Rafe Ortega, 67, retired U.S. Forest Service fire spotter, had only stepped foot in the annual Mount Hood harvest festival to collect the first-place plaque his old work buddy won for a restored 1978 McCulloch chainsaw display. He hated crowds, hated the forced cheer, hated how every local within a 10-mile radius would crane their neck to gawk at the “hermit of the west ridge” who’d barely spoken to 10 people since his wife Elaine died 12 years prior. He’d tucked himself into the farthest dark corner of the beer tent, boots propped on an empty crate, peeling the label off a craft IPA he didn’t even like, peanut shells crunching under his scuffed work boots every time he shifted his weight. The plywood table under his elbows was sticky with spilled cider, and the air reeked of fried apple fritters and pine, when the only other empty folding chair at his table scraped against the dirt floor.
It was Clara Bennett, the new town librarian who’d moved to the area six months prior after a messy divorce from a Portland corporate lawyer. Rafe had only talked to her once before, when he’d come in to renew his backcountry trail map subscription, and he’d left red-faced after fumbling his library card and knocking over a stack of her hiking memoir displays. She was wearing a faded red flannel tied at the waist, ripped straight-leg jeans, and scuffed waterproof work boots, a smudge of cider donut sugar on her left cheek, and she held two plastic cups of spiked apple cider, one in each hand. “Every other seat’s taken,” she yelled over the twang of the bluegrass band playing 20 feet away, holding out one of the cups. “Figured you looked less likely to rant to me about pumpkin spice lattes being ‘woke garbage’ than the guys in the matching flannel shirts with the MAGA hats lined up at the bar.”
Rafe grunted and took the cup, his calloused, fire-scarred fingers brushing hers for half a second. The contact sent a jolt up his arm he hadn’t felt since before Elaine got sick, and he had to fight the urge to yank his hand back like he’d touched a hot stove burner. The cider was sweet, spiked with enough bourbon to warm his chest as he sipped it, watching Clara kick her boots up on the crate next to his, leaning back so far her chair was balancing on two legs. She smelled like cedar and lavender lip balm, and when she leaned in to ask if he’d hiked the new trail up to the south overlook last month, her shoulder pressed firm against his, the soft fabric of her flannel rubbing against the frayed cuff of his worn canvas work jacket. He knew half the people in the tent were staring, knew the town gossip mill would be churning by sunrise, and part of him wanted to stand up, mumble an excuse, and bolt for his beat-up Ford F-150 before anyone could start whispering. But he didn’t. He told her about the time he’d spotted a small lightning fire from that exact overlook back in 2019, talked for 15 minutes straight without stopping, and when she laughed at the story of him tripping over a curious bear cub while hiking down to put it out, her laugh was loud and unapologetic, and it made the back of his neck tingle.
When the band took a break, the air turned sharp with fall chill, and Clara leaned her elbow on the table, her face inches from his, hazel eyes flecked with gold glinting in the fairy lights strung above the tent. “Wanna skip the rest of this?” she said, nodding toward the crowd of people doing wobbly line dances in the field outside. “The moon’s supposed to be a full harvest tonight, and the overlook’s only a 10 minute walk up the trail behind the fairgrounds. No crowds, no gossips, just the view.” Rafe hesitated for a full 10 seconds, every stubborn, lonely bone in his body screaming that this was a bad idea, that he’d get attached, that people would talk, that he was too old for this kind of stupid, giddy thrill. But then he looked at the smudge of donut sugar still on her cheek, at the chipped navy blue nail polish on her fingers, and he stood up, grabbing his quilted flannel jacket off the back of the chair. “Lead the way,” he said.
The trail was packed dirt, lined with Douglas firs that smelled like sap and damp earth, and when they stepped over a gnarled root sticking out of the path, their hands knocked together again. This time, Rafe didn’t pull away. He laced his fingers through hers, her hand smaller than his, softer, and she squeezed his hand once, like she’d been waiting for him to make the first move. No one else was on the trail, no one yelling, no one staring, just the crunch of fallen maple leaves under their boots and the distant sound of the band starting up a Johnny Cash cover back at the fairgrounds.
They reached the overlook right as the moon crested the valley, huge and burnt orange, painting the pine trees and rolling hazelnut farm fields below in soft, warm light. Clara leaned her head on his shoulder, her wavy brown hair brushing the side of his neck, and Rafe wrapped his free arm around her waist, pulling her a little closer. He didn’t care about the gossip, didn’t care that he’d spent 12 years convincing himself he didn’t need anyone else, didn’t care that this whole thing felt like something a kid half his age would do. Somewhere below them, a coyote howled, and Clara laughed quiet, pressing her hand against the chest of his jacket, right over his hammering heart.
