Mace Hendricks, 63, custom fishing rod builder out of his garage west of Missoula, had only shown up to the volunteer fire department barbecue to drop off the rod he’d donated for the auction. He hated these events, hated the way neighbors would pat his shoulder and murmur how good it was to see him out, like he was some half-feral cat they’d coaxed off the porch. Eight years after his wife Elara’s death, the pity still tasted like sour milk in his mouth. He’d planned to slip out before the auction even started, beer in one hand, keys in the other, until Clara Bennett stepped into his orbit.
Clara was the new county park ranger, 42, had moved to the valley three months prior after leaving her corporate lawyer husband in Seattle. The small town gossip mill had chewed her up and spit her out before she’d even finished unpacking her U-Haul: she’d caught him cheating with his paralegal, left him with nothing but her truck and her dog, was supposedly “man-hunting” to fill the void. Mace had ignored all of it, until she was standing so close he could smell coconut sunscreen and the sharp, green tang of pine stuck to her uniform shirt. She held out a clipboard, her forearm brushing his when he reached for it, and he felt a jolt go up his spine he hadn’t felt in close to a decade.
Her eyes were hazel, flecked with gold, and she held his gaze for three beats too long when he told her the rod’s specs: graphite blank, custom wrapped in blue thread to match the Clark Fork river’s summer hue, built to cast 60 yards even in the valley’s brutal west wind. “My dad fished that stretch every weekend before he died,” she said, grinning, and Mace noticed she wore a faded 1998 Lolo National Forest fire crew patch on her jacket, the same one he’d worn the summer he met Elara. A kid darted between them, chasing a golden retriever with a hamburger bun in its mouth, and Clara stumbled, grabbing his bicep to steady herself. Her hand was calloused at the knuckles, warm, and she left it there for a full second before pulling away, a faint pink flush creeping up her neck. Mace’s throat went dry. He knew half the crowd was already glancing their way, knew by morning gossip would paint him as her first target. Part of him wanted to bolt, climb in his 2008 Ford F-150 and lock himself in his garage for a week, hold tight to the quiet, lonely routine he’d built like a shield. Another part, the part he’d thought died with Elara, wanted to stay.
The auction ran an hour late, and Mace stuck around, leaning against the same pine fence post, watching Clara work the crowd. She laughed loud at the mayor’s bad jokes, high-fived the kid who’d chased the dog, and when she held up his rod for bidding, she winked directly at him. It sold for $1200, twice what he’d expected, and when she brought him the check after, she had a cold six pack of his favorite IPA tucked under her arm. “Your niece told me you drink this,” she said, nodding toward his truck parked at the edge of the field. The sun was dipping below the Bitterroot Mountains by then, painting the sky pink and tangerine, the crowd thinning out, cool air curling off the river.
She leaned against his truck when he unlocked it, and when she handed him a beer, her thumb brushed his knuckle. He didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. “I’ve been trying to learn to cast for months,” she said, twisting the cap off her own beer, “keep hooking myself in the shoulder. I’ll trade you three backcountry camping permits, no reservation required, for three lessons. No strings attached.” Mace thought of the empty house waiting for him, the half-finished rod on his workbench, the way Elara used to tease him for being too stubborn to let anyone new in. “Four permits,” he said, and she grinned, so bright it made his chest ache.
They sat on his tailgate for an hour, drinking beer, watching the last of the volunteer crew pack up the grills. She told him about walking in on her ex with his paralegal, about selling the house and fancy cars and driving east until she hit the mountains. He told her about Elara’s ovarian cancer, about the way she’d made him promise not to spend the rest of his life moping when she was gone. A firefly drifted past their faces, and Clara laughed, swatting at it gently, her shoulder brushing his as she moved. He didn’t shift away.
