Rafe Marquez only hits the Bozeman farmers market once a week, and only for one thing: a sourdough loaf from the old Mennonite couple near the entrance. At 62, he’s spent 34 years hunched over workbenches tooling custom western saddles, his hands crisscrossed with scars from leather punches and razor blades, his left knee creaky from a 2017 fall off a client’s bucking bronco. Since his wife Ellen passed 8 years prior, he’s kept his social circle tight: his 90-year-old mom, a handful of old ranch hands who drop off repairs, the cashier at the hardware store. He avoids small town chatter like poison ivy, especially anything involving his old wildland fire crew buddy Judd’s messy 2020 divorce.
The July sun is brutal the day he spots Clara behind the wildflower honey stand, sweat beading at her hairline, a streak of silver cutting through the auburn braid slung over her shoulder. He freezes mid-step, half a block from the sourdough booth, because he hasn’t talked to her since Judd left her for a 26-year-old barista from Missoula. He’d always told himself it was out of loyalty to Judd, even when he knew Judd had been cheating for years, even when he’d sat through Ellen’s rants about what a selfish bastard Judd was for leaving Clara to handle 40 beehives and a kid in community college alone.
She calls his name before he can slip down the side alley, her voice warm, a little teasing, over the hum of market crowds and a kid screaming over a dropped popsicle. He trudges over, his worn Carhartt overalls sticking to his back, and nods, the tips of his ears burning like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. She holds out a tiny wooden dipper dipped in clover honey, and when he reaches for it, their fingers brush. The contact is light, fleeting, but he can feel the callus on the side of her thumb from lifting hive frames, and his throat goes dry.
He licks the honey off the dipper, sweet and earthy, and she laughs when he makes a low impressed sound. She teases him about avoiding her for three years, and he shifts his weight, uncomfortable, admits he thought it was the bro code thing to do, even if Judd didn’t deserve the courtesy. She snorts, swiping a bee off the edge of her stand with a gloved hand, and tells him Judd hasn’t spoken to any of the old crew since he skipped town, hasn’t sent a dime of child support in two years. Rafe feels a twist of guilt in his gut, because he knew Judd was bad news, knew Clara deserved better, and he’d hidden behind stupid loyalty instead of checking in.
She mentions she’s been looking for someone to tool a heavy leather strap for her hive lift, the old one frayed through after a winter of heavy snow. He offers to make it for free, says he can drop it off at her farm that evening, no rush. Her smile softens, and she leans in a little, the scent of lavender lotion and warm honey wrapping around him, and says she’ll have iced tea waiting.
He shows up at 7, the strap wrapped in brown paper, a jar of his mom’s peach jam tucked under his arm as an extra. The sun dips low over the Bridgers, painting the sky pink and orange, crickets chirping in the tall grass around the hives lined up at the edge of her property. She’s on the porch waiting, barefoot, wearing a faded flannel tied around her waist over a sundress, and waves him up the steps.
They sit at the wicker table on her porch, sipping sweet iced tea, and he tells her about the saddle he’s building for a 16-year-old foster kid competing in junior rodeos, how he’s giving it to the kid for free. She tells him about the new batch of hives she got this spring, how she donates 10% of her honey sales to the local food bank. Their knees brush under the table once, then again, and neither pulls away. When he dabs a finger in the peach jam and licks it off, a smudge sticking to his chin, she reaches over and wipes it away with her thumb, her touch lingering on his stubbled jaw for three full seconds.
He admits it then, quiet, like he’s confessing to a sin: he’s had a crush on her since Judd’s 40th birthday party, when he watched her laugh while dumping a bowl of potato salad over Judd’s head for hitting on a waitress. He never said anything, never even let himself think about it too hard, because he was married, because she was married to his friend, because he thought wanting something that felt this good had to be wrong. She laughs, soft, and leans in, her forehead brushing his, and says she’d spent that entire party watching him, wondering what it would be like to kiss the dimple that shows up in his cheek when he smiles.
The kiss is slow, soft at first, the taste of honey and iced tea on her lips, and he brings a calloused hand up to cup her cheek, careful, like she’s a piece of tooled leather he doesn’t want to scuff. When they pull away, she tugs him over to the porch swing, and they sit side by side, her shoulder pressed to his, watching fireflies blink over the hives. He twists the little wooden honey dipper he’d stuffed in his overalls pocket that morning between his fingers, and when she laces her hand through his, he doesn’t let go.
