Rafe Jimenez has avoided the Parker County Fair for three straight years, but the 4-H committee begged him to donate a custom youth saddle for their annual auction, and he’s never been able to say no to kids who want to ride. The August heat sticks to his forearms like a damp flannel, sawdust still crusted under the nails of his calloused hands from sanding a saddle tree that morning. He’s got a beat-up Resistol pulled low over his graying temples, work boots caked in mud from the week’s rain, and he’s halfway to the exit when his throat goes dry enough to stick shut. A distant rodeo announcer’s drawl booms over the fair speakers, and he tenses for half a second, old muscle memory kicking in before he remembers he hasn’t stepped foot in an arena in six years.
The lemonade line wraps around three food booths, so he veers toward the half-empty cobbler stand at the edge of the food court, figuring iced tea is iced tea no matter what else they’re selling. The woman behind the counter is wiping down a metal tub of ripe peaches when he steps up, her dark hair pulled back in a braid streaked with a single strand of silver, sun freckles dusting the bridge of her nose. She’s wearing a faded Texas A&M tee, jeans dotted with peach juice stains, and when she looks up and grins, he recognizes her immediately. Mara Alvarez. Javi’s little sister.
He freezes mid-step, half tempted to turn and walk away, but she’s already wiping her hands on her flour-dusted apron and leaning over the counter, close enough that he can smell lavender laundry detergent, cinnamon sugar, and mint gum on her breath. “What can I get you, cowboy?” Her voice is warm, low, no flicker of recognition on her face yet, and for half a second he considers lying about his name. He orders the iced tea, and when she hands it to him across the counter, their fingers brush. Her knuckles are scraped raw, calloused the same way his are, from hauling peaches and mending fence posts on the family orchard, he guesses, and the contact sends a jolt up his arm he hasn’t felt in a decade. The tea is sweet, laced with just a hint of fresh mint, and he takes a long sip to buy himself time to think.
She pauses, her eyes locking on the thick, silvery scar sliced across his left knuckle, the one he got when he tripped over a loose arena rail trying to get to Javi before the bull could hook him a second time. Her smile softens, not with anger, but with something that looks like relief. “You’re Rafe, right? The saddle guy?” He nods, bracing for the yelling, the cold shoulder, the accusation he’s been waiting six years to hear. Instead, she leans a little closer, her shoulder brushing his bicep through the thin, sweat-damp fabric of his work shirt, the noise of the fair’s rollercoaster and screaming kids fading into background hum for a second. “I’ve been meaning to bring my dad’s old roping saddle by your shop for months. The stirrup leathers are split, and none of the other guys around town know how to fix it right. They all want to replace the tooling, and it’s got Javi’s initials carved into the fender.”
He blinks, surprised enough that he fumbles the iced tea cup a little, condensation dripping down his wrist onto his jeans. “You know who I am.” It’s not a question. She nods, wiping a smudge of peach pulp off her cheek with the back of her hand, her gaze steady, no anger in it at all. “I knew who you were the second you walked up. Javi talked about you all the time, said you were the only bullfighter he ever trusted to have his back. What happened that day wasn’t your fault. We all knew that. The arena crew got sued over that loose rail six months later, remember?”
The words hang between them for a second, thick as the humidity, and Rafe feels the tight knot of guilt he’s carried in his chest for six years loosen just a little. He’s never been good with words, never been good at letting people in, so he just nods, fumbling in his pocket for his wallet to pay for the tea. She waves him off, reaching under the counter to pull out a pint of frozen peach cobbler, tucking it into his free hand. The cold of the container seeps through the paper wrapping, and their fingers brush again, longer this time, no pullback from either of them. “On the house. And if you’re not busy this weekend, you could stop by the orchard to look at the saddle? I’ll make you lunch. Green chile enchiladas, Javi’s favorite recipe. I make enough to feed a small army, so don’t worry about showing up hungry.”
He agrees before he can talk himself out of it, pulling out his beat-up old flip phone to type his personal cell number into her contact list instead of the shop line he gives most customers. She texts him a quick emoji of a peach so he has her number, and he tucks the cobbler into the cooler in his truck before he drives back to the shop, the iced tea sweating in the cup holder next to him.
He doesn’t even make it all the way home before he pulls over on the side of the road, pops the lid on the cobbler, and takes a bite. The sweetness of the sun-ripened peaches mixes with the crumble of the cinnamon crust, and for the first time since that day in the arena, he smiles without feeling like he’s doing something wrong.
