Elias Voss, 57, spent 28 years as a wildland firefighter before a blown knee and a crew falling out pushed him into early retirement, now he runs a small firewood delivery service out of his beat-up 2006 Ford F-150 in western Montana. His biggest flaw, one he’ll never admit out loud, is that he’s spent the last 8 years avoiding any situation that could lead to small town gossip, ever since his wife left him for a real estate agent from Bozeman and the entire county acted like it was his fault for “being too married to his job.” He only agreed to show up to the harvest festival pop-up at the Rusty Spur bar because his 16-year-old niece begged him to haul folding tables for the event, saying she’d wash his truck for a month if he did.
He’s leaning against the back wall by the draft beer tap, halfway through a lukewarm PBR, when she bumps into him. Her camel-colored wool coat skims his forearm, the fabric soft enough that he notices even through the thick canvas of his Carhartt, and she stumbles a little, the glass of red wine in her hand sloshing over the edge onto the toe of his scuffed work boot. She apologizes immediately, her voice warm, a little smoky, and when he looks down at her he recognizes her instantly: Mara Hale, the new county librarian everyone in town has been chattering about for 3 months, and the ex-wife of his old crew chief, the man he hasn’t spoken to in 12 years after a mismanaged fire killed a 19-year-old rookie on their team.
His first instinct is to step back, mumble a dismissive response, and leave out the back door. But she doesn’t pull away. She sets her wine down on the sticky, beer-stained bar counter, grabs a handful of crumpled napkins, and bends down to dab at the wine on his boot, her shoulder brushing his knee as she does. He can smell pine soap and cinnamon lip balm on her, and when she looks up at him, her hazel eyes hold his gaze steady, no flicker of awkwardness, no hint of the judgment he’s come to expect from anyone connected to his old crew.
“I know who you are,” she says, wiping her hands on her high-waisted jeans, the corner of her mouth tugging up in a half smile. “Jake talked about you nonstop when we were married. Said you were the only one on the crew who ever called him out on his garbage.” She pauses, leans her hip against the wall next to him, close enough that their elbows brush when she lifts her wine glass again. “I left him six years ago, for the record. Long before I moved out here. I didn’t even know you lived here until I saw you dropping off books for your niece at the library last month.”
Elias’s chest feels tight, equal parts irritation at the mention of Jake and something warmer, sharper, that he hasn’t felt in years. He knows the town is already watching them—he can see Mrs. Henderson from the general store glancing over from the poker table, her silver eyebrows raised so high they almost disappear under her knit hat. He should leave. He doesn’t need another round of gossip following him around the grocery store for the next 6 months. But he finds himself leaning in a little, his voice lower so only she can hear, asking her what brought her out to Montana from Seattle, where everyone says she worked as a corporate lawyer for a big tech firm.
When she shivers and mentions she’s cold, he doesn’t think before he pulls the frayed wool watch cap off his head, the one he’s had since his first year on the fire crew, and sets it on her head. His fingers brush the edge of her hair as he adjusts it to fit, her skin soft under his knuckles, and for a second they’re only a few inches apart, he can smell the dry red wine on her breath, see the flecks of gold in her irises. She doesn’t step back. She just looks up at him, that half smile still on her face, and says she’s been wanting to talk to him since she saw him at the library, but she was scared he’d hate her just because she used to be married to Jake.
He tells her he doesn’t hate her. He tells her he’s been avoiding her for exactly that reason, but he’s also been stopping by the library once a week on the excuse of dropping off more used books for the kids’ section, just to see if she’s working the front desk. She laughs, quiet, and reaches out to touch the thick, silvery scar on his left forearm, the one he got from falling off a fire truck in 2018, her fingers light against his calloused skin.
They agree to meet for coffee at the diner on Main Street the next morning, 8 a.m., before the breakfast rush gets too crowded. She heads back inside first to find her friend who drove her there, and Elias stays outside on the back porch for a minute, leaning against the splintered wooden rail, watching the frost glint on the dry grass under the porch light. He lifts his hand to his face, and he can still smell the cinnamon from her lip balm on his fingertips.
