Ronan O’Malley, 62, retired wildland fire forester with a scar snaking up his left forearm and a stubborn streak wider than the Lolo National Forest, had avoided the Missoula summer farmers market for eight straight years. It was his late wife Elara’s favorite place, and he’d rather haul 50 pound bags of feed up his cabin stairs in 90 degree heat than walk past the huckleberry jam booth they’d visited every Saturday for 22 years. But his 10 year old granddaughter had begged for homemade huckleberry jam for her birthday cake, and the grocery store stuff tasted like dyed corn syrup, so he’d laced up his scuffed work boots, popped an ibuprofen for his bad knee, and driven the 45 minutes into town.
The air smelled like pine resin, grilled bratwurst, and overripe strawberries when he stepped out of his beat up Ford F150. A bluegrass trio picked a fast tune on the stage by the entrance, kids darted between booths chasing each other with popsicles dripping down their fists, and the gravel under his boots crunched soft with fallen pine needles. He’d almost made it to the jam booth when his elbow knocked a dented tin off the edge of the adjacent apothecary stand, sending it clattering to the ground. He bent to grab it, and his right knee twinged so sharp he swore under his breath, teetering forward for half a second before a warm, calloused palm curled around his elbow, holding him steady.
He looked up, and his throat went dry. Marnie Cole, 58, ex-wife of his old fire crew partner Jax, stood a foot away, her hazel eyes flecked with gold crinkling at the corners as she smiled. She wore faded denim overalls over a white tank top, dirt under her short fingernails, and a smudge of green sage stain on her left cheek. She didn’t let go of his elbow immediately, her thumb brushing the frayed edge of his flannel shirt sleeve, and he could smell lavender and wild mint on her, the same scent he’d remembered clinging to her jacket when she’d brought the crew coffee during the 2008 Lolo fire, the fight that had ended his friendship with Jax for good.
He pulled his arm back fast, heat rising up his neck, and handed her the tin. It was labeled “Sore Muscle Salve, For Overworked Loggers & Bad Decisions.” He grumbled an apology, turning to leave, but she laughed, a low, rough sound that cut through the market noise. “You think I don’t recognize you, O’Malley? Jax has been blowing up my phone for three years asking if I’ve seen you around. He still feels like an idiot for calling you out on that fire line call. You were right, by the way. The back burn held. Saved 12 homes.”
Ronan froze. He’d spent 15 years telling himself Jax hated him, that he’d never speak to either of them again, that the guilt of even thinking Marnie was the prettiest woman he’d ever seen back then was some kind of betrayal. Now she was leaning against the edge of her booth, one boot propped on a cinder block, her gaze not dropping, and he couldn’t remember the last time anyone had looked at him like that, like he wasn’t just the grumpy old widower who lived up the mountain alone.
He shifted his weight, his knee throbbing again, and she nodded at it. “That’s the same knee you wrecked hauling that kid out of the ravine in 2011, right? Jax told me. Rub a little of this on it tonight. No charge. I don’t make handouts, I make solutions for guys too stubborn to ask for help.” She unscrewed the tin, dipped two fingers in, and before he could protest, she rubbed a dollop of the cool, minty salve into the side of his knee through the thin denim of his jeans, the rough pad of her index finger brushing the edge of the scar on his knee he’d never bothered to get fixed, a jolt running up his spine he hadn’t felt in close to a decade. Her fingers were firm, not gentle, and the ache faded almost instantly, his skin tingling where she’d touched him.
He stared at her, his mouth half open, and she laughed again, screwing the lid back on the tin and tucking it into the pocket of his flannel. He mumbled a thank you, turned to the jam booth, bought the two jars his granddaughter had asked for, and when he turned back, she was holding out a paper bag, a handwritten receipt sticking out the top. “I slipped a tin of huckleberry lip balm in there. Elara always loved that stuff, right? I used to sell it to her every week. And my number’s on the back of the receipt. I’ve got a case of that old stout you used to drink after fire shifts at my cabin off the 12 mile road. Stop by sometime. No pressure. Jax is bringing his new wife up next month, he wants to buy you a beer and apologize properly.”
Ronan nodded, his chest tight, and walked back to his truck. The knee didn’t throb once on the walk. He tossed the bag on the passenger seat, pulled the receipt out, and stared at the scrawled phone number, the little huckleberry doodle next to it. He twisted the lip balm open, smelled the sweet, tart scent that used to cling to Elara’s kisses, and typed the number into his contacts before he turned the key in the ignition.
