Clay Hollister, 58, retired U.S. Forest Service wildfire crew lead, had avoided every local community event for three years straight, ever since his wife Linda lost her two-year fight with breast cancer. His flaw, if you asked his old crewmate Jimmie, was that he’d turned his little cabin three miles outside of town into a self-imposed fort, convinced any attempt to enjoy life without Linda was a betrayal. He only agreed to judge the brewery’s annual chili cookoff because Jimmie showed up at his door with a six pack of his favorite hazy IPA and threatened to leave a bag of rotting elk meat on his porch if he said no.
He was leaned up against the cinder block wall by the beer taps, half listening to Jimmie rant about the idiot who’d started an illegal campfire in the restricted zone the week prior, when the first group of protestors showed up, holding crudely printed signs bashing the local library for carrying “obscene” romance novels. Clay rolled his eyes. He’d ignored the whole drama for months, thought both the pearl-clutching church group and the people arguing with them on the town Facebook page were wasting energy on nonsense. The IPA in his hand was cold enough to make his knuckles ache, and the air smelled like cumin, smoked pork, and burnt pine from the brewery’s outdoor fire pit.
A woman carrying a chipped ceramic bowl of chili rounded the tap stack fast, and her elbow knocked hard into his forearm, right over the thick, silvery scar he’d gotten from a 2019 blaze outside of Missoula. Her knuckle grazed the edge of the scar through his well-worn navy flannel, and the warmth of her skin lingered even after she’d jerked back, laughing. She was 49, Maren, he learned later, the new part-time librarian who’d moved to town six months prior to be closer to her sister. Her hazel eyes had flecks of bright gold, her dark hair was streaked with gray at the temples and pulled back in a messy braid, a few strands stuck to the sweat-glistened skin of her neck from the unseasonably warm October sun. She smelled like pine soap and cinnamon, sharp and warm all at once.
She apologized three times, said she was trying to duck the protestors who’d recognized her from the library desk, and Clay found himself snorting before he could stop himself, offering her the extra stack of napkins he’d stuffed in his pocket earlier. He was hit immediately with a sharp, familiar twist of guilt—he hadn’t so much as exchanged a playful comment with anyone but Jimmie and the grocery store clerk since Linda died, and the voice in the back of his head screamed that he was doing something wrong, that he was spitting on the memory of 32 years of marriage. He almost stepped away, almost made an excuse to go hide in Jimmie’s truck, but then she made a joke about the protestors bringing store-bought chili to hand out with their flyers, calling it “sin-free slop that tastes like cardboard,” and he laughed out loud, loud enough that a few people turned to look.
They talked for 40 minutes, leaned up against that wall, close enough that their shoulders brushed every time someone squeezed past to get a beer. She told him she’d been trying to find the trail up to the old Granite Point fire lookout, the one Clay had built with his crew 22 years prior, the spot where he’d asked Linda to marry him. His chest tightened at the mention of it, the guilt rising again, but he found himself telling her about the time he and his crew got stuck up there for 12 hours during a thunderstorm, drinking warm beer and playing rummy while lightning struck the trees 100 yards away. She leaned in when he talked, her head tilted a little, her knee brushing his when a group of kids ran past screaming, and he didn’t move away.
One of the protestors, a guy Clay recognized from the hardware store who’d once tried to charge him double for a new chainsaw chain, spotted her then, started yelling slurs, marching over like he planned to knock the chili bowl out of her hand. Clay stepped between them before he even thought about it, his boots crunching firm on the gravel, and told the guy to get lost before he called the sheriff. The guy hesitated, mumbled a few more insults, and herded the rest of the protestors out of the brewery lot. When Clay turned back around, Maren was standing so close he could feel her breath on the back of his neck, her hand resting light on his elbow. The guilt was still there, loud, but it was quieter now, drowned out by the hum of the crowd, the cold bite of the IPA on his tongue, the soft weight of her hand on his arm.
He asked her if she wanted to hike up to the lookout with him the next Saturday, no pressure, just to see the view before the snow hit for the winter. She said yes immediately, grinning so wide the corners of her eyes crinkled, and her hand lingered on his arm for three full beats before she pulled away to go set her chili bowl on the judging table. He voted for hers, obviously, it was the best he’d ever tasted, thick with smoked pork and hatch chilis, a faint hint of cocoa that cut the heat perfectly, just spicy enough to make his nose run a little. She won first place, got a $50 gift card to the local outdoor shop, and she ran over to him after the awards, holding the card up like a trophy, saying she was buying new hiking boots with it and expected him to help her break them in on a few shorter trails before the Granite Point trip.
The sun was dipping below the Bitterroot Mountains by then, painting the sky streaks of tangerine and pale pink, the air turning crisp enough that he could see his breath when he exhaled. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her fingers brushing the freckled skin of her cheek, and asked him if he wanted to grab a burger and a chocolate shake at the diner down the street before he headed home. He nodded, and when she slid her hand into his to lead him toward the exit, he laced his calloused fingers through hers without hesitation.
