Ronan Hale, 53, hauled the last stack of split fir bundles to the food co-op’s farmers market stall just after 3 p.m., the August heat sticking his faded smokejumper tee to his shoulder blades and leaving a salt stain along the collar of his work flannel tied around his waist. He’d spent the morning thinning a stand of beetle-killed pine up in the Bitterroots, his hands still caked with sap and pine dust, and the only thing on his mind was the cold draft IPA at Mike’s Tap, the dive bar on the edge of town that never got crowded on market afternoons.
The bell above the bar door jingled when he pushed in, and he stopped short. His usual stool, the one at the far end closest to the AC vent, was occupied. The woman sitting there had a streak of silver through her dark braid, a honeycomb pendant glinting at the base of her throat, and when she turned at the sound of the bell, he recognized her immediately: Lila Marquez, ex-wife of his old crew lead, Jake. He hadn’t seen her in 12 years, not since Jake retired and they moved to Seattle. He’d spent years actively avoiding even thinking about her, bound by the unwritten crew rule that you never so much as looked at your lead’s partner for too long, no matter how sharp her smile was, no matter how many times she’d snuck him an extra beer at crew cookouts when Jake wasn’t looking.
He hesitated for three full seconds, then headed for the stool two spots down, far enough to stay respectful, close enough to get the benefit of the lukewarm AC blowing from the wall unit. The bartender slid his usual beer across the bar without asking, and he wrapped his calloused hand around the frosted mug, the cold seeping into his sore knuckles. He could smell her from two stools away: lavender soap, beeswax, and a faint hint of wild clover. He told himself he was being an idiot, that he was 8 years out from losing his wife, that he had no business noticing how her sunflower-print sundress stuck to the small of her back when she leaned forward to grab a peanut from the bowl between them.
“Ronan?” Her voice was warmer than he remembered, a little rougher, like she’d spent the last decade laughing too loud at bad jokes. He looked up, met her eyes, and she grinned, the same crinkle at the corner of her eyes he’d remembered from all those years ago. “I thought that was you. Jake always said you’d never leave Montana, that you’d retire up here cutting wood and avoiding people.”
He huffed a laugh, took a sip of beer. “Jake always was a smart ass. What are you doing here? Last I heard you two were settled in Seattle.” He kept his tone casual, even as his chest tightened a little at the mention of Jake, the old rule ringing in his head like an alarm.
She rolled her eyes, stirred her iced tea with a plastic straw. “Got divorced six months ago. Tired of the rain, tired of the traffic, bought five acres out on Miller Creek to run a community apiary. Figured this was the one place no one would ask me about my ex-husband for five whole minutes.” She paused, tilted her head, and he could feel her eyes on the scar that cut across his left cheekbone, the one he got jumping a fire outside of Boise in 2014. “You look good. Less banged up than the last time I saw you.”
He shifted on his stool, suddenly hyper aware of how dirty his jeans were, how his hair was sticking up in the back from wearing a hard hat all morning. “Thanks. You too. Apiary, huh? That’s a long way from the graphic design work you were doing back then.”
“Needed a change.” She reached across the bar to grab the peanut bowl again, and her bare forearm brushed his, warm and soft against his sunburnt skin. He jolted a little, and she laughed, quiet, not teasing, just amused. “Sorry. Still move too fast. I forget I’m not rushing to get crew meals done before the next call.”
The contact was over in half a second, but he could feel the ghost of it on his arm for five minutes after. He fought the urge to rub the spot, told himself he was being ridiculous, that he was a grown man, that Jake was 500 miles away in Seattle, that the crew code didn’t apply when the marriage was over, when he’d spent 8 years sleeping alone in a too-big cabin, eating frozen dinners for one, talking more to his border collie than to other people.
They talked for an hour, the bar slowly emptying out as the market wrapped up, the jukebox playing old Johnny Cash and Merle Haggard tracks low in the background. She told him about the 120 hives she was setting up, about the peach tree in the backyard of her new property, about how she’d missed the Montana sun even when she thought she didn’t. He told her about the tree thinning work, about his 16-year-old daughter who was off at soccer camp in Bozeman, about the way the woods smelled after a summer rain. He didn’t realize how long he’d been talking until the bartender started wiping down the bar around them, signaling closing time.
“Hey, uh, I need someone to clear a half acre of brush on my property so I can expand the hives,” she said, as she slid off her stool, grabbing her canvas bag from the floor. “I can pay cash, plus as much wildflower honey as you want, and a peach pie. I make a mean peach pie.” She paused, leaned in a little, close enough that he could smell the mint in her iced tea on her breath, and her voice dropped, quiet enough that only he could hear. “And for the record? I always thought that stupid crew rule was bullshit. I had a crush on you back then, you know. Jake never noticed. You were always too busy being the responsible one to notice, either.”
He froze for a second, every rule he’d spent the last 8 years clinging to crumbling a little at the edges. He’d spent so long shutting himself off from anything that felt like a risk, so long convinced he didn’t deserve to feel that little jolt of excitement when someone looked at him like that, that he’d forgotten what it felt like to be seen.
He followed her out to her truck when she left, drove behind her out to the property on Miller Creek. The brush patch was smaller than he’d expected, he could knock it out in half a day the next weekend. They sat on her back porch after he walked the lot, eating slices of peach pie that was as good as she’d promised, watching fireflies blink on in the tall grass as the sun dipped below the mountains. She handed him a jar of honey when he got up to leave, her fingers lingering on his for a beat longer than necessary, and he didn’t pull away.
He tucked the jar into the passenger seat of his truck when he got in, turned the key in the ignition, and smiled to himself, the first real, unforced smile he’d had in months.
