Hank Collier, 58, retired U.S. Forest Service ranger, leans against the scuffed pine bar of The Pine Tap, calloused fingers curled around a frosty pint of amber ale. He’s avoided the annual fire relief fundraiser for three years running, but this summer’s blaze ate 12,000 acres of the forest he patrolled for 32 years, so he’d dragged himself out, still wearing the steel-toe boots he’d retired six months prior, scuffed at the toes, caked with old pine resin. His biggest flaw, the one his late wife Ellie used to tease him for until the day she died seven years prior, was stubbornness: he’d turned down every blind date, every coffee invite from the widowed librarian down the street, every gentle nudge from his adult daughter to “get out there”, convinced any flicker of interest in another woman was a betrayal of the 32 years he’d had with Ellie.
The bar is packed, the air thick with the smell of fried cheese curds, pine smoke seeping in through the open front door, and the sharp, sweet tang of cherry pie the local bakery donated for the silent auction. A woman brushes past him, her shoulder firm against his chest as she reaches around him to flag the bartender, and he catches the faint mix of campfire smoke, lavender hand sanitizer, and horse shampoo on her shirt. She turns to apologize, and he spots the faint smudge of ash on her left cheek, the frayed hem of her Wranglers, the faded horse rescue logo on her gray tank top, a scar snaking up her right forearm from a roping accident, he’d guess. Her name is Marnie, 54, she runs the county’s large animal rescue, she tells him, she’d spent the last three days evacuating horses and goats from the edge of the fire line. She laughs when he says he recognizes that scar pattern, that he’d patched up three roping injuries in his time as a ranger, and her smile crinkles the corners of her hazel eyes, so bright he has to look away for half a second, guilty for even noticing.
They talk for 40 minutes, leaning against the bar, their elbows brushing every time one of them reaches for a peanut from the bowl between them. She mentions a fall she took on the North Ridge trail 12 years prior, when she’d slipped on loose gravel and twisted her ankle, and a ranger with a gray beard and a bad joke about bear spray had carried her two miles back to the trailhead. Hank freezes, then tells her that was him, he remembers that day, she’d been wearing neon pink hiking socks and had yelled at him for “wasting his time” when she could’ve hobbled out on her own. She snorts, swats his arm lightly, her calloused knuckle grazing the skin of his bicep through his flannel, and he feels a jolt go up his spine, sharp and warm, the kind he hasn’t felt since he was 20 and first asked Ellie out to a drive-in movie. He feels sick for half a second, angry at himself for feeling that spark, like he’s cheating, even though he knows Ellie would’ve called him an idiot for holing up in their cabin alone for seven years, eating frozen dinners and watching old westerns on repeat.
The live auction starts up then, the auctioneer’s fast, twangy drawl cutting through the chatter of the crowd. The third item up is a three-day guided pack trip into the untouched section of the national forest north of the burn zone, donated by the local outfitter. Marnie leans forward, eyes wide, she tells him she wants it for a retreat she’s organizing for wildfire first responders, to give them a chance to decompress away from the stress of the season. The bidding jumps fast, a local developer in a crisp button down bidding against her, clearly just trying to show off for his buddies, his bids jumping $100 at a time. Marnie’s jaw tightens, she’s got a strict budget for the rescue, she mutters, she’s about to drop her paddle when Hank lifts his own before he can think twice, bids $50 over the developer’s last offer. The developer scoffs, rolls his eyes, drops out, and Marnie stares at Hank, mouth open, her hand resting on his forearm for three full seconds, her palm warm through his shirt, her breath brushing his ear when she leans in to say “You didn’t have to do that.” He shrugs, tells her he knows those trails better than anyone, he’ll come along to guide for free, so her budget can cover the bid, no strings attached.
They step outside after the auction wraps, crickets chirping in the brush lining the parking lot, the sky streaked pink and orange from the distant fire’s smoke, the air cool enough to raise goosebumps on his arms. She tells him she’s got a golden retriever named Buck who loves hiking those trails, that he’d be a good co-pilot for a test run next weekend, just the two of them and the dog, no pressure. He nods, doesn’t even hesitate, and she scribbles her phone number on a crumpled napkin printed with the bar’s pine tree logo, presses it into his palm, her fingers lingering against his for a beat longer than necessary. He tucks the napkin into the breast pocket of his flannel, right next to the folded photo of Ellie he keeps there, and watches her climb into her beat-up Ford F-150, wave at him through the window before she pulls out of the parking lot. He takes a slow sip of his now-warm beer, and for the first time in seven years, he doesn’t feel guilty for smiling.
