Page 8 of Cowboys & Hot Sauce (Festival of Hearts #5)

Scarlet

"The secret's in the finish," I explained to Burke as I gave my signature Texas Tornado blend one last stir. "You want heat that builds, not just a flame that hits your tongue and disappears. That's the difference between a good pepper kick and one worth remembering."

The preliminary judging for the hot sauce competition was set to begin in thirty minutes, and my hands wouldn't stop fidgeting.

My food truck had been transformed into a proper tasting booth—sample cups arranged in colorful concentric circles, tasting notes printed on handmade cards, and bottles of my Texas Tornado gleaming under the string lights I'd hung outside.

Outside, Burke had helped me set up a red-and-orange canopy decorated with paper flames and a hand-painted sign that matched my truck's logo.

"How many votes do you need to make it to the finals?" Burke asked, methodically arranging crackers and water cups at the end of my display.

"It's not about a specific number," I said, wiping my hands on my apron. "The two concoctions with the highest public votes move on to tomorrow's final judging."

Burke nodded, his gaze scanning the competition area where three other booths were being set up. "So we're looking at a twenty-five percent chance if voting is random, but significantly higher given the quality of your creation."

I couldn't help grinning. Leave it to Burke to calculate the odds while I was over here trying not to spill anything on my lucky boots.

"It's not just about the flavor," I admitted, lowering my voice. "Presentation matters. First impressions. Getting people excited before they even taste it." I nodded toward Bethany Sue's spot across the way, where she was arranging delicate porcelain spoons beside her "Haute Heat" sauce.

Her display looked like something from a magazine spread—elegant cream-colored tablecloth, rose gold accents, and professionally printed cards touting the "elevated culinary experience" of her French-inspired hot sauce.

She wore a pristine pink dress that probably cost more than all my cooking equipment combined, her blonde hair falling in perfect waves around her shoulders.

"She's certainly going for a specific aesthetic," Burke remarked diplomatically.

"She's going for pretentious," I muttered, tucking a stray lock of hair back into my braid. "And the worst part is, her blend is actually good. I tried it."

Burke placed his hand on my shoulder, steadying me. "But is it better than yours?"

I straightened my spine. "No."

"Then focus on that." The simple confidence in his voice cut through my jitters like a sharp knife through ripe tomatoes.

To our left, Jim Bob Tucker was setting up his "Grandpappy's Revenge" booth with the help of his teenage sons.

Nothing fancy there—wooden crates, mason jars with hand-drawn labels, and a faded photograph of what must have been his grandfather.

Jim Bob himself looked the part in suspenders and a well-worn cowboy hat, his handlebar mustache perfectly waxed for the occasion.

"Made the old-fashioned way since 1943," he announced to passersby. "None of them fancy ingredients or tricks. Just good, honest heat that'll put hair on your chest!"

On our right, Doug Porter had taken a completely different approach with his "Five Alarm Fusion" display. His booth featured sleek black surfaces, bright red accents, and an actual fire helmet as a centerpiece. His bottles, labeled with a modern firefighter theme, were arranged in a perfect row.

"Quite the range of styles," Burke observed.

"That's Sweetwater for you," I said, making one final adjustment to my display. "Traditional versus fancy, old versus new, with me somewhere in the middle, trying to find my place."

The words tumbled out before I could stop them. Burke's expression softened, and for a moment, I thought he might say something profound. Instead, he handed me a water bottle.

"Hydrate," he said. "You've been working in this heat all day."

I took a long drink, grateful for the simple concern.

The truth was, I needed to win this competition—not just for the prize money and not just to prove myself to MeeMaw, but to prove to myself that I belonged here.

That I could build something lasting in Sweetwater without losing the creativity that made me who I was. That I could finally feel good enough.

"Five minutes to public tasting!" announced Mayor Davidson, his voice booming through a bullhorn. "Heat masters, prepare your stations!"

Burke squeezed my hand quickly. "You've got this, Scarlet."

"Thanks," I said, realizing I meant it more than he knew. "For everything."

As he stepped away to let me work, I watched him move through the crowd, my attention lingering longer than necessary.

Something had changed between us today—that almost-kiss on the Ferris wheel, the unexpected touch of lips that followed in the photo booth.

Even knowing it was all for show, I felt drawn to him like butter to a hot pan.

But there wasn't time to untangle those feelings now. The crowd was gathering, and I had a competition to win.

For the next hour, I fell into the familiar rhythm of engaging with customers.

This was the part I loved—watching people's expressions as they tasted my food, explaining the blend of habaneros and smoked peppers that gave Texas Tornado its distinctive kick, sharing the story of how I'd developed the recipe during a particularly wild thunderstorm that had knocked out power to my Houston apartment.

"It's got kick, but there's real depth too," remarked Mrs. Garcia, the retired principal whose opinion carried serious weight in Sweetwater.

"That's exactly what I was going for," I beamed. "Heat that tells a story instead of just shouting at you."

From the corner of my vision, I spotted Burke moving through the festival crowd, chatting with locals, and subtly directing people toward my booth. Each time someone praised my sauce, he'd flash a small smile that somehow felt more genuine than any loud cheer.

Across the way, Bethany Sue was in her element, describing her hot sauce's "notes of Provencal herbs" and "artisanal pepper blend" to an impressed cluster of onlookers.

Jim Bob's booming laugh carried over the hubbub as he slapped backs and encouraged people to "man up and try a real Texas blend," while Doug patiently explained the Asian influences in his Five Alarm Fusion.

All four creations were drawing steady crowds, making it impossible to gauge who might be ahead. After tasting, people moved to a neutral table where they filled out scoring cards and dropped them into a large glass jar guarded by Loretta Wilkins, one of tomorrow's official judges.

Just as the visitors at my booth thinned momentarily, I spotted MeeMaw walking with her friend Hattie between the displays. They paused near the voting table, and I instinctively stepped behind a display pillar to listen.

"...certainly knows her flavors," Hattie was saying. "Can't deny the girl has talent."

MeeMaw made a noncommittal noise. "Talent was never the issue. It's whether she'll stick around when things get tough. I'm still not convinced about Scarlet's commitment to staying in Sweetwater. When she gets another wild hair, she's apt to just run off again."

Her words hit me like a splash of hot oil. After everything I'd done this weekend—the food truck success, reconnecting with the community, even appearing settled with Burke—she still didn't trust me.

"Well," Hattie replied, "hopefully that handsome Tate boy will entice her to stay. I don't see him leaving town anytime soon."

MeeMaw's signature "hmmm" was neither agreement nor disagreement.

"The restaurant needs someone who'll be there day in and day out," she continued. "Someone reliable. Bethany Sue's got a five-year business plan, projections, everything written out nice and proper."

"And no passion," Hattie countered. "That girl's never flipped a burger that wasn't photographed for her social media."

They moved out of earshot, leaving my stomach knotted like I'd swallowed a green jalapeno. No matter what I did, would MeeMaw ever see me as anything but that stubborn, impatient teenager who didn’t take anything seriously and left town at the first opportunity?

"You okay?" Burke appeared beside me, his voice low. "You look like someone just substituted salt for sugar in your favorite recipe."

I forced a smile. "Just pre-results jitters."

He studied my face, clearly not buying it, but didn't press further. "They're about to close the voting. Want to take a break while they count? Might help take your mind off things."

"Yes, please," I said, untying my apron. "Anywhere but here."

The midway lights were beginning to shine brighter as the afternoon sun softened toward evening.

Burke guided me through the throng with a light hand at the small of my back, steering us toward the carnival games area.

Barkers called out challenges, the air swirled with the scents of popcorn and caramel, and music blared from speakers mounted on colorful booths.

"Pick your poison," Burke said, gesturing to the row of games. "Ring toss? Balloon darts? The famous Sweetwater Longhorn Lasso toss?"

"Definitely not anything involving water," I laughed. "I've had enough of getting you wet for one day."

The corner of his mouth quirked up. "Fair enough."

We ended up at a shooting gallery where metal ducks moved across a backdrop painted to look like a pond. Burke paid the operator and lifted the air rifle with surprising confidence.

"Ranch skills transfer?" I asked as he took aim.

"Something like that," he replied, then fired five shots in quick succession, hitting every target.

The operator's eyebrows shot up. "Well, butter my biscuit, look-y there! We've got a winner! Pick any prize from the top shelf for your lady friend."

Burke glanced at me. "Your choice."