Elias Voss, 53, had spent the last 45 minutes tucked against the cedar support post of the Darby Fall Festival beer tent, doing his level best to blend into the rough, sap-sticky wood. He’d retired from wildland firefighting three years prior, after a blaze outside Missoula left a silver, ropy scar snaking up his left forearm and a doctor’s note saying his lung capacity was down 20% for life. These days he ran a small firewood delivery and forest thinning outfit out of his 20 acre plot off Lolo Creek, kept to himself mostly, only came to town for supply runs or the occasional mandatory county meeting. The festival had been a mistake. His old crew chief had strong-armed him into showing up, said the beer was cold and the pie contest entries were better than any they’d snuck on fire lines back in the day. He’d been here an hour and already dodged three attempts from local women to set him up with their single cousins or divorced coworkers. Everyone in town knew he was off the market, even if it was a market he’d opted out of entirely after his wife Ellie died seven years prior.
The amber IPA in his plastic cup was half gone when he smelled it: cinnamon, crisp apple cider, and a faint whiff of pine soap, sharp enough to cut through the smell of fried funnel cake and cow manure from the petting zoo ten feet away. He turned his head, and the woman holding a stack of tattered paperbacks slammed her elbow straight into his scarred forearm.
He flinched, more out of habit than pain. She yelped, dropping two of the books, and her free hand flew to his arm to steady him, palm warm through the thin cotton of his faded Carhartt work shirt. She didn’t yank it away when she saw the raised silver scar under the fabric, the way almost everyone else did. “Sorry,” she said, laughing, breathless, and held his eye contact for three full beats longer than polite, hazel irises flecked with gold like sunlight through pine needles. “These books are heavier than they look. I just cleaned out the used book swap table, I’m a sucker for Louis L’Amour.”
He bent to grab the two fallen books, his calloused fingers brushing hers when he handed them over. One of the spines was Hondo, the exact copy Ellie used to read to him out loud when he was laid up after the 2018 fire, her voice soft as she did terrible cowboy accents for all the side characters. His throat went tight. “I’m Elias,” he said, before he could think better of it. He never introduced himself to people anymore.
“Clara,” she said, and nodded at the dirt road leading out of the festival grounds. “I live in the little blue cabin three plots down from you. I moved here from Portland three months ago, I have zero clue how to not freeze to death when it hits 20 below this winter.” She held up her left wrist, showing him a tiny black pine tree tattoo peeking out from under the cuff of her faded Fleetwood Mac hoodie, chipped black nail polish on her fingers. “Everyone around here calls you the hermit of Lolo Creek, by the way. Said you’d probably chase me off with a chainsaw if I showed up unannounced.”
He snorted, a real, loud laugh he hadn’t let out in months. “I only chase off people who try to cut down my old growth ponderosas. Firewood customers are fine.” He wanted to say he was booked solid through December, wanted to make an excuse and walk back to his truck and drive home to his quiet cabin and his hound dog and not think about the way her smile crinkled the corners of her eyes, the way her hand had felt on his arm. He didn’t.
The local cover band struck up a slow, twangy George Strait cover, the crowd cheering loud enough to make his ears ring. The sun was dipping low over the Bitterroot Mountains, painting the sky pink and tangerine, the air turning sharp enough to make the tip of his nose go cold. “You wanna walk down to the creek?” she said, jerking her head toward the dirt path leading off the festival grounds. “Get away from all the noise.”
His first instinct was to say no. To tell her he had to get home to feed his dog, that he had wood to split early the next morning, that he didn’t do… whatever this was. The guilt hit him first, sharp and hot, like he was betraying Ellie even by considering it. Then the desire, softer, warmer, the kind he’d pushed down so deep he’d forgotten it existed. He nodded.
They walked side by side down the rutted dirt path, their shoulders brushing every three or four steps, neither of them moving away. The creek was loud when they got to it, cold clear water rushing over smooth grey rocks, the bank lined with willow trees turning gold for fall. She sat on a fallen cedar log, patted the spot next to her, and he sat, his thigh pressed fully to hers, the heat of her leg seeping through his worn denim jeans. “I lost my sister two years ago,” she said, quiet, like she was sharing a secret only the creek could hear. “Car crash. I moved here to get away from everyone who kept asking me if I was okay, if I needed anything. I just wanted to be somewhere no one knew my name.”
He stared at the water rushing past, the scar on his forearm throbbing a little, the way it always did when he thought about Ellie. “I lost my wife seven years ago,” he said, and he didn’t look away when she lifted her hand, her fingers tracing the edge of the scar through his shirt, light as a dandelion seed. “I’ve been hiding out here ever since. Thought that was all I had left.”
She didn’t say anything for a minute, just sat there, her hand still on his arm, the last of the sun gilding the ends of her light brown hair. “You don’t have to hide anymore,” she said, and leaned in, pressing a soft, warm kiss to his cheek, her lips tasting like the spiced apple cider she’d been drinking.
He didn’t flinch. He didn’t pull away. He told her he’d bring a full cord of hardwood to her cabin Saturday morning, that he’d stay to help her stack it, that he’d bring the pot of venison chili he made on weekends, the one Ellie had given him the recipe for. She smiled, and rested her head on his shoulder, and they sat there until the sun dipped fully below the mountains, the sky turning dark purple, the first star pricking through the haze above the peaks.
He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out the crumpled pack of peppermint gum he kept there, and offered her a piece.
