Manny Ruiz, 62, spent 28 years as a forest fire smokejumper before a blown knee and a 2019 blaze that left a jagged silver scar across his left cheek pushed him into retirement. Now he runs a tiny fly-fishing guide service out of a converted shed behind his Bozeman, Montana, trailer, and he’d rather spend 10 hours waist-deep in glacial melt than make small talk with strangers. He’s manning a folding table at the downtown summer street fair on a 90-degree August afternoon, half his booking fees earmarked for the regional wildfire relief fund, when the smell hits him: lavender and pine, sharp over the fried dough and idling food truck diesel. He looks up from the crumpled booking spreadsheet he’s been pretending to fill out to avoid chit chat, and there’s Clara Marlow.
She’s 54, runs the herbal apothecary three blocks from his place, and was married to Jake, his old smokejumper crew lead, for 22 years before a tree fall took him on a blaze outside Missoula three years prior. She’s holding a jar of wild blackberry jam in one hand, the glass sticky with condensation, and she smirks when she catches him staring. “Remember when you ate three of these in one sitting after that 2017 Salmon River fire?” she says, setting the jar on his table, her knuckle brushing his calloused wrist when she pulls her hand back. The contact zings up his arm, and he yanks his hand back like he touched a hot stove, which is stupid. He’s faced 2,000-degree wildfires without flinching, but a light touch from Clara has his ears burning.
He mumbles a thank you, stares at the photo of him holding a 22-inch rainbow trout taped to the front of his table, because he can’t hold eye contact right now. For three years he’s avoided her, bailed on the crew potlucks she hosted, left the hardware store early if he saw her truck in the parking lot. It felt wrong, looking at her like that, like he was stealing something from Jake, like the desire that pricked at the back of his neck every time he saw her was some kind of betrayal. She leans in, pointing at the trout photo, her shoulder brushing his, and he can smell the same lavender pine soap she used to bring to the crew campsites back when they were all still young and invincible. “I’ve been wanting to learn to fly fish for years,” she says, her voice low enough only he can hear it over the fair’s live bluegrass set. “Jake never had the patience to teach me. Said I reeled too fast, scared all the fish off.”
His first instinct is to make an excuse, say he’s booked solid for the next two months, that he doesn’t teach beginners, that it’s too much trouble. That’s his default, has been since his ex-wife left him 12 years ago, saying he was too married to the fire line to ever be married to her. He pushes people away before they can leave him first, it’s the rule he’s lived by longer than he can remember. But then he looks up, and she’s holding eye contact, no smile now, just open, unapologetic interest, and the words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. “I’ve got an opening next Saturday. 6 a.m., Gallatin River. First hour free. No strings.”
He’s half convinced she’ll cancel, that he’ll wake up at 5 a.m. Saturday and she’ll have sent a text saying she’s sick, or forgot she had plans, something. But she’s waiting by her apartment curb when he pulls up, waders slung over her shoulder, a cooler of coffee and lemon bars in her hand. The river is still wrapped in thin silver mist when they hike down to the bank, crickets still chirping in the willows, the water so cold it makes his teeth ache when he steps in. She fumbles with the line for 10 minutes, laughing at herself every time it tangles, and when he steps behind her to adjust her grip on the rod, his chest presses to her back, her hair soft against his jaw. He doesn’t move away. She leans back into him, just a little, turning her head so their faces are inches apart, her breath warm against his cheek. He doesn’t think about Jake, doesn’t think about his ex-wife, doesn’t think about the 12 years he’s spent alone, scared of letting anyone get close. He kisses her.
She kisses him back, her hand coming up to curl in the short gray hair at the nape of his neck, and the fishing pole slips out of her hand, clattering into the shallow water at their feet. Neither of them moves to grab it. They stand there for what feels like an hour, the mist burning off as the sun comes up, the river gurgling around their boots, before she pulls back, grinning, and swats his arm. “You gonna tell Jake on me?” she teases, and he snorts, because he can almost hear Jake laughing at him from somewhere, calling him a dumbass for waiting three years to make a move. They fish for another two hours, her landing a 14-inch cutthroat that she insists on releasing back into the river, and when they pack up to leave, he carries her cooler and her waders back to the truck without asking. He opens the passenger door for her, and she pauses before she climbs in, brushing her thumb across the scar on his left cheek, light, gentle, like she’s memorizing it. He follows her up the stairs to her apartment when she invites him in for pancakes, no hesitation, no last minute excuse, no running.
