Cole Bennett, 58, retired US Forest Service Hotshot crew superintendent, spent 32 years dragging hose and digging fire lines across 11 western states, still carries a 4-inch pink scar snaking across his left forearm from a 2019 blowup outside Boise that put three of his crew in the hospital. His most stubborn flaw: he’s clung to a rigid, self-imposed code of loyalty so strict he’s turned down every invitation for coffee, dinner, or even a casual drink from women since his wife Ellen died of ovarian cancer seven years prior. He’d rather be lonely than break a rule, even the unwritten ones he’d made up in his head.
He’s propped against the cinder block wall of High Mesa Brewing’s back patio, half-empty hazy IPA in one calloused hand, boots still dusted with pine bark from splitting three cords of firewood earlier that morning. It’s the brewery’s annual chili cookoff, the air thick with the smell of roasted cumin, smoked pork, and cold beer, string lights strung between the pine posts casting warm gold over the crowd of locals, most of whom he’s known for 20 years or more. His old buddy Terry dragged him out, said he’d been holed up in his cabin off Highway 50 long enough, and Cole didn’t have the energy to argue.
Mara Torres shows up a few minutes later, carrying an empty pint glass headed for the tap. 54, owner of the used bookstore on Main Street, ex-wife of his former crew lead Jax Carter, who left her for a 28-year-old seasonal park ranger a decade back, a move that still makes half the town roll their eyes when Jax blows through for a visit. Cole’s always avoided her, out of some misplaced sense of loyalty to a guy who stopped deserving it years ago. Her shoulder brushes his forearm first, right over the scar. He flinches, not from pain, but from the shock of casual, warm contact from a woman he hasn’t so much as spoken three words to in 10 years.
She apologizes quick, her hazel eyes locking onto his, flecks of honey gold catching the string lights when she recognizes him. “Cole Bennett, right? I saw your beat-up blue Ford at the Crater Lake trailhead last Saturday. My golden retriever tried to chase your truck down the road.” Her voice is low, a little rough around the edges, like she still sneaks a menthol cigarette after a long hike. She’s wearing a faded red flannel unbuttoned over a thin black tank, silver hoop earrings that swing when she tilts her head, chipped dark green nail polish on her fingers when she leans past him to flag the bartender. Her elbow brushes his ribs when she reaches for her refill, her skin cold from holding an iced water cup earlier, and he has to fight the urge to lean into the touch.
He tells himself he should walk away. That Jax would throw a fit if he found out they were talking, that he’s betraying some stupid bro code that never applied to a guy who abandoned his wife and skipped out on his crew’s 20th reunion to go to a music festival with his girlfriend. But she mentions the 2020 Grizzly Creek fire, how she brought the crew dozens of glazed donuts every morning when they were staged at the fairgrounds, how he was the only one who always asked for the extra sprinkles. No one but Ellen ever remembered that. She leans in a little closer, the scent of lavender hand lotion mixing with the beer and chili in the air, her knee brushing his under the bar when she pulls up a stool next to him.
They talk for an hour, about old fire stories, about the trail systems around town, about how Jax texted her last week asking for $3,000 to pay for his new girlfriend’s breast augmentation. Cole snorts so hard beer comes out his nose, and she laughs so hard she snorts too, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. She reaches out, runs one finger lightly along the scar on his forearm, her touch soft, curious, no pity in it. “Does this still ache when the snow comes?” she asks, and he nods, because it does, a dull throb that’s been a constant companion for four years. “I make arnica salve out of the plants I grow in my backyard. Works better than any store-bought painkiller. I can drop it off at your place tomorrow, if you want.”
He hesitates for half a second, the old voice in his head screaming that this is wrong, that he’s breaking the rules, that he should say no. But then he looks at her, at the crinkles around her eyes when she smiles, at the way she’s not looking at him like he’s some broken widower who needs to be coddled, and the voice goes quiet. “Yeah,” he says, “that’d be good.”
She finishes her beer, scribbles her cell number and her address on a napkin with the neon orange crayon the bar keeps for the kids that come in for pizza nights, shoves it into the front pocket of his work flannel. Her hand brushes the hem of his white undershirt when she does it, the warmth of her palm seeping through the thin fabric, and his breath catches for half a second. She winks, says she’s got to go pick up her dog from the sitter, turns and walks out, the bell above the patio door jingling when she pushes through.
Cole pulls the napkin out of his pocket, traces the smudged numbers with his thumb, takes a long sip of his now-warm beer. He doesn’t care if Jax hears about it. Doesn’t care if the town gossips. For the first time in seven years, he’s not counting the days until the snow melts, or the next fire season, or whatever empty milestone he’d been using to pass the time. He tucks the napkin back into his pocket, flags the bartender for another IPA, and watches the last of the sun dip below the mesa.
