tile floor. “Stand,” I commanded. Without hesitation, he lifted his front legs and pawed the air.

“So adorable.” Cindy clapped her hands.

“Turn,” I continued.

With the grace of a ballet dancer, Lenny hopped in a full circle until he was back where he started, paws still high.

“Good boy.” I scooped him up and kissed his head.

“Yip.”

“Yes, yes, very handsome.” I paid Cindy on her way out, even though she insisted the beautiful costume was a gift.

When I returned, Senora Mari was waiting. “Where are you?” She tapped the paper with the tips of her fingers. “You said you wrote a story.”

“Page ten. The article about the fifty head of Herefords blocking Highway 90.”

With a grunt, she found the page and read the article. “This is,” she held her thumb and index finger about two inches apart, “smaller than a cucaracha.” She lifted her chin. “Why?”

“That’s how much my editor trusts me.” In fact, he probably trusted a cockroach more.

Uncle Eddie wiped his brow with a handkerchief from his pocket, still nervous as a cat on a porch full of rocking chairs.

I grabbed two lime wedges and a salt shaker from behind the bar. “Even if we could rattle off all the ICA rules in our sleep, we’re bound to forget something on the big day.” I salted both lime wedges, handed him one, and we both took a bite. “Truth is, if we make a mistake, the judges will be there to smooth things out.” As one, we both made a sour face.

Senora Mari shook her head in disgust. “What power does this IGA—”

“ICA. The IGA sells sweet tea and chicken nuggets.”

She glared. “Why must we bow to this ICA?”

“Let’s see.” I counted off on my fingers. “One. They sponsor hundreds of chili cook-offs worldwide each year. Two. They raise millions of dollars for charities and nonprofits. And most importantly, the town council insists the cook-off be an ICA-sponsored event.”

“Humph.”

“If Uncle Eddie wants to earn the town council’s respect, he’s got to make sure this soiree goes off without a hitch.” I wasn’t about to admit how much I longed to throw the ICA’s rules and regulations binder into the nearest ditch.

She drew herself up to her full four feet, eleven inches. “He should not have to work so hard to earn the respect of other men. Which one of them owns two successful businesses, like my son?”

“You don’t understand.” His shoulders and chest deflated until he looked like a droopy cactus. “If I screw up again, the town council will tie me up faster than a rodeo calf and run me out of town on a rail.”

“This cannot be true.”

With a growl, he picked up the Bugle from the counter and quickly flipped through the pages. “How can I ever live this down?” He stabbed the photo that accompanied my story and began to read. “Dozens of Herefords were scattered across Highway 90 Monday afternoon, creating a traffic backup that lasted several hours.”

Gently I took the paper from his hand and threw it behind the antique oak bar. “How were you to know the photographer didn’t know how to close a cattle gate properly?”

“Tell that to Pratt. It took him and his hands over an hour to round up his herd.”

“He can’t force you off the town council. It wasn’t your fault!” Rancher P.J. Pratt, long-time council member, had lined up one of the Bugle’s photographers to take my uncle’s official portrait on Pratt’s ranch.

“No, but his friends can.” Senora Mari placed a hand on her son’s forearm. “He’s the richest guy in three counties; he can do what he wants.”

I gave her a look. “They’ll do no such thing.” I threw my arm around his shoulders. “You’ll prove you deserve your seat on the council tomorrow when the cook-off goes as smooth as cold butter on hot corn bread.” I fired off a silent prayer that this good man’s bad luck would change.

As if reading my thoughts, Senora Mari crossed herself and brought her thumb and forefinger to her lips. “Amen.”

•   •   •

Our prayers must have worked. A few minutes later, Uncle Eddie hit the road, a spring in his step and hope in his heart. I hit the stairs, a hope in my belly that the leftover chicken in my fridge hadn’t spoiled.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Senora Mari was like a Mexican ninja.

“To raid the refrigerator.” I glanced longingly up the stairs.

She led me into the kitchen instead. “Ballet folklórico is a good idea. You and your friends embracing my heritage.” She spun around to stop Lenny with her foot. “No dogs in the kitchen.”

With a soft whine, he trotted off, making a beeline for Aunt Linda’s office and the doggie treats hidden in her desk drawer. Lenster was no fool.

“I won’t be good company if I’m hungry.”

From the bottom rack of the oven, she pulled out an aluminum pie plate covered with foil. “Here. Eat.”

Beneath the foil, I found two breakfast tacos, each containing egg, potato, cheese, and salsa. “Gee, thanks!” I was suspicious of her motives, not an idiot.

“Last night . . .” Slowly she walked to the window and gazed out into the alley as if in a trance. “I had a dream.”

I swallowed. “Was it scary?” My abuela took great pride in her dreams. She believed they held great significance for the people in our community.

“I’m thirsty.” She found a tamarind-flavored Jarritos soda in the fridge. “You listen. This one has meaning for you.” She grabbed a knife from the counter and flipped off the bottle cap.

Fighting a smile, I raised my hands in protest. “You know I don’t believe in dream interpretation.” Heck, I didn’t even read my horoscope.

She wiped her mouth with her pinky. “That is because you went to college. Forget all that and listen.”

“Okay.” I sighed. “Go on.”

She shook a stubby index finger at me. “God’s prophets interpreted dreams in the Bible.” She jabbed her finger into her chest. “Why not me?”

I could have said many things, but I remained as quiet

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