Nadine closed the smoker lid.
“Does expensive steel make better brisket?”
One of the nearby competitors laughed.
Dax looked back at her.
“Scrap metal makes scrap meat. Everybody knows that.”
Nadine wiped her hands on her apron.
“Taste first. Judge after.”
“I don’t taste junk.”
He reached toward the barrel.
Nadine stepped between them.
“Don’t touch my pit.”
Dax lifted both hands theatrically.
Then his elbow knocked over the bowl of sauce sitting near the edge.
Dark glaze splashed across Nadine’s apron and boots.
Briella immediately raised her phone.
Dax smiled.
“Oops.”
The livestream comments began exploding.
Dax dipped two fingers into the sauce staining Nadine’s apron and laughed toward the camera.
“There. Now you look like a pitmaster.”
Nadine’s jaw tightened.
She said nothing.
Dax tasted the sauce from his finger.
And stopped.
Only for half a second.
But Nadine saw it.
The smile disappeared.
His eyes moved toward the old notebook.
Then back to her.
“You still pour too fast,” he said quietly.
Nadine froze.
“What?”
Dax seemed to realize what he had said.
He turned toward the cameras.
“Nothing.”
Nadine stared at him.
“Have we met?”
“No.”
“You just told me I pour too fast.”
“Lucky guess.”
Wes stepped closer.
“Mr. Whitfield, maybe you should move along.”
Dax looked at his vest.
“You a volunteer?”
“Yes.”
“Touch that barrel again,” Nadine said, “and you lose that badge.”
Dax laughed.
“Then take it.”
Wes removed the vest.
Everyone around them became quiet.
Dax stared at him.
“What are you doing?”
Wes placed the volunteer badge on the table.
“I’d rather lose a vest than pretend she isn’t registered.”
Dax pointed toward the entrance.
“Go home, scrapyard.”
Nadine looked at him.
“This championship is for real cooks.”
Then she picked up the sauce bowl.
“See you at the judges’ table, Dax.”
For the first time that morning, he did not have a joke ready.
Nadine turned away.
Wes remained behind.
“Are you okay, ma’am?”
Nadine looked at her stained apron.
“I’ve been worse.”
“Need help?”
She studied him.
“You know pits?”
“Enough to stay out of the cook’s way.”
That earned a smile.
“Then grab some wood.”
Wes did.
As he carried split post oak toward Pit 41, Dax stood twenty yards away staring at the old notebook.
He knew exactly what it was.
And if Nadine Pruitt ever discovered why he recognized it, the ten-million-dollar sponsorship waiting for him on Sunday would be the smallest thing he lost.
That evening, the fairgrounds emptied slowly.
Nadine remained.
Championship barbecue did not care about television schedules.
Brisket required time.
Wes helped her secure the canopy when the Texas wind began pushing through the grounds.
