Elias Voss, 53, spent 27 years with the National Park Service as a wildfire mitigation specialist before a blown-out knee and a petty, backstabbing supervisor pushed him into early retirement. For the last 8 years, he’d kept mostly to his 12-acre cabin plot outside Paonia, Colorado, only coming into town for livestock feed, craft beer, and the very occasional favor he couldn’t say no to. The annual Firewise community potluck was that favor—he’d owed Mabel, the event organizer, for helping him corral his escaped angora goat last spring, so he’d smoked a brisket for 12 hours over hickory, thrown on his least stained plaid flannel, and dragged himself into the community center at 6 PM sharp, already planning his exit before he even walked through the door.
The room reeked of charcoal, cherry pie, and watery store-brand lemonade, the local bluegrass trio plucking a wobbly version of *Foggy Mountain Breakdown* in the corner. He’d just set the brisket down on the folding food table and was edging toward the exit when a loose chair leg caught the toe of his steel-toe work boot, sending him lurching forward into the woman holding a mason jar full of bright green pickled ramps. He caught her elbow before she spilled the jar all over her faded Carhartt jacket, his calloused, scarred fingers brushing the soft, sun-warmed skin of her forearm. She didn’t jerk away, just tilted her head up, hazel eyes flecked with gold locking on his for a beat longer than casual politeness allowed. She smelled like pine sap and peppermint lip balm, and he felt his throat go dry, a fluttery, warm sensation he hadn’t felt since his wife left him for a Denver real estate agent 7 years prior.
He knew who she was immediately. Maren Hale, 48, the new county extension agent that’d moved to town three months prior. Also, the ex-wife of Roger Hale, the same supervisor that had blamed him for the 2014 prescribed burn that jumped containment lines, cost the park service $2 million, and tanked his shot at a regional director promotion. For 10 years, he’d hated Roger so thoroughly he’d avoided anyone even tangentially connected to him, the disgust sharp enough to make him walk out of the hardware store last month when he heard a stranger mention Roger’s name. But standing there, her elbow still warm under his hand, that long-held disgust warred with a low, thrumming pull he couldn’t ignore, the kind that made his pulse jump in his temple like he was standing too close to a fire line.
She laughed, a low, throaty sound that cut through the twang of the banjo. “You’re Elias, right? The brisket guy. Everyone’s been talking about that brisket for weeks.” He mumbled a thanks, trying to pull his hand away, but she tightened her grip on his wrist for half a second, stopping him. “I know who you used to work for, for the record. Roger was an idiot. I left him six years ago, after I found out he was screwing his secretary in the park service office break room. I also know that burn wasn’t your fault. He signed off on the weather report when you told him three times it was too windy to light.”
The words hit him like a punch to the gut. No one had ever said that out loud to him, not even the guys he’d worked side-by-side with for 20 years, too scared of Roger’s pull with the regional office. He followed her out to the back porch of the community center, away from the crowd of gossiping locals, sitting on the weathered wooden step next to her, their knees brushing through their denim jeans every time one of them shifted. She told him she’d asked about him the first week she moved to town, heard he knew more about wildfire mitigation than anyone in the state, wanted to pick his brain for the county’s new free fire preparedness program for low-income homeowners. He found himself talking more than he had in months, telling her stories about chasing fires in Yellowstone, about the time a black bear stole his lunch off the fire line, about the goat that kept escaping his property to eat the neighbors’ rose bushes.
The sun dipped below the West Elks, painting the sky streaky pink and tangerine, the bluegrass band finishing their last set inside to scattered whoops and applause. They’d been sitting there for an hour, her shoulder pressed to his now, the jar of pickled ramps sitting between them on the step, half the contents already gone after they’d passed it back and forth sampling. She leaned in, so close he could taste the peppermint on her breath when she spoke, her hand brushing a strand of silver-streaked hair off his forehead. “You wanna come back to my place? I got fresh sourdough to go with these ramps. And I still have a million questions about prescribed burn protocols.” He didn’t even hesitate, didn’t think about the gossip that would spread around town by morning, didn’t think about Roger, didn’t think about the last 8 years he’d spent deliberately shutting people out.
He grabbed the half-empty jar of ramps off the step with one calloused hand, laced his fingers through hers with the other, and followed her to her beat-up forest green Subaru, the crunch of gravel under their boots the only sound over the distant hum of crickets.
