“Where’s Sam?” asked a female voice from the back. “I thought two officials had to be here.”
“Mary Jane’s having her third boy, bless her heart.” The room erupted in applause. “But Sam’ll be at the fairgrounds tomorrow.”
The cowbell clanged. “Wait for me,” a too-familiar female voice called. Hillary Sloan-Rawlings hurried into the room in five-inch heels, a fur vest, and enough bling to feed a small country. The locals in the crowd applauded and my heart sank. Six years after almost winning Miss America and she was still Broken Boot’s biggest celebrity. Hang it all.
Bridget frowned as the beauty queen made a production of hugging a few folks along the way to an empty seat at a front table.
“Looking good, Hillary,” a local rancher called from the back.
“Who said that?” The beauty queen stood, hands on hips. “You are too sweet, P.J. Pratt. Does this mean you’re going to sell me that piece of property I’ve been begging you for?”
The crowd laughed. The battle between the two sides had carried on for the past twelve months. Hillary wanted to extend her own acreage, but despite his drought-related problems, Pratt refused to sell.
“Uh, hem.” Bridget’s smile faded as she waited for Hillary to take her seat. “As I was about to say, everything you need to know is spelled out for you in your registration documents. If you have any questions, this would be the time.”
A dark-haired woman wearing red-framed glasses stood, giving the crowd a nervous glance. A small girl and two young boys munched on chips and salsa at her table, all three children wearing wire-framed glasses. They wore clean, well-worn T-shirts and matching sneakers. “Will we have our own water hookup?” The little girl clamped two hands around a large red tumbler and slowly maneuvered it toward her mouth while the boys stuffed already-full mouths with tortilla chips until their cheeks were as round as a sow’s belly.
“That’s my understanding.” Bridget Peck turned toward another raised hand.
“Last time,” the dark-haired woman interrupted, “I had to share with Lucky.” She extended her arm and pointed a finger at him, like Dickens’s Ghost of Christmas Future. “And he only let me use it once.” Without taking her eyes from his, she reached down to help her daughter hold her drink.
Lucky laughed, but no one joined in. “That’s not how I remember it. If you needed water, Dani O’Neal, you should have spoken up loud enough for me to hear you.”
She kept her fervent gaze locked on Bridget Peck. “You’re positive about the water?” Dani’s bottom lip trembled.
“Eddie Martinez, come on over here.” Bridget waved to my uncle. “Why don’t you set the woman’s mind at ease?”
With a nervous smile, Uncle Eddie wove his way through the tables and chairs. “That’s right. I spent a couple hundred dollars having the hookups added so we would meet the ICA standards.” He smiled wide. “So keep on drinking and I’ll make that money back in no time.”
“Will do,” someone hollered. Laughter followed.
A heavyset man with long, wavy hair staggered to his feet. “Why don’t you tell Lucky’s lapdog to keep his hands off other people supplies?”
“Let it go, hon,” said the red-headed woman seated next to Grizzly Adams.
Whip jumped up. “Russell, I didn’t take your bowls in Laredo.” He looked to the crowd for support. “Is it my fault he can’t count?”
For a giant, Russell was fast. He was in Lucky’s face before you could say chile rellenos. “You, my friend, always weasel spices, gear—heck—even meat off other folks who can’t afford to share!” The crowd murmured in agreement. “What happened to your fat pension?”
“That true, Whip?” Bridget Peck asked.
With a worried look, Whip adjusted his leather vest. “Maybe once or twice, but I’d never steal from someone, only borrow.”
Russell bowed out his chest. “No, but you’d steal someone else’s recipe.”
Eyes round as a couple of cue balls, Whip stepped forward. “Ain’t that the pot calling the kettle black?”
“Boys, boys.” Bridget Peck’s voice demanded their attention. “Go on back to your seats and order some grub. It’s been a long day and I bet you had to put in a full day’s work before you hit the road.”
Russell nodded and, with a swift glance at Whip, trudged back to his seat. The shorter man watched him go, eyes narrowed and neck stretched forward like a rattler.
“It’s not all about the winning.” Bridget Peck grinned. “It’s about the food.”
“You got that right,” someone shouted from the back.
“So go out and make chili like your mama taught ya and don’t forget to have fun!”
As enthusiastic applause changed to excited chatter, Uncle Eddie joined me behind the counter. “I thought for sure, Jo Jo, we were about to have a sparring match, right here in front of God and the ICA.”
“Night, folks.” I waved to a group of customers still chattering about their recipes.
“Mommy, I have to go potty.” Something jerked my apron. Below me stood a miniature person with glasses, only three feet tall.
“Hey, honey. Where’s your mommy?”
“Kayla.” Suddenly the woman called Dani appeared with one of the young boys in tow. “I told you not to talk to strangers.”
With a whimper, she buried her head against her mother’s leg. “I have to go potty,” she wailed.
“Come on,” I said with a smile. “It’s right this way.” Luckily, the niñas’ room appeared to be unoccupied.
Dani opened the door, prodding the girl in front of her. As she tried to bring
