Page 25 of Cowboy Elite 2: Mike

"Bear Valley doesn't do things in half measures." Mike's hand settled at the small of her back, guiding her forward. "If we find an excuse for a party, we bring the lawn chairs and the smokers."

The scent of mesquite smoke mingled with roasted pecans.

As they made their way toward the main arena, several heads turned their way. Liv's stomach tightened.

Mike leaned in and whispered, "You're new. New always draws eyes."

"Gee, thanks."

"Word's already out about your dessert empire. You're halfway to sainthood for that torte."

At the livestock pen, Charlotte stood beaming beside a small spotted sheep while Heather adjusted the child-sized helmet on her head. Lyle hovered nearby with his cell phone, ready to capture every moment.

"Miss Liv!" Charlotte cried. "Look! My sheep's name is Chicken, but I call him Noodle!"

"Well, that's smart of you. I don't imagine any self-respecting sheep wants to be called a chicken."

The little girl laughed and lovingly brushed her sheep's coat. Then she looked up at Liv, eyes serious. "You have to talk to them in a high voice. Otherwise they think you're a coyote."

"Is that true?" Liv asked Heather.

"Not even a little bit," Heather said, fighting a smile. "But she read it in a book, so now it's law."

Charlotte nodded, satisfied with her expertise.

Heather stood, slapping dust from her jeans. "First event starts in fifteen minutes. Charlotte's in the sixth slot, so you have time to grab some barbecue while the line's short."

"I think I will. I'm starving. You coming?" Liv asked, glancing at Mike.

"You go ahead. I need to swing by the auction table for pie inventory."

"Do you need a bodyguard?" she asked.

He raised a brow. "Are you offering?"

"I'm... adaptable."

He grinned. "I think I can handle myself around a bunch of pie bakers."

She'd just bet he could. "I'll grab you a plate while I'm at it."

"Appreciate it. I'll be fast. Meet you back at the sheep pen so we don't miss Charlotte's race."

Liv made her way to the food pavilion, allowing herself to enjoy the chaos of fiddlers sawing out bluegrass tunes, giggling teens jumping from hay bales, and a man with a waxed gray mustache hawking jars of ghost pepper jelly like they were gold bars.

This was Americana in high definition.

She'd just accepted two paper plates piled with brisket, pickles and tangy baked beans when a man came out of the line beside her, brushing her arm.

"Olivia?"

She went rigid.

Her vision tunneled. The noise of the fairground--the laughter, the music, the announcer's voice crackling over the PA--went muffled, like she was underwater.

Run.

The word screamed through her head, primal and loud.