Free State Fair by Earlene Fowler Page A

Dove’s three-cheese corn bread had been a church potluck favorite and a Mid-State Fair prizewinner for years. It had won dozens of blue ribbons. Out of good sportsmanship, she didn’t enter it in this year’s fair.
    “Can’t we talk about this tonight?” I said, leaning against the fireplace mantel.
    “I’m not going.”
    “But Kathy Mattea is singing. You love her song about the eighteen-wheeler and a dozen roses.”
    “Sister says she’s too tired to go to the fair tonight and I’ll be darned if I going to leave her here alone to poke around and find more things to nag at me about. I tell you, she’s already driving me crazy! She follows me everywhere. I think she’s trying to steal my corn bread recipe.”
    I managed to soothe Dove’s agitation by promising her I’d think of something, though I had no idea what.
    After splashing cold water on my face, rebraiding my hair and changing clothes, I gave Scout a biscuit and a perfunctory belly rub. “Guard the house. I promise to make it up to you after the fair is over.” Scout licked my hand, took his treat and lay down in the middle of our cool, polished oak living room floor.
    “You look great,” Gabe said, running his hand down my hips. I wore black Wranglers, a long-sleeved turquoise Western shirt and my best Lucchese cowboy boots. Though it was blazing hot during the day, the evenings in Paso could get chilly, especially in the arena.
    “You look pretty fine yourself, Chief.” Though normally he wore conservative Brooks Brothers suits with pristine white shirts, tonight he looked like a real rancher in Levi’s, a deep blue pearl-buttoned Western shirt and polished black cowboy boots.
    Minutes later we were in his ’68 Corvette speeding toward Paso. For once, his love for speed came in handy and we made the normally half-hour trip in twenty minutes. We parked, maneuvered our way through the crowd and were at the entrance to the hospitality suite just as the opening act, a local band called Rifle Shot, started singing their first song.
    “You go on up,” I said. “Rifle Shot will be on at least forty-five minutes. I want to check on the quilt exhibit.” I’d told him about the quilt theft earlier and he’d agreed with Hud that it was doubtful it would be found.
    “My money’s on one of the carnies,” he’d said.
    “I’m hoping to find Hud. I have the photo he requested of the quilt.” Luckily, I’d had some color flyers made up a few weeks ago advertising the quilt exhibit at the museum. I’d used them in press kits and had about ten or so left. The photo of the quilt was crystal clear. “Save me a seat.”
    “I’ll try, but I can’t guarantee your seat won’t be grabbed by some hot rodeo queen with the initials J. P.”
    I smacked his butt, making him laugh. “I’m not above a cat fight, Friday.”
    He bent down and kissed the hollow of my throat. “I like the sound of that.”
    I ruffled his black, shiny hair. “In your dreams. The only thing I’d fight Juliette Piebald for is the last Krispy Kreme doughnut.”
    Maggie and Katsy had done a wonderful job rearranging the exhibit. Anyone viewing the display would never have known another quilt had been there before. The log cabin quilt that replaced it, made with deep brown, blue and black flowered fabrics to suggest the types of leftover fabric available to slaves, fit perfectly in the spot where the Harriet Powers Bible quilt once hung. They’d also hung a poster of the Harriet Powers quilt so the information on the display cards made sense. I was flipping through the pages of the guest book, skimming the comments when I felt a hand on my shoulder.
    “We’ve received a lot of positive remarks,” Maggie said, smiling at me. “It doesn’t make up for the quilt being stolen, but I’m happy that the exhibit has gone over so well.”
    “Me too,” I said, setting the guest book back down on the wooden pedestal. “Are you going to the concert tonight?” I glanced at my