Cole Bennett, 58, retired US Forest Service hotshot superintendent with 32 years of wildfire seasons under his belt, leaned his weight against the splintered split-rail fence edging the community park, cold craft beer sweating through the paper coozie in his left hand. The scar snaking up his left forearm, a souvenir from the 2017 Lolo Peak fire, itched when the wind shifted, carrying the sharp tang of controlled burn smoke from 20 miles west, mixed with charcoal, cherry pie filling, and the sweet, heady scent of blooming clover under his work boots. He’d shown up to the volunteer fire department fundraiser only because the chief owed him a case of good bourbon for helping rehab the station’s roof the month prior, and he’d planned to slip out before any of the town’s well-meaning matchmaker aunts could corner him and ask when he’d “finally stop moping and find a nice woman.”
He’d spent four years building small, unbreakable routines to outrun his grief: same booth at the diner every Saturday for blueberry pancakes, same 6 a.m. hike up the ridge behind his cabin, same old Johnny Cash records spinning while he fixed vintage pickup trucks in his garage. Letting anyone into that rhythm felt like a betrayal of Elaine, his wife of 31 years, who’d died in 2019 after an 18-month battle with breast cancer. He’d moved to this tiny Montana town six months after she passed, left all their old friends in Boise behind, because he hated the pity in their eyes every time he walked into a room alone.
He spotted her across the park before anyone could flag him down. Maren Hale, 54, the new county public health nurse who’d moved to town that winter, was laughing so hard at a dumb joke the fire chief was telling that she snort-laughed, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye with the back of her hand. She was wearing cutoff denim shorts that showed off the tattoo of a pine tree on her right calf, a faded 1977 Led Zeppelin tour tee, and a red cotton bandana tied around her left wrist, sun freckles dusting the bridge of her nose and the tops of her shoulders. He’d nodded at her a dozen times at the grocery store, at the gas station, had deliberately sat two stools away from her at the bar two weeks prior when she’d tried to strike up a conversation about trail conditions. He’d heard the town gossip: widowed three years prior, her husband had fallen off a climbing route in the Tetons, she’d moved here to get away from constant reminders.
Before he could turn for his truck, the chief yelled his name, loud enough that half the park turned to look, and waved him over. Cole sighed, drained the last of his beer, and trundled across the grass, the cuffs of his worn flannel brushing the tops of his thighs. Maren held out her hand when he got close, her palm calloused, not soft like he’d expected, from rock climbing and chopping her own firewood, she told him. Their fingers brushed when he shook it, a jolt shooting up his arm that had nothing to do with the cheap beer, and he pulled his hand back fast, muttering a gruff hello, already planning his escape. She leaned in a little, so her bare shoulder brushed his bicep, and the scent of vanilla and campfire smoke clung to her hair, no flowery perfume, nothing that felt like a performance. She said she’d been trying to find the backcountry alpine lake that didn’t show up on Google Maps, the one with the jumping rock and no cell service, and everyone in town said he was the only person who knew the trail.
Cole’s throat went tight. He’d only taken Elaine there once, two years before she got sick, and he hadn’t been back since. The thought of taking another woman there made his chest ache, half disgust at himself for even considering it, half hot, sharp desire he hadn’t felt in so long he’d thought it was dead. He stared at her for a long second, at the way she didn’t look at him like he was a broken thing to fix, like she was just asking for a hiking partner, no strings attached. He found himself saying yes before he could talk himself out of it.
They met at the trailhead at 8 a.m. the next Saturday, sun filtering through the fir trees, cicadas buzzing loud in the underbrush. The hike was three miles up, steep in spots, and she didn’t complain once, didn’t ask to stop, pointed out wildflowers and woodpecker nests like she’d been walking the trails her whole life. When they crested the ridge and the lake came into view, glassy and bright blue, surrounded by granite boulders, she whooped loud enough that an eagle took off from a dead pine at the far edge. She kicked off her boots, stripped down to a plain black one-piece swimsuit, and dove off the rock before Cole could even get his flannel off, surfacing a minute later, yelling that the water was so cold it made her teeth hurt, and he had to get in.
He hesitated for a minute, then peeled off his flannel, his jeans, left his boxers on, and jumped in, the shock of the cold making him gasp so loud he snort-laughed, and she swam over to him, her hand brushing his bare chest when she steadied herself against a rock next to him. They floated for a while, not talking, listening to the wind rustle the trees, before they climbed out, wrapped themselves in the old wool blanket he’d brought in his pack, and shared the peanut butter sandwiches and lemonade she’d packed. She told him about her husband, about the way he used to sing off-key to 90s country in the car, about how she still bought his favorite brand of beer even though she hated the taste. He told her about Elaine, about how she used to leave sticky notes with bad jokes on his hard hat before he left for fire season, about how he still had a stack of them in his glove box.
She reached up then, brushed a pine needle off his cheek, her thumb lingering on the edge of his jaw, and he didn’t pull away. He kissed her slow, soft at first, then a little firmer when she leaned into him, the kiss tasting like lemonade and pine and something he’d thought he’d never get to feel again. They didn’t rush anything, sat there until the sun started to dip low over the mountains, packing up their things slow, no awkward silences, no unspoken pressure.
They drove back into town as the sky turned pink and orange, her hand resting on the center console of his old Ford F-150, his hand next to it, their pinkies brushing the whole way. He pulled into her driveway, walked her to her front door, and she smiled at him, leaning against the doorframe, asking if he wanted to come in for a cup of coffee, no expectations, just company. He nodded, stepping across the threshold when she opened the door, the scent of cinnamon and old books wrapping around him as he followed her down the hall.
