Dale Riggs, 58, retired forest ranger with 32 years patrolling the steep, rhododendron-choked trails of Pisgah National Forest, hadn’t wanted to come to the fire department beer garden. He’d avoided the annual fundraiser for six years straight, ever since his wife Linda passed, claiming the crowd of chattering locals and loud bluegrass set gave him a headache. His old patrol partner Tommy had badgered him into it this year, though, saying the department needed all the cash they could get to replace their 1998 fire truck, so Dale had showed up in his faded gray flannel, work boots caked in mud from splitting firewood that morning, and planted himself against the farthest picnic table to nurse a hazy IPA and grumble about the influx of remote work transplants that had doubled the town’s population since 2020.
The first time she bumped into him, he was mid-rant about the new transplants who hiked the backcountry trails without bear spray and left granola bar wrappers tucked under rock outcroppings. Her seltzer sloshed over the rim of her can, splattering cold, citrus-scented liquid on his flannel sleeve. She apologized immediately, her hand brushing his forearm to wipe a stray drop off, and Dale froze. He noticed the chipped mint green polish on her nails, the faint calluses on her fingertips, the jasmine lotion she wore tangled with the sharp, familiar smell of pine from her hiking boots. She was Clara Bennett, 49, the new town librarian who’d moved in from Chicago the year before, the one he’d dodged three separate times when she’d left notes at the hardware store asking for trail recommendations. He’d written her off as another city transplant who’d leave as soon as the first winter snow blocked the mountain roads.
She didn’t flinch when he grumbled about the spill, just laughed, a low, warm sound that cut through the bluegrass twang coming from the bandstand. “Heard you’re the guy to ask about where to hike without tripping over a TikTok creator filming a ‘quiet quitting’ nature reel,” she said, leaning against the table next to him, her shoulder pressing just enough against his bicep that he could feel the heat of her through his flannel. He wanted to step back, to tell her to ask one of the new rangers who catered to the tourist crowd, but he found himself leaning in instead, asking her how she already knew about the TikTok creators clogging up the trailheads. She told him her mom had grown up in the town, had run the library for 27 years before she retired, and she’d moved back after her divorce to take over the job, that she’d spent every summer here as a kid, hiking the same trails he’d patrolled.
They talked for two hours, the crowd thinning around them as the sun dipped below the mountain ridges, painting the sky pink and orange. Their knees brushed under the table when she shifted to reach for a bag of salted peanuts, and Dale felt a jolt he hadn’t felt in years, sharp and warm, settling low in his chest. He told her about the time he’d rescued a group of teen hikers who’d gotten lost in a snowstorm in 2014, about how Linda had waited up for him with hot cocoa when he got home at 3 a.m. She told him about her 22-year-old son who was studying forestry in Oregon, about how she’d played rhythm guitar in a 90s cover band in Chicago in her 30s, about how she’d been nervous to move back, worried the town wouldn’t feel like the one she remembered from childhood. He hated that he understood her, hated that the sharp, defensive annoyance he’d carried for every new transplant for the last three years had melted away the second she’d smiled at him, that he wanted to keep talking to her until the sun came up.
The first fat, cold raindrop hit his cheek a few minutes later, and the remaining crowd scattered, yelling about grabbing umbrellas and running for their cars. Dale lived two miles out of town, down a rutted dirt road that would turn to slick mud if the rain picked up, and he’d walked to the fundraiser, figuring he’d enjoy the cool evening air. Clara tilted her head toward her beat-up forest green Subaru parked at the edge of the lot, her hair falling loose from the braid she’d had it in, a thick streak of gray catching the warm glow of the string lights strung above the bandstand. “I live five minutes away,” she said, her voice quieter than it had been all night, her eyes locked on his, no pushy expectation in her face, just a soft offer. He hesitated for half a second, thinking about the empty, quiet house he’d gone home to every night for seven years, about the strict rules he’d set for himself to avoid getting hurt again, then he nodded.
Her cottage was small, cluttered with stacked paperbacks and dog-eared old hiking guides, a cast-iron wood stove in the corner and a scuffed acoustic guitar propped up against the couch. She lit a vanilla candle as the rain tapped hard against the kitchen windows, and when she stepped close to brush a crumpled maple leaf off the collar of his flannel, he didn’t overthink it. He cupped her jaw, his thumb brushing the faint laugh lines around her mouth, and kissed her, slow and soft, and she kissed him back, her hands tangling in the thinning hair at the nape of his neck. He woke up the next morning to the smell of dark roast coffee drifting from the kitchen, the rain still tapping steady against the windows. He walked out to the front porch, where she was sitting in a faded wicker chair, flipping through a dog-eared copy of the trail guide he’d self-published back in 2008. She looked up, grinning, and held out a mug of coffee, black, exactly how he liked it. He sat down next to her, his knee pressing against hers, and turned to the first page marked with a neon pink post-it note to answer her question about the hidden waterfall off the Black Mountain trail.
