Manny Ruiz, 58, retired wildland firefighter crew boss, had only shown up to the Ravalli County fire department chili cookoff because his former crew partner had threatened to leave a rusted 1998 Ski-Doo on his lawn if he bailed again. He’d spent four years holed up in his cabin 12 miles outside town, fixing vintage snowmobiles for cash and only speaking to people when they dropped off parts or picked up a finished build. His biggest flaw, the one his late wife Elena used to nag him about, was that he’d rather nurse a grudge against the world than admit he was lonely. He’d brought Elena’s award-winning green chili, even though he’d messed up the ratio of hatch chiles to pork and thought it tasted like tin. He leaned against the cinder block wall of the fire bay, paper bowl in one hand, cheap beer in the other, and calculated how fast he could slip out before anyone tried to ask him about the 2019 Lolo Peak fire, the story everyone in town brought up like it was a party trick.
The air reeked of cumin, charred hamburger buns, and diesel fumes from the fire engines parked out front. A Merle Haggard track hummed over the tinny speakers, and a group of rookie firefighters yelled as they dumped a bucket of ice water on the department’s intern. He was halfway to the exit when a woman stepped into his path, holding a half-eaten bowl of chili, a smudge of red sauce high on her left jaw. She was 49, he later learned, Lila, the new part-time librarian who’d moved to town three months prior. She didn’t flinch at his scowl. Instead, she leaned in, her shoulder brushing the edge of his well-worn flannel shirt, and sniffed the bowl in his hand. “That smells better than the sludge I just ate. Who made it?”
Her perfume was pine and vanilla, the same scent Elena used to wear when she’d go camping with him on off weeks. He could see flecks of gold in her hazel eyes when she held his gaze, longer than casual politeness called for. He mumbled that he’d made it, that it wasn’t that good, and she laughed, a warm, throaty sound that cut through the noise around them. She held out a hand for his spoon, and when he passed it over, her fingers brushed his, warm and calloused at the tips, like she worked with her hands too. She took a bite, closing her eyes for half a second, and hummed. “You’re a liar. This is the best thing I’ve eaten since I moved here.”
He knew who she was before she said it. She was the ex-wife of the new fire chief, the guy who’d moved over from Boise six months prior, a desk jockey who’d never held a hose in a real wildfire, who’d cut the local crew’s budget by 20% his first week on the job. Manny had gotten in a screaming match with him at a town hall two months prior, told him he’d get someone killed with his stupid rules. The taboo of talking to her coiled tight in his chest, half disgust at the idea of fraternizing with anyone connected to the chief, half hot, sharp desire he hadn’t felt since Elena died. He told himself he should walk away, that this was nothing but trouble, that he was being disrespectful to the wife he’d lost to a car crash while he was out on a fire, that he didn’t deserve to feel anything close to excitement again.
She stepped closer when a group of rowdy volunteers stumbled past, her hip pressing against his for three full seconds, no apology, no flinch, just a small grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. She said she’d seen his snowmobile builds on the town Facebook group, that she’d been trying to track him down to ask if he could fix the 1992 Polaris she’d bought cheap at an auction the month prior. He found himself talking, telling her what parts she’d need, how much it would cost, leaning in a little so he could hear her over the noise, his elbow brushing hers every time he moved his hand. He forgot about leaving, forgot about the chief, forgot about the weight he’d carried in his chest every day since Elena’s funeral.
The chief walked over then, beer in one hand, his cheap polyester uniform crisp as a paper plate. He slung an arm around Lila’s shoulders, and Manny watched her tilt away, her jaw tightening, like his touch left a residue. “Ruiz,” the chief said, smug as a cat that got into the chicken coop, “surprised you dragged yourself out of your cave. Still holding that grudge about the budget?” Manny didn’t answer, just stared at the way Lila was picking at the edge of her paper bowl, her knuckles white. The chief turned to say something to a passing volunteer, and Lila slipped a folded napkin into Manny’s free hand, her palm pressing against his for a beat longer than necessary. She leaned in, her breath warm against his ear, so quiet only he could hear. “I’m staying at the cabin off the north access road. He’s driving back to Boise tonight. Come by after 9. Bring more of that chili.”
She walked away before he could answer, the chief’s arm still slung over her shoulder, but she glanced back over her shoulder once, winked, and turned the corner toward the food tables. Manny stood there for 10 minutes, holding the napkin, fighting the urge to crumple it up and throw it away, fighting the guilt that gnawed at him, telling him he was doing something wrong. Then he remembered the last thing Elena had said to him before he left for that fire, when she’d kissed him on the porch, told him not to be an idiot and shut himself off from the world if anything ever happened to her.
He left the cookoff half an hour later, stopped at the general store on the edge of town to pick up a six pack of the hazy IPA he’d seen her drinking, and a container of the leftover green chili he’d dropped off at the sign-in table that morning. He drove up the north access road, the truck’s tires crunching over gravel, the pine trees casting long shadows in the golden sunset. He saw the porch light on her cabin before he even turned into the driveway, soft and yellow, glowing through the fir trees. He turned off the truck, grabbed the beer and the chili, and walked up the wooden steps. He lifted his hand to knock. She pulled the door open before his knuckles even pulled back from the wood, the smudge of chili still faint on her left jaw.
