Roland Voss, 53, retired wildland fire crew boss, had spent the better part of the last eight years avoiding small town events like the annual Harney County Summer Fair. He’d moved to the stretch of high desert outside Burns after his wife, Lila, died of breast cancer, figuring the wide empty skies and minimal small talk would suit him better than the prying eyes of their old neighborhood in Bend. His days were filled with sanding dents out of vintage Airstream trailers he flipped for extra cash, splitting firewood for the winter, and talking more to his border collie, Mabel, than any human being. The only reason he’d agreed to man the volunteer fire department’s chili booth that Saturday was his old crew partner, Javi, had shown up on his porch at 7 a.m. with a six pack of his favorite Pabst and a guilt trip about not giving back to the community.
The air smelled like fried funnel cake and diesel from the carnival rides, dust sticking to the sweat on his forearms where the sleeves of his faded fire department hoodie were cut off. He’d just handed a bowl of extra spicy chili to a kid with a cowgirl hat when a shadow fell across the booth, and he looked up to see Marisol Cruz, his next door neighbor of three months. He’d only exchanged half a dozen waves with her since she’d moved into the small cottage down the road, knew she ran a mobile succulent shop out of a beat-up 1998 Ford Ranger, had seen her hauling 50 pound bags of potting soil at 6 a.m. more than once. She leaned in across the booth, her sun-warmed shoulder brushing his bicep, and he caught a whiff of lavender and eucalyptus hand lotion, a faint smudge of potting soil on the curve of her wrist.
“Three bowls of the spicy stuff, please,” she said, holding eye contact longer than most people did, no awkward pity in her dark brown eyes, just a sharp, curious glint. “My niece and nephew are already begging for seconds, and I’m not sharing mine with them.”
Roland grunted a laugh, scooping the chili into paper bowls, his knuckle brushing hers when he handed them over. She didn’t flinch, just smiled, the corner of her mouth tugging up higher on one side. She mentioned she’d seen the half-finished Airstream in his side yard, asked if he knew how to patch a leaky rubber roof on the old camper she used to haul her plants to farmers markets. Before he could answer, he glanced past her shoulder and saw the new county sheriff, Trent Hargrove, standing by the cotton candy stand, staring right at them. Everyone in town knew Hargrove was Marisol’s ex-husband, that the divorce had gotten ugly six months prior, that he’d pulled her over three times in the last month for made-up traffic violations.
Part of Roland tensed up, the old fight or flight instinct he’d honed on fire lines kicking in. He didn’t want drama, didn’t want to draw the attention of a cop with a chip on his shoulder and the whole county in his pocket. But another part of him, the part that had been dormant since Lila died, hummed at the thought of leaning into something reckless, something that didn’t involve sanding trailer sides or walking Mabel alone at dusk. Marisol followed his gaze, rolled her eyes, and leaned in closer, her voice low enough only he could hear. “He’s been following me around all day. You wanna get out of here for ten minutes? Walk down to the creek? No pressure if you don’t.”
He saw Hargrove start to push through the crowd toward them, and Roland made the call before he could overthink it. He wiped his hands on his jeans, nodded, and stepped out from behind the booth, his hand brushing hers for half a second before he laced their fingers together, her palm soft but rough with calluses from hauling plant pots. They walked fast past the pony ride and the 4-H goat barn, the noise of the fair fading behind them as they ducked under the oak trees lining the creek, the sound of crickets chirping mixing with the gurgle of slow moving water.
Marisol stopped when they were out of sight of the fairgrounds, turning to face him, her back pressed to the rough bark of an oak. She reached up, brushed a stray piece of gray hair off his forehead, her fingers light against his skin. “I didn’t think you’d actually come,” she said, her voice softer now, no teasing edge. “Everyone in town avoids me like I’m contagious, ‘cause they’re scared of him.”
Roland didn’t say anything, just leaned down and kissed her, slow, like he had all the time in the world. She tasted like cherry sno-cone and mint gum, her fingers tangling in the short hair at the back of his neck, pulling him closer. They could hear Hargrove yelling her name somewhere in the distance, but neither of them moved, neither of them cared. The sun was dipping low on the horizon, painting the sky pink and orange, the cool creek air raising goosebumps on his arms.
When they pulled apart a few minutes later, she laughed, a low, warm sound, and wiped the smudge of her cherry lip gloss off his chin with her thumb. “I’ll bring a truckload of those blue chalk sticks you were staring at in my plant bed last week over tomorrow morning, 8 a.m. sharp. You can fix my roof in exchange. Don’t be late.”
He nodded, walking her back to her Ranger parked at the edge of the fairgrounds. She squeezed his bicep before she climbed in the driver’s seat, winked, and pulled out onto the dirt road. Hargrove’s patrol truck rolled past a minute later, the sheriff’s face red with rage, glaring at Roland through the open window. Roland just lifted the half-empty can of Pabst he’d stuffed in his pocket earlier in a mock toast, smirking, as the truck peeled off down the road. He turned toward his own pickup, Mabel waiting in the passenger seat with her head out the window, already counting down the hours until 8 a.m. the next day.
