Beside it:

Lou Pruitt. June 1981.

Briella stared.

Then looked toward Dax’s sauce display.

His label read:

INSPIRED BY THE WHITFIELD FAMILY RANCH, 1994

She turned.

“Dax.”

He saw her expression and immediately understood.

“Who posted it?”

“Everybody.”

“That notebook said Lou’s book.”

“You told Hartland the recipe was your father’s.”

“It is mine now.”

“Who is she?”

Dax looked toward Pit 41.

“Nadine Pruitt.”

Briella searched her tablet.

“Her family ran a place called Pruitt’s Pit in Cedar Bend.”

“That place closed years ago.”

“She’s telling people the notebook belonged to her grandmother.”

“Let it stay closed.”

Briella looked at him.

“She won’t go quietly.”

Dax smiled.

“Then she goes loudly.”

He called the camera crew.

Within minutes, he was walking toward Pit 41 with thousands watching live.

Nadine was checking temperature when he arrived.

“Pit 41!”

She looked up.

Dax smiled toward the camera.

“You want to cook with the big dogs?”

Nadine wiped her hands.

“I thought I already was.”

People laughed.

His smile tightened.

“Sunday. Head-to-head.”

“This is already a championship.”

“Blind table.”

That got everyone’s attention.

Six judges.

Anonymous boxes.

No branding.

No fame.

No reputation.

Only food.

Dax pointed toward the notebook.

“You lose, that little diary is mine.”

Wes stepped between them.

“He wants your grandmother’s book.”

Dax looked at him.

“Didn’t they take your volunteer badge?”

“They didn’t take my hearing.”

Nadine looked directly into the camera.

“Hold up your phone.”

Wes raised his.

Nadine spoke clearly.

“Mr. Whitfield, I accept.”

The crowd reacted.

Dax smiled.

Nadine continued.

“If I win, you say Lou Pruitt’s name on your own show.”

His smile vanished.

She stepped closer.

“You tell everybody where you learned that sauce.”

“And if you lose?”

Nadine put one hand on the notebook.

“Granny’s book never lost a cook-off.”

She smiled.

“I won’t be the first Pruitt who does.”

That afternoon Maya arrived with Nadine’s sister.

The little girl ran toward Pit 41.

“Mama, can I watch?”

“Front row.”

Dax appeared again.

This time without cameras.

He placed an envelope on the table.

“Twenty thousand.”

Nadine looked at it.

“For?”

“That little diary.”

“Not for sale.”

“Twenty thousand dollars for an old notebook.”

“My answer stays the same.”

“You could walk away rich.”

Nadine looked around.

Her pickup had 190,000 miles.

She still owed medical bills from her mother’s final year.

Her restaurant savings barely covered permits.

Twenty thousand dollars would matter.

Dax knew it.

He pushed the envelope closer.

Nadine pushed it back.

“Granny’s book isn’t for sale.”

Dax smirked.

“‘Feed everybody.’”

He laughed.

“That’s not a recipe. That’s a bumper sticker.”

Nadine looked at him.

“Your hands remember that kitchen, Dax.”