Cole Henderson, 58, retired U.S. Forest Service hotshot crew lead, leaned against the split-rail fence bordering the local fire department’s annual post-fire-season fundraiser, scuffed work boots planted in dust still flecked with pine ash. He’d spent 12 years intentionally flying under the social radar in his small western Montana town, ever since his ex-wife Claire had left him for a real estate developer in Bozeman, his stubborn self-imposed rule that he didn’t get to chase any kind of joy tied to connection still holding strong, even after Claire remarried a decade prior. The air reeked of hickory smoke, sizzling bratwurst, and the piney tang of the IPA sloshing in his plastic cup, the low twang of a country cover band thrumming through the beer tent 20 feet away, kids screaming as they chased each other with water guns in the grass. He’d turned down three invitations to join cornhole games and two offers of spiked lemonade in the last 15 minutes, already mentally mapping the backroad drive home to his cabin, where the only noise was the creek out back and the scrabble of squirrels on his porch roof.
Mara Carter, 52, Claire’s second cousin and the owner of the town’s only no-kill animal rescue, cut through the crowd toward him, two lime seltzers tucked in the crook of one arm, faded jeans cuffed at the ankle, a flannel tied around her waist, white tank top smudged with tan and black dog hair. Cole tensed immediately when he spotted her, the familiar twist of guilt and unwanted curiosity hitting him square in the chest; he’d gone out of his way to avoid her for 10 years, convinced even a casual conversation with someone tied to Claire was some kind of betrayal, no matter how illogical that felt even to him. She stopped so close to him their shoulders brushed, the warm scent of pine soap and lavender dog shampoo wrapping around him, sharp enough to cut through the smoke and beer fumes. She held out one of the seltzers, their fingers brushing when he took it, the rough callus on her thumb from prying open rusted dog crate latches catching on his knuckle, a jolt running up his arm that he tried to ignore. She held his gaze for three beats longer than polite, the corners of her sun-freckled mouth tugging up in a teasing grin, and nodded at his boots. “Still wearing the same pair you had at your wedding, huh? I figured you’d have worn them down to nothing fighting fires all these years.”
Cole stared at her, throat tight, the internal conflict sharp enough to make his jaw ache. Part of him wanted to snap that it was none of her business, that he had no business talking to her, that the whole thing was wrong, off-limits, the kind of small-town gossip that would spread faster than the Lolo Creek fire had back in August. The other part of him couldn’t stop looking at the silver strands woven through her chestnut ponytail, the faint scar above her left eyebrow from when she’d gotten kicked by a foster dog last winter, the way she didn’t push him, didn’t try to drag him into a loud group conversation, just leaned against the fence next to him like she was happy to stand in silence if that’s what he wanted. She took a sip of her seltzer, nodding at the banner strung across the beer tent honoring the hotshot crews that had saved 30 homes last month, and said, “I saw you on the news, you know. Carrying that litter of barn kittens out of the burning old Miller place. You didn’t tell anyone you did that, did you?”
He blinked, surprised. He’d snuck the kittens out while the rest of the crew was securing the property line, had dropped them off at the rescue’s back door after his shift, hadn’t left a name. “How’d you know it was me?” he asked, his voice rougher than he intended. She laughed, a low, warm sound that made the back of his neck prickle. “Your boot print was in the mud by the crate. I’d recognize that scuff on the left toe anywhere. All the kittens got adopted last week, by the way. A family from Missoula took the whole litter.”
A group of drunk college kids visiting for the weekend cut in front of them then, one of them slamming into Mara’s shoulder hard enough to make her stumble. She grabbed Cole’s forearm to steady herself, her fingers wrapping around the muscle there, calluses catching on the sun-weathered skin of his arm, and she didn’t let go right away. She looked up at him, the golden hour sun catching the green flecks in her brown eyes, and said, soft enough that only he could hear, “You’ve been punishing yourself for 12 years for something that wasn’t even your fault. Claire’s the one who left. You don’t owe her a lifetime of sitting alone in that cabin, ignoring every good thing that comes your way. It’s not betrayal to want to be happy.”
Cole froze, the tight knot of guilt and self-disgust he’d carried for a decade unraveling so fast it made his chest feel light. He’d spent so long telling himself any desire he felt was wrong, that he didn’t deserve it, that the connection with Mara was taboo simply because she shared a distant blood tie with the woman who’d left him, that he’d never stopped to realize the only person holding him back was himself. He looked down at her hand on his arm, then back at her face, the teasing grin softening into something gentle, no pressure, no expectation.
He nodded toward the grill, where the volunteer firefighters were flipping cheeseburgers, the smell of grilled onion drifting over to them. “You hungry?” he asked, and when she nodded, he let his hand brush the small of her back as they stepped into the crowd, her leaning into the touch just enough to let him know she was glad he’d asked. Halfway to the grill, she laced her fingers through his, calluses brushing against his, and he didn’t pull away.
