Rudy Marquez is 52, a custom work boot maker with a gimpy left knee he earned dragging two rookie crew members out of a 2017 Lolo National Forest blaze. He’s spent the last eight years living alone in a cedar cabin 12 miles outside Missoula, and his biggest personality flaw is that he’d rather ignore a problem for three weeks than answer a single government email. He’d dragged himself to the Saturday farmers market only to drop off a pair of steel-toed logger boots for a regular who runs a stone fruit stand, and he was already mentally mapping his route back home to frozen pepperoni pizza and a rerun of *The Searchers* when a kid on a scooter came barrelling around a honey booth, hard.
The woman in front of him stepped back fast to avoid getting clipped, and the jar of pickled ramps she was holding slipped in her grip. Rudy reacted on old firefighter reflex, one hand wrapping around her bare elbow to steady her, the other catching the jar before it could shatter on the asphalt. Her skin was warm under his calloused palm, sun-warmed and dusted with freckles across her forearm, and she smelled like pine cleaner and the lavender lip balm she’d swiped on ten minutes earlier. When she turned to face him, her hazel eyes locked onto his for a beat too long, a half-smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, and Rudy’s throat went dry. He knew exactly who she was.
Lila Hart was the new US Forest Service liaison for Missoula County, the woman who’d sent him four increasingly polite emails about a mandatory brush clearance assessment for his property, which butted up against 10,000 acres of protected wilderness. He’d ignored every single one, convinced the meeting would be two hours of red tape and lectures from someone who’d never held a chainsaw in their life. He opened his mouth to mumble an excuse, but she laughed first, a low, rough sound that cut through the buzz of the market’s crowd, the smell of grilled bratwurst and fresh cut peaches curling around them.
“Was starting to think you were avoiding me, Marquez,” she said, taking the jar back from him, her fingers brushing his for half a second. She was 38, wore frayed work jeans and a forest service hoodie rolled up to her elbows, a scar snaking up her right wrist from a chainsaw mishap three years prior, and Rudy felt a hot jolt of something he hadn’t felt since his ex-wife left him, sharp and disorienting. He was disgusted with himself for a second, for noticing how the sun caught the gold flecks in her eyes, for realizing she wasn’t the desk jockey he’d pictured.
“I don’t do meetings,” he said, shrugging, shifting the boot box under his other arm, the rough cardboard scratching at his bicep. He’d planned to turn and walk away right then, but she leaned in a little, close enough that he could smell the cherry seltzer she’d been sipping on her breath, and told him she’d spent six years on a wildland fire crew out of Boise, recognized his name from the 2017 blaze reports, had been looking forward to meeting him, not lecturing him.
She asked if he had time to grab a beer at the dive bar two blocks over once the market shut down, and Rudy agreed before he could talk himself out of it. They sat in a scuffed vinyl booth in the back, the jukebox playing old Johnny Cash, their knees brushing under the table every time one of them shifted. She told him about her border collie, Mabel, who she brought on trail patrols, who loved stealing socks and chasing squirrels, and he showed her photos of the custom boots he was building for a teenaged ranch kid who’d lost half his right foot in a roping accident, the extra padding and support he’d spent three weeks perfecting. The knee that ached every time he stood for too long didn’t bother him once the whole time they talked.
The bartender flipped off half the neon signs an hour later, signaling closing time, and Rudy walked her to her beat-up Ford Ranger parked on the side street. She leaned in before he could say goodbye, kissed him slow, her lips soft against his, tasting like cherry seltzer and the IPA she’d split with him. He didn’t pull away, didn’t overthink it, just rested his hand lightly on her hip, the worn denim of her jeans soft under his fingers.
When she pulled back, she told him she’d be out at his cabin the next morning, no paperwork, no lectures, just a walk around the property line to map the brush that needed clearing, and she’d bring a jar of the pickled ramps she’d just bought, plus breakfast burritos from the taco stand downtown. He nodded, watched her pull out of the parking lot, her waving out the window as she turned onto the main road. He reached down to adjust the neoprene knee brace he wore under his work jeans, surprised to find the usual dull throb had faded entirely.
