Ray Mendez, 52, spent 22 years as a wildland firefighter with the U.S. Forest Service before a blown ACL and a guilt he still hasn’t shaken pushed him into early retirement. These days he runs a one-man operation out of his ramshackle property outside Flagstaff, splitting premium ponderosa firewood and welding custom steel campfire rings for tourists and local retirees alike. His biggest flaw, as his older sister never tires of telling him, is that he’d rather sleep on a bed of splinters than ask anyone for a favor, let alone let someone get close enough to ask about the scar that runs diagonally across his left cheek, or the empty spot on his crew roster from the 2015 blaze that killed his 21-year-old rookie. He’d only agreed to enter the town’s annual fall chili cookoff because his 16-year-old niece had begged him, saying his green chile brisket recipe was the only thing that could beat the local sheriff’s overhyped beef and bean slop.
He was leaning against the side of his beat-up 2008 Ford F-150, wiping chili grease off his frayed forest service hoodie with a paper towel, when she walked up. The new librarian, Elara Voss, had moved to town six months prior after her husband, a geology professor, died in a backcountry hiking accident. He’d seen her around the general store a handful of times, always with a stack of used books under her arm, but he’d never worked up the nerve to say hello. She was wearing a wool plaid skirt that hit just above her knee-high leather boots, a chunky cream sweater slung over her shoulders, and her auburn hair was pulled back in a loose braid that had come half undone in the wind. She held a chipped ceramic mug in one hand, the other tucked into the pocket of her puffer coat, and smiled when she nodded at the half-empty crockpot of chili sitting on the folding table next to his truck. “Heard this is the only batch here that doesn’t taste like canned tomato sauce and regret,” she said, and he huffed a laugh, surprised anyone had bothered to mention his entry to her.
He handed her a small sample cup, their fingers brushing when she took it. His hands were rough, calloused from years of swinging an axe and handling hot welding equipment, and hers were soft, the nails short and unpolished, smudged with a faint streak of ink at the cuticles. She took a sip, her eyes widening, and let out a quiet hum that sent a jolt of heat up his spine even as the wind picked up, stinging his cheeks. “My dad made this exact recipe growing up in Taos,” she said, stepping closer to avoid a group of rowdy teens darting past with cotton candy stuck to their faces. Her shoulder pressed into his bicep, and he could smell vanilla and pine soap on her, under the faint smell of cinnamon from the spiced cider she was drinking. He tensed up at first, instinct telling him to step back, to put the usual two feet of space he kept between himself and anyone who wasn’t family, but he didn’t. He stayed right where he was, the heat of her seeping through his hoodie enough to cut through the 40-degree chill.
They talked for 40 minutes straight, the bluegrass band playing off in the town square fading into background noise as they swapped stories. She told him about the rare western history archive the library had just inherited from a local rancher who’d died the year prior, full of 19th century fire patrol logs he’d been trying to get his hands on for months for a local conservation project tracking historic wildfire patterns. He told her about the time he’d accidentally seasoned a batch of camp chili so heavy with cayenne his entire crew had to eat canned baked beans for three days, too scared to tell him how bad it was. When she laughed at the story, she leaned into him again, her elbow nudging his ribs, and he found himself grinning so wide his cheeks hurt. For a second he almost forgot the weight he carried, the guilt that sat in his chest like a stone every time he talked to someone new, like he didn’t deserve to have a good conversation, let alone anything more. He almost made an excuse to leave, to pack up his chili and head home to his quiet empty house, before he could mess this up too.
Then she brushed her thumb across the small, faded scar on his left knuckle, the one he’d gotten digging through rubble for his rookie in that 2015 blaze. “I know what happened,” she said, soft enough that only he could hear, no pity in her voice, just quiet understanding. “The mayor told me last month, when I asked why the town’s new fire safety memorial had that kid’s name on it. No one blames you, Ray. You don’t have to blame yourself either.” It hit him so hard he had to blink back the burn in his eyes, the first time anyone had said those words out loud to him instead of dancing around the subject like it was a live wire. He offered to come fix the cracked stone fireplace in the cottage she was renting, the one she’d mentioned she’d been trying to get someone to look at for weeks, no charge, but she shook her head, grinning. “No free favors from you. I’ll pay you in my homemade pecan pie, and full access to that archive whenever you want. Deal?”
He nodded, fumbling for a napkin in his hoodie pocket to scribble his cell number on, the corner of the napkin already stained with a splotch of red chili. He handed it to her, and she tucked it into the inner pocket of her coat, patting it once like she was making sure it wouldn’t fall out. “I’ll text you my address first thing tomorrow,” she said, and waved as she turned to walk toward her beat-up old Subaru parked a few spots down, glancing back over her shoulder once to smile at him before she got in.
His niece wandered over a minute later, holding the third place ribbon they’d won, and whistled, grinning. “Took you long enough to talk to her. Half the town’s been trying to set you two up for months. You gonna stop hiding out in your workshop now?” He rolled his eyes, taking the ribbon from her and tucking it into his pocket, but he couldn’t wipe the grin off his face. He hefted the crate of dented serving bowls into the bed of his truck, the cold of the metal seeping through his work gloves, and for the first time in eight years, he didn’t dread waking up early the next day.
