Holly Jolly Cowboy (The Wyoming Cowboy #7)(22)
Her cake was at the far end of the table.
She’d come in . . . last?
Her beautiful cake? The one she’d spent so much time on? A sound of wordless protest escaped her throat.
Next to her, an older woman wearing a judge ribbon smiled, her hands tucked into her puffy coat. “Are you here for a tasting? There’s not much left. We had so many lovely entries.”
Holly didn’t recognize her, which meant she was probably from the next town over. “I . . . I don’t understand. Is the judging over?” Holly asked. “Did all the cakes get judged?”
The woman nodded. “It was all quite lovely. There was just one unfortunate entry . . .” She trailed off and gazed at Holly. “Is it yours?” she asked gently. “The white cake?”
Holly nodded, numb. How had she come in last place?
“Oh, my dear.” The judge gave her a sympathetic look. “Yours was utterly beautiful. Truly lovely to look at. But . . . did you taste it?” Her expression was kind. “We think you might have mixed up the sugar with, ah, something else.”
How? Holly was always so careful, wasn’t she? But all she remembered of last night was a sleepless marathon of dipping apples in caramel, icing gingerbread men, and putting her cake together while she’d made enchiladas for the men for the next day. To say that she was multitasking was an understatement. “I thought I tasted it. I always taste my bakes.”
The judge pursed her lips. “I’m sorry. Maybe next year?”
“Maybe so,” Holly echoed. It had to be a mistake. Had she made the chocolate too strong? Did they not like her flavorings? She marched to the end of the table and picked up one of the tiny paper plates set out with a sliver of her cake on it. She picked it up, took a bite—
—and immediately spit it out.
Salt. All she tasted was salt.
She must have mixed the ingredients up somehow. She’d grabbed a container of salt instead of sugar—how?—and hadn’t paid attention as she baked. She’d spent so many hours perfecting her cake and . . .
It was trash. It was just ruined through her own carelessness. There’d be no conversations with other bakeries, no pride in showing the town her talent, no nothing. As she watched, one of the people wearing a judge ribbon at the far end of the table was talking with the others, and he pantomimed spitting cake into his hand, just as Holly had done a moment ago.
She stared down at the beautiful, hideous-tasting cake that had ruined her opportunities. Then she picked it up, walked to the nearest garbage can, and dumped it inside.
CHAPTER TEN
Carson seemed to enjoy the festival a lot more than Adam did. Once he arrived, they paused at every booth and Carson considered every piece of merchandise as if it were a great treasure that needed to be thoughtfully examined. He bought scarves of every color, along with mittens and some festive repurposed kitchen doodads. He ate a turkey leg and sausage on a stick. He smiled at all the Christmas carols and got his picture taken with Santa—who was at least two decades younger than Carson.
Meanwhile, Adam was miserable.
It wasn’t the townspeople. They were nice enough, when they weren’t throwing the occasional daughter (or granddaughter) in front of him and asking for introductions. He’d grown up in a small town and he knew that it was just part of the deal. In a town of only a couple hundred people, you did what you could to meet someone. He was pretty good at deflecting after all this time, and even that wasn’t what truly bothered him.
Every time he turned around, he felt like cakes were in his face.
Carson had insisted on stopping by the baking contest tables, where most of the prize-winning entries had already been devoured. Even among the remnants, there’d been no sign of Holly’s cake, and Carson had specifically wanted to find it.
“Need to support her,” was all he’d said.
When they walked past the tables, Adam had seen the enormous cake poking out of one of the garbage bins, and he felt a little bad. She was being paid to feed him, he reminded himself, and she’d sent nothing but peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. He didn’t need to feel sorry for her.
Carson gestured at Wade’s saloon, which was packed. “Wanna eat?” And before Adam could answer no, the older ranch hand was heading inside. Adam sighed heavily and followed him in.
The restaurant was busier than Adam had ever seen it. The moment a table cleared, someone new sat down, and they waited in silence—because Carson didn’t much like talking and Adam wasn’t in the mood—until two spots at the bar cleared.
“We want to sit in Holly’s section,” Carson declared, frowning at Adam.
“Let’s just eat. She’s busy,” Adam said. “You can talk to her later.” He suspected Holly wouldn’t want to talk to them anyhow. She was hard at work, flitting between tables with a pot of coffee in one hand and a pitcher of soda in the other. She smiled and seemed cheery, her laughter pealing over the packed restaurant. “She’s having a great time.”
“Nah. She’s sad. I can tell.” Carson headed toward the bar, to the two empty seats.
Was she? Adam watched her as they squeezed into their spots at the bar. She was smiling at a customer, but it didn’t seem to quite reach her eyes. Her movements were a little slow, as if she had less time to spend being friendly . . . or less energy. She looked tired, but the moment anyone glanced her way, she put on a bright smile.