Rayburn Mendez, 58, retired U.S. Forest Service fire spotter, had spent 32 years perched in 100-foot towers scanning the Idaho-Montana treeline for wispy first signs of smoke. His most glaring flaw, as his only remaining coworker had joked at his retirement party two years prior, was that he’d gotten so good at spotting trouble he’d started avoiding anything that even looked like it might shift the quiet, unchanging routine he’d built since his wife Linda died seven years earlier. He rarely went into town more than once a week for groceries, skipped every community potluck and fair event, and only stepped foot in The Rusty Spur bar on the third Tuesday of every month, when the crowd was thin and the jukebox stuck to 70s country no one under 40 bothered to complain about.
The third Tuesday of August was different. The county fair was in full swing, the parking lot half full of out-of-state plates and pickup trucks hauling horse trailers, and the bar was packed tight enough that the only open seat was the far end stool he’d claimed ten minutes earlier, a neat pour of Bulleit sweating on the scarred oak bar in front of him. He was half watching a group of teenaged fair workers play pool when the front door swung open, and he recognized her before she even scanned the room. Clara Voss, Linda’s second cousin, 49, ran a vintage clothing shop in Portland, he hadn’t seen her since Linda’s funeral, when she’d hugged him tight and pressed a handwritten note with her number into his palm that he’d never called. She was thinner now, blonde hair streaked with silver pulled back in a loose braid, scuffed brown cowboy boots peeking out under the hem of a flowy floral dress, a faded denim jacket slung over one arm.
Her eyes locked on his, and she grinned, weaving through the crowd toward him before he could pretend he hadn’t seen her. He tensed, half ready to make an excuse and leave, when a guy carrying two pitchers of beer stumbled past her, and she stumbled right into the open spot next to his stool, her warm thigh pressing firm against his for half a beat through his worn work jeans. “Sorry about that,” she said, leaning in a little to be heard over the jukebox’s blaring Merle Haggard, her breath fanning warm against his ear, smelling like coconut sunscreen and the fried dough he’d smelled drifting through town all day. “Didn’t think I’d see you here. Figured you’d be holed up in that cabin of yours pretending the fair doesn’t exist.”
He huffed a laugh, surprised she remembered that line he’d thrown out at the funeral, when she’d asked if he ever did anything fun besides stare at trees. He nodded at the empty spot next to him, and she sat, crossing her legs so her boot brushed his ankle under the bar. She ordered a cherry seltzer, and when she reached for it a minute later, her hand brushed his where it rested next to his bourbon, her fingers cold from the glass, calloused at the tips from the vintage leather restoration she posted about on Instagram, the only social media he’d ever bothered to make an account for, just to scroll her feed when he couldn’t sleep.
They talked for an hour, first about the fair, how her peach pie had taken second place in the bake sale that afternoon, the same peach pie recipe Linda had taught her when they were teens. He found himself talking about the fire tower, the time a raccoon broke in and ate three days worth of his peanut butter crackers, and she laughed so hard she snort-laughed, leaning in so far her shoulder pressed against his, her braid slipping over her shoulder to brush his bicep. A part of him squirmed at the contact, sharp with a familiar guilt, like he was doing something wrong, like he was betraying the quiet promise he’d made to Linda’s grave to never let anyone else take her place. But the larger part, the part that hadn’t had a real conversation with anyone who didn’t work at the grocery store in months, warmed under her attention, the way she asked follow up questions, the way she didn’t flinch when he mentioned Linda, like she was happy to talk about her, not scared to bring her up.
When she asked if he wanted to walk down to the fairgrounds to ride the ferris wheel, the line would be short now that most of the families with little kids had gone home, he almost said no. He almost made an excuse about having to feed his hound dog early, about being tired, about not liking crowds. But then she tilted her head up at him, her eyes glinting in the neon beer sign light, crinkling at the corners the exact same way Linda’s used to when she was trying to talk him into something he didn’t want to do, and he nodded before he could think better of it.
They walked the three blocks to the fairgrounds, the night air cool enough that he gave her his flannel shirt when she shivered, and she slipped her hand into his as they passed the cotton candy stand, her palm soft and warm against his rough, scarred one. He didn’t pull away. The ferris wheel line was only three groups long, and when they got to the top, the whole town spread out below them, strung with fairy lights, the dark treeline of the national forest stretching out behind it, she leaned over and kissed him soft, no pressure, tasting like cherry seltzer and peppermint gum. He kissed her back, and for the first time in seven years, he didn’t feel guilty. He could almost hear Linda laughing in the back of his head, calling him an idiot for waiting so long to stop moping.
They rode the ferris wheel one more time before they left, stopping to split a bag of warm salted peanuts on the walk back to his truck. He opened the passenger door for her, and she slid in, adjusting the flannel shirt she was still wearing around her shoulders. He got in the driver’s seat, turned the key, and his old Ford F150 rumbled to life, the radio cutting on to a Patsy Cline song Linda used to sing in the shower. She reached over, rested her hand light on his forearm, and he smiled, shifting into drive, heading toward his cabin on the edge of the forest, the fair’s bright neon lights fading slow in the rearview mirror.
