Rayford “Ray” Hargrove, 62, retired wildland fire crew boss, leaned against the splintered cedar rail of the county fair beer garden, cold IPA sweating through the paper coaster in his grip. He’d spent the last three hours lingering by the cattle auction, bullshitting with old crew buddies who’d switched to ranch work after they aged out of fire line duty, and the summer sun had baked pine scent deep into his worn flannel shirt, even rolled up to the elbows like he had it. The air smelled like fried Oreos, diesel from the fair rides, and the faint, sharp tang of hay from the 4-H barns a hundred yards off. He’d avoided most community events since his wife Ellen passed eight years prior, stuck to his 40-acre property west of town fixing up old snowmobiles and chopping firewood, convinced he was too gruff, too covered in old burn scars, too stuck on the guilt that he’d been halfway across the state on a blaze when she had her stroke, to be around people who’d ask too many questions.
He spotted her when she squeezed through the crowd by the corn dog stand, auburn braid slipping over one shoulder, freckles dark across her nose from months of working outside, mud caked on the heel of her left work boot. Lila. Ellen’s second cousin, 54, newly divorced, he’d heard through the grapevine she’d moved back to the area earlier that summer to run a mobile vet clinic for small towns across the Bitterroot Valley. He hadn’t seen her since Ellen’s funeral, when she’d hugged him tight and slipped him a flask of good bourbon to get through the reception, and his throat went dry for half a second when she spotted him, her face lighting up in that wide, unselfconscious grin he’d always secretly liked, even when he’d felt guilty for liking it back when he was married.
She walked over, close enough he could smell coconut sunscreen and the faint, earthy tang of horse shampoo on her Wrangler shirt, and propped her elbow on the rail next to his, their arms brushing by accident. “Thought you hid out in the woods and only came into town for beer and ammo,” she said, and laughed, that rough, warm laugh he remembered, the kind that said she snuck a Camel every now and then when no one was looking. She held up a plastic cup of pink lemonade, and he noticed a faint scratch running down her wrist, still oozing a little. “Just set a broken leg on a 12-year-old’s prize goat. Little bugger kicked me when I gave him the penicillin shot.”
He snorted, and reached into his shirt pocket for the old Zippo he carried everywhere, the one Ellen had gotten him for their 20th anniversary. She’d pulled a crumpled pack of Camels out of her back pocket, and when he held the lighter up for her, her fingers brushed his knuckles, rough and calloused from handling horses and holding syringes, and he felt a jolt go up his arm that had nothing to do with the fire. He told himself he was being an idiot, that this was Ellen’s family, that he had no business feeling anything but friendly toward her, but he couldn’t look away from the way she tilted her head to light the cigarette, her eyes crinkling against the smoke.
They talked for an hour, the beer garden crowd thinning out as the sun dipped low, painting the sky pink and tangerine over the mountains. She told him she was renting the old log cabin on the edge of his property line, the one that used to belong to her grandma, and he was surprised he hadn’t seen her truck parked out there before. When the bartender yelled that they were closing up in ten minutes, she took a last drag of her cigarette, flicked the butt into the ash can by the rail, and nodded toward the dirt parking lot. “You still take that old F150 up to the overlook west of your place to watch the sunset?” she asked, and he blinked, he hadn’t told anyone he did that, Ellen had been the only one who knew. “She mentioned it once, when we visited for Christmas back in 2010. Said you’d sneak up there when you didn’t want to talk to the in-laws.”
He hesitated for half a second, the old guilt twisting in his gut, the voice in his head saying he was betraying Ellen, that he should drive home alone, heat up a frozen burrito, and fall asleep in front of the western channel like he did every night. But then she looked at him, her eyes soft, no pity, no pressure, and he nodded. They climbed into his truck, the radio tuned to the old classic country station he always left it on, Johnny Cash’s “Folsom Prison Blues” humming low through the blown speakers. They parked at the overlook, sat on the tailgate, and when the last sliver of sun dropped below the mountains, she leaned into his side, her shoulder warm through his shirt. He tensed for half a second, then lifted his arm, wrapped it around her, and she tilted her head up to look at him, her breath smelling like lemonade and mint and cigarette smoke. He kissed her slow, no rush, no fumbling, and the guilt melted away, because he knew Ellen would’ve laughed at him for being an idiot for waiting this long, would’ve told him Lila was the only person in the family who didn’t drive her crazy.
They stayed up there until the first round of fair fireworks popped over the valley, bright red and blue lighting up the dark sky. He drove her back to her cabin, walked her to the porch, and when she asked if he wanted to come in for coffee, he said yes. He kicked the mud off his boots on her porch step before following her inside, the screen door slamming shut softly behind them.
