Clay Bennett, 58, retired Glacier National Park ranger, had dragged himself to the town’s annual summer block party only because his 82-year-old neighbor had threatened to leave rotting zucchini on his porch if he skipped another community event. He leaned against the chipped brick exterior of the Mule Deer Tavern, scuffed work boots planted apart, a cold IPA sweating through the paper label in his left hand. The scar slicing across his knuckles, earned when he’d shoved a teen hiker out of a grizzly’s path 12 years prior, ached a little from the cold can. He’d already stayed 45 minutes, longer than he’d planned, and was mentally mapping the fastest route back to his cabin off the west trailhead when he spotted her.
Mara Hale, 56, the town’s first-term mayor, moved through the crowd like she’d lived here her whole life instead of just two years, bending to high-five a kid dripping cherry snow cone down his shirt, clapping the shoulder of the county road crew foreman, no fancy blazer or campaign pin in sight, just a faded blue linen button-down, high-waisted jeans, and scuffed white sneakers. Clay had brushed off two of her calls earlier that spring, when she’d asked for his input on the new backcountry trail funding package. He’d spent 32 years dealing with out-of-touch politicians who thought hiking trails were just photo ops, and he’d written her off as another Seattle transplant who didn’t know a pine tree from a fir.
She spotted him before he could duck around the corner of the tavern. A grin tugged at the corner of her mouth, and she wove through the crowd toward him, stopping close enough that he could smell lavender shampoo mixed with the smoky scent of grilled bratwurst from the food truck 20 feet away. “Was starting to think you only existed in old trail logs and town gossip,” she said, nodding at the beer in his hand. Her arm brushed his when a group of teens darted past, and he tensed, unused to being that close to anyone who wasn’t a drunk guy at the tavern asking for old park stories.
He grunted, passing her a second unopened IPA he’d stashed in his flannel shirt pocket. Her fingers brushed his scarred knuckle as she took it, and he twitched, unused to anyone touching that spot on purpose. “Gossip’s usually half wrong. I’m real enough.” She popped the top, took a long sip, and when she smiled, he noticed the tiny smudge of cherry snow cone on the edge of her jaw. He almost pointed it out, then stopped, because that meant acknowledging he was paying that much attention. She asked about the grizzly scar, and he told her the story, half-expecting her to gasp or overreact, but she just nodded, holding out her own left hand to show him a thin bite mark across her palm. “Fostered a rescue goat last winter. Hated everyone but my golden retriever.”
Clay laughed, sharp and quick. “Haven’t danced since my wedding. My wife passed seven years ago, and I never saw the point after.”
“Terrible excuse,” she said, and before he could argue, she’d curled her fingers around his scarred knuckle, tugging him toward the street. He went, surprised at how easy it was to follow her. They didn’t really dance, just swayed a little, her hand light on his shoulder, his resting awkwardly on her waist, and he could feel the heat of her skin through the thin linen of her shirt. She leaned in, her mouth close enough to his ear that her breath tickled the side of his neck, and said, “I’ve been trying to corner you for weeks. Everyone in this town either lies to me to get something or kisses my ass because I’m the mayor. You’re the only guy who told me my trail plan was garbage to my face.”
He’d spent the last two months telling himself getting mixed up with the mayor was a terrible idea, that small town gossip would be unbearable, that he was too set in his ways to let someone new in. But then she pulled back, holding his eye contact, no fake smile, no agenda, just that same easy grin, and every one of his excuses dissolved. He reached up, swiping the smudge of cherry snow cone off her jaw with his thumb, and she didn’t flinch.
They left the party 10 minutes later, waving off the hoots from the road crew guys who spotted them walking toward Clay’s beat-up 2012 Ford F-150 parked a block over. He opened the passenger door for her, and she paused before climbing in, leaning up to kiss him slow, tasting like cherry and IPA and mint. He curled his hand around the back of her neck, pulling her a little closer, not caring about the group of teens who whooped as they walked past.
She climbed into the passenger seat, rolling the window down as he rounded the truck to get in the driver’s side. He turned the key, and the radio cut on to a Merle Haggard track he’d listened to a hundred times on patrol. She leaned her head against the window, wind tangling her light brown hair, and grinned at him as he put the truck in drive, heading toward the dirt road that led to his cabin. He didn’t glance back at the block party, didn’t think about the list of reasons he’d had that morning to avoid her entirely. He just reached over, laced his scarred fingers through hers, and pressed down on the gas.
