CALLIE
If I have to hear my father rant about the Great Chili Conspiracy of 1995 one more time, I’m going to scream. And not the cute, damsel-in-distress kind of scream but the kind that gets you committed.
I’m crouched behind Mabel’s funnel cake stand, praying that Dad will lower his voice before the entire county fair witnesses another Thompson family meltdown. No such luck. His voice carries across the fairgrounds like a foghorn, except with dramatic pauses and wild hand gestures.
“You McCoys think you can waltz in here with your fancy chili and your… your,” Dad waves his plastic spoon in the air, drops of red sauce flying everywhere, “your lies!”
I peek around the corner of the stand and immediately regret it. Half the town has gathered around the chili contest tables, phones out, ready to document whatever disaster is about to unfold. The lady from the post office has her mouth hanging open. The mayor looks like he’s considering early retirement. And Mrs. Delaney, oh God, Mrs. Delaney, is holding her phone up, recording everything for the Cedar Ridge Facebook page.
“Dad,” I hiss under my breath, “you’re making a scene.”
But he can’t hear me over his righteous fury. “That ribbon belonged to us! Everyone knows the Thompson five-alarm chili could wake the dead!”
The McCoy patriarch, a grizzled man with steel-gray hair and zero patience, crosses his arms. “Your mama’s chili tasted like motor oil, Hank. Still does, if your daughter’s any indication.”
Oh, hell no.
I start to stand up, ready to defend my family’s honor, but then I remember: I hate crowds, I hate drama, and I especially hate being the center of attention. Plus, my chili actually does taste questionable. The man’s not wrong.
“Thirty years!” Dad bellows, jabbing his spoon toward the McCoy booth. “Thirty years of watching you parade around with stolen glory!”
“Stolen?” Mr. McCoy laughs, a sound like gravel in a blender. “The only thing stolen here is your dignity, Thompson.”
The crowd “oohs” appropriately. Someone in the back starts a slow clap. I want to melt into the sawdust and disappear forever.
This is my life. This is what I get for being born a Thompson in Cedar Ridge, population about three thousand, surrounded by folks who have nothing better to do than watch two families bicker over chili. The feud between the Thompsons and McCoys has been going on since before I was born, and honestly? I’ve never understood what the big deal is.
“Your boys probably sabotaged our entry,” Dad continues, his face turning an alarming shade of red. “Just like they did with the potato salad in ’98!”
“For the love of God,” I mutter, sliding down until I’m practically sitting on the ground. “It was food poisoning, Dad. The mayo went bad. We’ve been over this.”
But reasoning with Hank Thompson mid-rant is futile. Possible in theory, but never going to work.
Mrs. Delaney spots me behind the funnel cake stand and waves enthusiastically. “Callie! Callie, honey, get your daddy before he has a stroke!”
Every head in the crowd turns toward me. Fantastic. Now I’m part of the show.
I force myself to stand up, brushing sawdust off my jeans and trying to look like I have any control over the situation. “Hey, Dad,” I call out, waving weakly. “Maybe we should—”
“Not now, Callie! I’m handling this!”
Handling it. Right. Because screaming about chili in front of half the county is definitely handling things.
Mr. McCoy shakes his head. “Your family’s been delusional for decades, Thompson. Face facts. We make better chili, we always have, and that ribbon’s staying right where it belongs, with us.”
“Over my dead body!”
“That can be arranged!”
The crowd gasps. One lady clutches her pearls. A baby starts crying.
I close my eyes and count to ten, trying not to cry myself. When I open them, nothing has changed. Dad’s still waving his spoon around, the McCoys are still glaring, and approximately fifty people are still recording.
“You know what?” I announce loudly enough for everyone to hear. “I’m going to check on Rita.”
Nobody pays attention. They’re too busy watching Dad work himself into a cardiac event over beans and tomatoes.
I turn to walk away, but Mrs. Delaney intercepts me, her phone still recording. “Callie, sweetie, how do you feel about your family’s ongoing struggle for justice?”
“I feel like I need a drink,” I deadpan. “A strong one. Maybe several.”
She blinks, clearly not expecting that response. “Oh. Well. That’s... honest.”
“It’s my brand,” I say, stepping around her. “Excuse me, I have a goat to find before she eats someone’s car.”
As I walk away, I can still hear Dad and Mr. McCoy hurling insults at each other. Something about beans versus no beans, secret ingredients, and judges who “wouldn’t know good chili if it bit them on the ass.”
The worst part? This happens every year. Every single year, without fail, the Thompson-McCoy feud explodes into public view at some community event, and every single year, I want to crawl into a hole and never come out.
I love my dad, I really do. But sometimes, I think he cares more about a decades-old chili ribbon than he does about looking like a rational human being in public.
The shouting behind me gets louder. I hear someone mention calling the sheriff. Mrs. Delaney is probably livestreaming the whole thing by now.
“Perfect,” I mutter, heading toward the livestock area where I left Rita tied up. “Just perfect. Another year, another public humiliation courtesy of the Thompson family tradition.”
At least Rita can’t judge me for my genetics. She’s a goat. Her standards are refreshingly low.
* * *
I should have known better than to leave Rita unattended for more than five minutes. By the time I reach the livestock area, Rita’s rope is swinging free from the fence post, and there’s no goat in sight.
Just. My. Luck.
“Rita!” I call out, scanning the area.
A crash echoes from the direction of the food booths, followed by screaming. My stomach drops.
“Oh, no. No, no, no.”
I run toward the sound, dodging families with strollers and teenagers holding deep-fried turkey legs. As I round the corner, the scene unfolds in slow motion. Rita is now barreling directly toward the chili tables at full speed.
“Rita, stop!” I shout, but she’s locked onto her target.
She hits the first table with the force of a missile. Crock-Pots go flying. Chili explodes everywhere onto walls, people, the ground. It’s like a crime scene, but tomato sauce for the blood and beans for the body parts.
“My chili!” someone screams.
“Five hours of work!” another voice wails.
Rita, completely unbothered by the destruction she’s caused, starts eating chili off the ground. At least she’s not wasteful.
A toddler, covered head to toe in the award-winning three-bean chili, lets out a wail that could shatter glass. His mother stares in horror at what used to be her child and is now a small, crying chili monster.
“I am so sorry!” I yell, sprinting toward the disaster zone. “She’s friendly! She’s just hungry!”
Dad’s voice cuts through the chaos: “WHAT IN THE SAM HILL IS GOING ON?”
I turn to see him marching toward us, his face transitioning from angry-red to stroke-purple. Behind him, the entire McCoy family is following, probably to witness the complete destruction of the Thompson reputation. Or what’s left of it.
“Rita got loose,” I explain breathlessly, diving toward my goat, who has now moved on to sampling someone’s cornbread. “Rita, no! Bad goat!”
She looks at me with those innocent brown eyes, cornbread crumbs on her chin, and bleats. It’s the most unapologetic sound I’ve ever heard.
“Get that animal under control!” The judge from the chili contest, a woman with steel-gray hair and zero patience, points an accusatory finger at me. “She’s contaminated half the entries!”
“I’m trying!” I lunge for Rita’s collar, but she sidesteps me. “Rita, I swear to God, you’re becoming barbecue tonight!”
The threat doesn’t faze her. She’s found someone’s dropped funnel cake and is now going to town on it, as if she earned her dessert.
“Callie Thompson!” Dad’s voice booms across the fairgrounds. “What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything! She escaped! Goats escape! It’s what they do!”
I make another grab for Rita, this time catching her collar, but she’s stronger than she looks. She drags me three feet before I get a decent grip on her.
“Got you, you little—”
Rita jerks hard to the left, and I stumble, careening into the table of perfectly organized chili samples. I catch myself on the edge, but not before knocking over plastic spoons that scatter across the ground.
“This is a disaster,” the MC announces, surveying chili-splattered carnage. “An absolute disaster.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” I mutter, finally getting Rita under control. She’s still chewing funnel cake, content and pleased with what, for her, is a well-rounded meal.
The chili judge lady storms over, her clipboard clutched in white-knuckled fists. “Miss Thompson, your goat has destroyed three hours of judging. The contest is ruined!”
“I understand that,” I say, trying to catch my breath. “And I’m really, really sorry. I’ll pay for damages, I’ll—”
“You’ll do more than that,” Dad interrupts, having finally reached the scene of the crime. “You’ll apologize to every single person here, and then you’ll take that goat home and—”
“And what?” I snap, my patience reaching its limit. “Chain her to a tree? Build a goat prison? She’s a goat, Dad, not a criminal mastermind!”
“She’s your responsibility!”
“She’s a force of nature!”
Rita chooses that moment to let out a long, satisfied bleat, agreeing with my assessment of her character.
The crowd that’s gathered around us, because of course there’s a crowd, starts murmuring. Phones come out again. Mrs. Delaney positions herself for the best angle.
“Great,” I mutter, tugging Rita away from the wreckage. “Just great. This’ll be all over Facebook before we even get home.”
Dad’s face has gone from purple back to red, which I’m choosing to interpret as progress. “You’re going to clean this up, Callie. Every last drop.”
“With what? My tongue?”
“Don’t get smart with me, missy.”
“Too late. I was born smart. It’s my curse.”
Rita bleats again, louder this time, adding her own commentary. Several people laugh, which only makes Dad’s expression darker.
“This is exactly why the McCoys think they can walk all over us,” he says, loud enough for the entire county to hear. “Because we can’t even control our livestock!”
“Oh, for crying out loud,” I start to say, but I’m interrupted by the sound of slow clapping. “Rita is a pet, not livestock,” I mumble. No one cares.
I am holding my chin high as I walk away, Rita finally under control, when I spot three figures walking toward us through the crowd. My heart does something weird in my chest. The McCoy boys. All three of them. And they’re all looking directly at me.
This day just keeps getting better.
* * *
It seems Rita is not happy with the McCoy’s approach and she decides to let me know. I’m wrestling with her leash again as we watch them move through the crowd like they own the place. Which, let’s be honest, they kind of do. The McCoy family has been Cedar Ridge royalty for as long as anyone can remember.
The oldest one, Wyatt, I think, has his arms crossed and a scowl that could curdle milk. The middle one is grinning like this is the best entertainment he’s seen all year. And the youngest one is trying not to laugh.
I’m still staring when Rita decides she’s had enough of my control and bolts toward them.
“Rita, no!” I sprint after her, but my boots slip on a puddle of chili, and I’m suddenly airborne.
I slam into all three of them at once.
Three solid chests. Six arms reaching out to catch me. One very undignified oomph as I take down what feels like half a ton of cowboy.
We go down in a tangle of limbs and cursing. I land flat on my butt in the sawdust, staring up at three very different expressions: one annoyed, one amused, and one concerned.
“Well,” says the grinning one, Jesse, maybe? “That’s one way to meet someone.”
“We’ve met before. I’m your neighbor.”
“All grown up now,” he adds, smiling.
Rita, meanwhile, has found the youngest brother’s leather belt and is chewing on it while he tries to pull it away from her.
“Hey! This is my good belt!” He’s laughing even as he says it, which makes Rita more determined to claim her prize. “Come on, goat, let go!”
“Control your livestock,” Wyatt growls, standing up and brushing sawdust off his jeans. His eyes are stormy, and his mouth is set in a hard line.
“She’s not livestock,” I snap back, scrambling to my feet. “She’s a pet. With issues. We all have issues, you know.”
“That’s one word for it,” Jesse says, still grinning. He extends a hand to help me up, but I ignore it and dust myself off.
“Your goat has good taste,” he continues, nodding toward Rita. “That’s genuine leather. Looks like you’re losing your belt, Boone.”
“Rita, drop it!” I grab for the belt, but she dances away, trailing leather behind her like a victory banner.
Boone, who’s cracking up, finally catches one end of the belt. “Tug of war with a goat. This is a new low, even for me.”
“Just let her have it,” I say, exasperated. “I’ll buy you a new one.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says, still laughing. “She’s earned it fair and square.”
Rita, sensing victory, gives one final tug and trots away with her prize, smugly satisfied with herself.
“That goat is a menace,” Wyatt says flatly.
“That goat is the least of your problems,” I shoot back. “Your family’s over there destroying mine, and you’re worried about livestock control?”
“Our family?” Jesse’s eyebrows shoot up. “Your dad’s the one waving around utensils like he’s ready to kill.”
He’s not wrong, but I’m not about to admit that. “Your grandfather started it.”
“Your dad escalated it,” Wyatt says.
“Your grandfather threw the first spoon!”
“It was a ladle, and it was self-defense!”
We’re standing there glaring at each other when Boone starts laughing again. “Y’all realize how ridiculous this sounds, right? We’re arguing about spoons.”
“Ladles,” Jesse and I correct in unison, then glare at each other harder.
“Even better,” Boone grins. “Nothing starts a family feud like kitchen utensils.”
I hate that he’s making sense. I hate that he’s cute when he laughs. I especially hate that all three of them are looking at me as if I’m some kind of exotic disease they’ve never seen before. Like they don’t know whether to be intrigued or repulsed.
“Look,” I say, crossing my arms, “I’m sorry about Rita and the belt and the whole crashing-into-you thing. I better get her home before she destroys anything else.”
“Smart plan,” Wyatt says. “Might want to invest in a stronger rope while you’re at it.”
“Might want to invest in a personality while you’re at it,” I snap back.
Jesse laughs. “Oh shit, she’s got you there, Wy.”
Wyatt’s scowl deepens, but I catch something that might be amusement flickering in his eyes. “Thompson women and their mouths,” he mutters.
“Excuse me?” I straighten up to my full height, chest back, chin up. No one talks trash about the Thompson women. No one.
He realizes he’s gone too far. “Nothing,” he says, backpedaling. “Just... nothing.”
Damn right.
“Well, since we’re on the subject, why don’t you enlighten me about Thompson women and our mouths?”
“I really think we should—” Boone starts to say, but Jesse cuts him off.
“What my charming brother means,” Jesse says, shooting Wyatt a warning look, “is that Thompson women are known for being... spirited.”
“Spirited.” I repeat the word slowly. “Like horses?”
“Like trouble,” Wyatt says under his breath.
“I heard that,” I snip.
“Good. Maybe you’ll face facts.”
“The only fact I’m facing is that McCoy men are just as pigheaded as their fathers.”
“And Thompson women are just as—”
“Just as what?” I step closer, eyes narrowed and lips pursed, ready for a fight.
But Wyatt doesn’t finish the sentence. He’s looking down at me, and something shifts in his expression. For just a second, the scowl softens.
“Nothing,” he says finally. “Just... be careful with that goat.”
Before I can ask what that’s supposed to mean, he turns and walks away.
Jesse tips his hat at me with an infuriating grin. “See you around, pretty girl.”
Boone waves goodbye, belt-less, still chuckling. “Thanks for the entertainment!”
I watch them retreat, three sets of broad shoulders and long legs, and I absolutely do not notice how well their jeans fit or how Wyatt’s dark hair curls just slightly at the nape of his neck.
Nope. Not noticing any of that.
Rita trots back over to me, Boone’s belt hanging from her mouth like a trophy. She looks pleased with herself.
“You,” I tell her, “are a terrible wingman.”
She bleats, either agreeing or disagreeing. Who knows which.
* * *
I’m trying to coax Rita to my truck when Mrs. Delaney appears beside me like a gossip-seeking missile.
“Oh my stars!” she gasps, clutching her phone to her chest. “Callie Thompson, did you just fall into the arms of all three McCoy boys?”
“I crashed into them,” I correct, tugging Rita’s leash. “There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” Mrs. Delaney’s eyes are practically glowing with excitement. “Because it looked mighty romantic from where I was standing. Very movie-scene, if you ask me. You know that term ‘meet-cute’? I think that was one in the making, right before our very eyes.”
“The hell,” I mutter, but she either doesn’t hear me or chooses to ignore it.
“I got the whole thing on video,” she continues, waving her phone. “The way they all reached out to catch you? Pure poetry. I’m posting it to the community page right now.”
“Please don’t.”
“Oh, honey, it’s too late for that. This is the most exciting thing to happen at the fair since 2018 when the Ferris wheel broke down and we had to call the fire department to get Doc off the highest chair. I remember how afraid of heights that poor man was. He had to take some time off after that unfortunate...”
Rita, tired of Mrs. Delaney’s story, chooses that moment to let out a loud bleat, and the woman jumps like she’s been shot.
“That goat is still chewing that boy’s belt!” she exclaims. “Should I call animal control?”
“She’s fine. Just... difficult.”
“Difficult,” Mrs. Delaney repeats, typing furiously on her phone. “That’s a good word. Very quotable.”
I start walking faster, hoping to escape before she can say anything else, but Mrs. Delaney follows me, her thumbs moving across her phone screen at lightning speed.
“Tell me, Callie, how long have you had feelings for the McCoy boys?”
I stop dead in my tracks. “Excuse me?”
“The chemistry was obvious, sweetie. You can’t fake that kind of tension.”
“The only tension here is me trying not to strangle my goat.”
And Mrs. Delaney, truth be told.
I keep that part to myself.
“Mmm-hmm.” She doesn’t sound convinced. “And which boy do you like best? The serious one? The charming one? Or the funny one?”
“I don’t like any of them, Mrs. Delaney. They’re McCoys. I’m a Thompson. Oil and water. Natural enemies. The Montagues and Capulets. Ring any bells?”
“Oh, pish. Don’t drop that silly Romeo and Juliet stuff on me,” she says, waving a dismissive hand. “That old feud is just for show. Everyone knows it doesn’t mean anything anymore.”
“Tell that to my dad.”
As if summoned by name, Dad appears at my elbow, his face still red from his chili confrontation. “Callie, what are you doing talking to those McCoy boys—” He spots Mrs. Delaney, clears his throat, and smiles politely. “Afternoon, Dolores.”
“Hank!” Mrs. Delaney beams at him. “I was just telling Callie how sweet it was, watching her fall into the McCoy boys’ arms. Like something out of a romance novel!”
Dad’s smile disappears. “She what?”
“Crashed,” I say quickly. “I crashed into them while chasing Rita. It was an accident. A very ungraceful, very embarrassing accident.”
“An accident,” Dad repeats slowly, his eyes narrowing. “With the McCoy boys.”
“All three of them,” Mrs. Delaney adds unhelpfully. “She took them all down at once. Very exciting.”
I close my eyes and count to five. When I open them, Dad is staring at me with an expression I can’t quite read.
“We’re leaving,” he announces. “Now.”
“Good idea,” I agree, starting toward the parking area. But Mrs. Delaney isn’t done with us yet.
“Hank, you should know, people are talking. About Callie and those boys. Some folks think it’s about time the families made peace. Let the younger generation be the change,” she says with a proud nod.
Dad’s jaw twitches. “Some folks need to mind their own business.”
“Oh, but, Hank, young love is everyone’s business! It’s romantic! It’s—”
“It’s nothing,” Dad says firmly. “Because my daughter knows better than to get involved with a McCoy.”
He looks at me pointedly when he says it, and my cheeks burn.
“Of course I do,” I say through gritted teeth. “I wouldn’t touch a McCoy with a ten-foot pole.”
“Even if he was really, really good-looking?” Mrs. Delaney asks with a sly grin.
“Especially then,” I lie.
But even as I say it, I can’t stop thinking about Wyatt’s eyes, Jesse’s crooked grin, and the way Boone’s face lit up when he laughed. Which is exactly the kind of thing that’s going to get me in trouble.
“Good,” Dad says, satisfied. “Because the last thing this family needs is more drama with the McCoys.”
Mrs. Delaney looks disappointed, but she’s still typing on her phone. “Well, if anything changes, you know where to find me. I’m always happy to document young romance for posterity.”
“There won’t be any romance to document,” I say firmly.
“If you say so, dear.” But her tone suggests she thinks I’m either lying or delusional.
As we walk toward the truck, I can hear people whispering as we pass. Phones are coming out. Cameras are pointing in our direction. By tonight, half the county will have seen Mrs. Delaney’s video of me face-planting into three cowboys.
“What a mess,” I mutter.
“It’s fixable,” Dad says. “As long as you stay away from those boys.”
I nod, but I’m not really listening. I’m thinking about the way Wyatt looked at me right before he walked away, and the way Jesse called me “trouble” like it was a compliment, and the way Boone’s laugh made something warm unfurl in my chest.
“Zero cowboy contact,” I say under my breath as I load Rita into the back of the truck. “That’s the plan. Zero contact, zero drama, zero complications.”
Rita bleats skeptically, Boone’s belt still hanging from her mouth.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I tell her. “I mean it.”
But even as I say it, I have the sinking feeling that Rita and I both know I’m lying.
The McCoy boys are trouble. Capital T, heartbreak-waiting-to-happen, family-feud-reigniting trouble.
And I absolutely, definitely, completely do not want anything to do with them.
Absolutely.
Definitely.
Completely.
* * *
