Rafe Marquez, 53, spent 22 years as a hotshot wildland firefighter before a 2019 blaze in the Bitterroot Range left him with a ropy, silvery burn scar snaking up his left forearm and a medical discharge that landed him back in the small Missoula exurb he’d grown up in. He runs a one-man firewood delivery and forest thinning operation now, keeps to himself mostly, avoids family gatherings like the plague ever since his wife left him for a software salesman who never came home smelling like smoke and ash. He’d only stopped by the county fair that late August evening to drop off a half-cord of oak he’d donated for the weekend’s closing bonfire, planned to be in and out in 10 minutes, until the smell of spiced apple pie curled through the air and wrapped around his chest like a hug he didn’t know he needed.
He leaned against the split-rail fence surrounding the beer garden, cold IPA sweating in his right hand, left arm tucked tight to his side under his plaid flannel to hide the scar, and scanned the row of vendor booths until he spotted her. Lena Voss, his ex-wife’s 10 years younger half-sister, the kid who’d been 18 and sullen at his wedding, wearing a ratty Nirvana hoodie and rolling her eyes through the vows, was wiping a smudge of flour off her freckled cheek, honey-blonde braid slung over one shoulder, a bright sunflower tucked behind her ear. She looked up right as his gaze landed on her, froze for half a second, then huffed a laugh and wiped her hands on her denim apron before sauntering over.
She leaned against the fence six inches away from him, close enough that he could smell the vanilla lotion she wore under the faint scent of pie crust and cinnamon, and knocked her shoulder against his. “Thought you hated this fair,” she said, voice low and rough, like she’d spent the whole day yelling over the fairground noise. He grunted, took a sip of beer, admitted he’d only stopped by for the wood drop-off. She nodded, held up a paper plate with a slice of peach pie still warm, crust crimped perfectly, and he reached for it, their fingers brushing for a split second, the contact sending a jolt up his arm he hadn’t felt in close to a decade.
The conflict hit him square in the chest right then, hot and sharp. This was his ex’s sister. Messing with her was the kind of small-town drama he’d spent 8 years actively avoiding, the kind of thing that would get his name dragged through every diner and dive bar within 20 miles, the kind of thing that felt wrong on a base level he couldn’t name. But when she laughed at his bad joke about the fair’s prize-winning pumpkin looking like his old crew chief’s beer gut, her head tilted back, sun catching the gold flecks in her green eyes, all that resistance melted a little more every second. He noticed she didn’t flinch when his scarred left arm brushed hers when he reached to set his empty beer can on the fence post, didn’t even glance at it, like it was just another part of him, not something broken or ugly.
The ferris wheel creaked behind them, kids screaming as the tilt-a-whirl spun past, the sweet smell of cotton candy mixing with the pine drifting down from the mountainside, and she shifted closer, so their hips were pressed together through their jeans. She said she’d moved back to town three months prior to take care of her mom, who’d had a stroke, was renting the old cottage 2 miles up the road from his cabin, the one with the sagging front porch and the leaky roof she couldn’t afford to fix before the first snow hit. Her hand rested on his left forearm, right over the thickest part of the scar, warm and steady, for three full beats, no comment, no pity, just pressure, and she looked at his mouth for half a second before meeting his eye again, her cheeks pink under the freckles.
He didn’t overthink it. He told her he’d be by her place at 8 a.m. the next day, would bring his tool belt and a thermos of the black coffee she’d always liked, back when she’d crash on his and his ex’s couch during college breaks. She smiled, slow and bright, and dug a crumpled napkin out of her apron pocket, scrawled her cell number on it in blue ballpoint, drew a tiny lopsided sunflower next to the digits, and tossed it at his chest before turning to walk back to her booth. He unfolded the napkin, slipped it into the front pocket of his worn work jeans, and leaned against the fence watching the sun dip below the ridgeline, painting the sky streaks of tangerine and rose as the first twangy notes of the fair’s closing country set drifted over the crowd.
