Ray Voss, 53, makes his living pulling rusted vintage snowmobile engines out of rotting northern Minnesota barns and turning them into machines that outrun brand new models on frozen lakes. He’s got a scar snaking up his left forearm from a 1998 crash, grease permanently embedded under the nail beds of his right hand, and a rule he’s stuck to for 8 years: no messing around with anyone within a 20 mile radius of his shop. His ex-wife left for Florida with a traveling roofing salesman in 2015, and he decided small town drama wasn’t worth the headache of letting anyone new get close.
He’s slouched at the end of the bar at The Rusty Auger on the Thursday before the town’s annual ice fishing contest, nursing a cold Grain Belt, when she sits two stools down. The door to the bar swings shut behind her, bringing a gust of wind that carries the sharp smell of snow and diesel, and she shakes a clump of ice off the cuff of her navy park service flannel before flagging down the bartender. Her work boots are caked in slush, her hair is pulled back in a messy braid streaked with a little gray at the temples, and when she laughs at the bartender’s joke about the guy who tried to drive his ATV through thin ice last week, the sound is low and rough, like she’s spent half her life yelling over wind.
He tries to look back at the hockey game playing on the TV above the bar, but he keeps glancing over. He knows she’s the new county park ranger, the one who’s been posting safety signs all around the lake for the contest, the one who ticketed his neighbor for leaving ice shacks up past the deadline last month. His first instinct is to stay quiet, avoid eye contact, leave before she notices the stack of unregistered sled titles tucked in the pocket of his flannel. But when she leans over to grab a napkin from the holder between their stools, her elbow brushes his bicep, and she turns to apologize immediately. She smells like pine and peppermint lip balm, and her hazel eyes crinkle at the corners when she spots the scraped knuckles on his right hand.
“Snowmobile guy, right?” she says, nodding at his hands. “Jake down at the gas station said you can fix any sled built before 1990 for half the price the shop up in Duluth charges.”
He grunts, half embarrassed, half pleased. He doesn’t get a lot of compliments from people who don’t know him. They talk for 45 minutes, him leaning a little further over the bar each time, her shifting her stool a little closer to his when a group of rowdy ice fishermen shove past to get to the pool table. He teases her about the park service badge she still has pinned to her chest even though she’s off duty. She teases him about the fact that he’s never once filed a permit for the informal snowmobile races he hosts on the north end of the lake every February. He’s fighting himself the whole time, every part of him wanting to ask her to hang out, the stubborn, hurt part of his brain screaming that it’s a bad idea, that she’ll get bored of him and his grease-stained clothes and his quiet life, that he’ll end up alone again, worse off than before.
The bar gets more crowded as the sun goes down, a group of college kids coming back from ice skating shove through the door, and one of them slams into her back. She loses her balance, tipping sideways into his lap, and he reaches out automatically to steady her, his hand landing warm on the soft curve of her waist through her flannel. She doesn’t jump away. She looks up at him, her cheeks pink from the beer and the heat of the bar, and her breath catches a little when their eyes lock. “I’ve been wanting to check out the north end of the lake at sunset,” she says, quiet enough only he can hear. “Heard the ice glows pink this time of year.”
He doesn’t overthink it. Doesn’t let the scared part of his brain talk him out of it. “I got a 1987 Yamaha Phazer that runs like a dream,” he says. “Will get us there an hour before sundown tomorrow, after the contest check-ins wrap. If you don’t mind going 60 miles an hour over ice.”
She grins, and it’s the brightest thing he’s seen in years. “I chase poachers on a 4-wheeler through mud season,” she says. “I can handle it.”
She scribbles her number on a napkin soaked through a little at the corner with beer, shoves it in the breast pocket of his worn Carhartt, and heads out to check the ice safety markers before full dark. He sits at the bar for another 20 minutes, staring at the crumpled edge of the napkin peeking out of his pocket, the faint tingle still lingering on his palm where it rested on her waist. He finishes his beer, drops a ten on the bar to cover his tab and tip, and walks out to his beat up 2004 Ford F-150, the sharp January air stinging his cheeks and catching in his throat. He pulls out his flip phone—he’s refused to upgrade to a smartphone for 10 years, says they’re too much hassle—and types a quick text, hitting send before he can overthink the wording.
He tucks the phone back in his pocket, climbs in the truck, and cranks the heater up full blast, already mentally running through the stack of extra wool gloves and disposable hand warmers he keeps stashed on a shelf by the shop door for long cold rides. He pulls out onto the icy main road, the truck’s tires crunching over packed snow, and smiles so wide his cheeks hurt.
