My Cowboy Chaos (The Cowboy Romantic Comedies #2)

Chapter 1

Callie

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?”