Meowww!” The cats began to wind themselves around Russell’s legs.
“Sorry, sorry,” he murmured in a baby voice. “Daddy didn’t mean to hurt you.”
I stepped back. “I thought Lucky stole Becca from Whip.” I glanced around for support, but I could see no one out in the open.
“Heck no. Whip dated her back in high school. That was just Lucky’s way of making him feel small.”
“Did Lucky play dirty?” My mind was spinning. How had Lucky, a middle-aged, dime-store cowboy, won the beautiful Becca from both Whip and this long-haired giant? Maybe Whip’s grief over his friend was all an act. And maybe Russell’s hatred of Lucky had turned to violence.
I took a deep breath, gathered Lenny into my arms, and prepared to run at the first threat of danger.
Carefully Russell untangled the cats’ leashes from around his legs. “What would you call it when the other fella can’t defend himself?” His anger fell away, leaving a mask of deep sadness.
“What did he do?” If I wanted him to spill the beans, I had to convince this guy I was harmless. I smiled with both dimples.
Suddenly his jaw clenched and angry fire filled his gaze. He lifted a fist the size of a tether ball above his head and shook it at the fates. “He tricked me.” With a sigh, his arm fell to his side. “Took my picture with some chicks in Little Rock at the last chili cook-off.”
“Sent one to Becca, huh?” My stretched nerves relaxed a bit.
“Not only that.” He sniffed. “He plastered them all over the Internet with crude comments I supposedly wrote.” The giant’s chin shook. “Don’t stare at me like that.”
“Like what?” I tried to use the dimples again, but my nerves prevented it. We were standing near the end of the row of shelters and tents. At that moment, not one solitary soul was in view. If his anger roared to life again, he could throttle me in a matter of seconds, long before anyone could rescue me. I took a few steps back.
“Don’t worry. I wouldn’t hurt a hair on your head, or anyone else’s—not even that teeny-weeny dog.”
It had been a long, stressful morning. I needed a place to calm down, and now. “Is that Detective Lightfoot coming this way?” I pointed off to the right over his shoulder.
“No, I wouldn’t hurt him.” He grinned, revealing straight white teeth. “But he is a perfect morsel for a mountain lion.” The giant with the cat-shaped heart dared to smirk.
This was too close for comfort. “There were only nine reported mountain lion attacks last year in the United States,” I responded sharply.
He gave me a dismissive look. “True, little lady, but bobcats are everywhere.”
I wanted to scream. “Just don’t contaminate your chili with germs from your feline friends or you’ll be . . . d-disqualified.”
“Point taken . . . m-ma’am.” He gave Lenny a pointed look, laughed, and marched his cats toward the vendor booths, undaunted by my threat.
Once Lenny and I finished our tour of chili cooks, having answered their questions, calmed their fears, and proclaimed the enticing aroma of their recipes, we made our way to the vendor booths on the far side of the cook-off area. Many of the artisans and craftsmen were familiar, having sold their wares along Main Street during last year’s Cinco de Mayo parade and celebration. I made sure to stop by one of my favorites, a tent resplendent with yard animals, fish, and flowers created from recycled and repurposed scrap metal—steel, iron, aluminum, and copper. My heart skipped a beat when I saw the glorious horse head made of pliers, iron gate, and a flowing mane of twisted metal. If I were to win something like a chili cook-off one day—except, of course, the contest could have nothing to do with baking, canning, pickling, or food preparation of any kind—I’d purchase the magnificent horse head.
“One day,” I sighed.
“Yip, yip,” Lenny barked, making serious eye contact with a weenie dog made of copper springs.
I scooped him into my arms and kissed his pointy head. “I won’t forget you when the Wells Fargo wagon comes to town.”
At the end of the row of vendors, we found a fireworks booth filled with sparklers, poppers, bottle rockets, giant rockets on long sticks, missiles, and other strange things I failed to recognize. It was manned by none other than Frank Fillmore. “How do you find time to operate your booth and prepare for tonight’s spectacular, spectacular?”
He frowned in confusion at my reference to Moulin Rouge. “What’s the big deal?” He stuck up a thumb and pointed over his shoulder to the distant platform filled with gizmos and rockets. “I
