Manny Ruiz, 53, spent 18 years as a smokejumper before a bad knee injury sidelined him, and now he runs a tiny backcountry gear repair shop on the edge of Missoula, Montana. His biggest flaw is that he’s spent the 12 years since his divorce building walls so high even the most persistent local single women can’t scale them; he swears romance is just a slow burn that ends in ash, same as the ponderosa pines he used to jump into to save. He only showed up to the town’s annual fall festival because his shop sponsored the chili cookoff, and his 19-year-old part-time employee begged him to cover the booth for an hour so she could ride the ferris wheel with her boyfriend.
He’s leaning against a splintered wooden post at the beer tent, nursing a cold IPA, when he spots her. The air smells like fried dough, pine, and wood smoke, the bluegrass band off by the pumpkin patch is playing a loud, twangy cover of a Johnny Cash song, and his work boots are crunching over a carpet of burnt orange and red maple leaves. Lila Marlow, 41, the new county librarian, and little sister of the town’s volunteer fire chief, who’s had a petty rivalry with Manny ever since Manny called him out for botching a small wildfire containment last spring. Everyone in town treats Lila like she’s some fragile, off-limits treasure; she’s quiet, collects vintage hiking maps, and volunteers at the local animal shelter on weekends, and no guy around has dared make a move, scared of getting chewed out by her 6’4” brother.
She’s holding a half-empty cup of spiced cider, her flannel jacket slipped off one shoulder, a smudge of bright orange pumpkin paint streaked across her left wrist, when she catches his eye. She doesn’t look away. She grins, small and sharp, and walks straight over to him instead of veering off like most people do when Manny’s in his signature grumpy, don’t-talk-to-me mood. She’s holding a paper plate heaped with chili when she stops so close he can smell lavender shampoo mixed with the cinnamon on her breath. “I saw you standing here over 20 minutes ago,” she says, raising her voice a little over the music, “and I know you haven’t eaten since I dropped off that stack of old backcountry guides at your shop this morning. You were buried under a pile of torn sleeping bags, looked like you hadn’t moved since dawn.”
Manny freezes. He’s thought about Lila every single time she’s popped into his shop over the last six months, always with some random tiny repair: a frayed tent stake, a loose strap on her hiking pack, a broken zipper on her winter coat. He’s avoided acting on it, though, half scared of her brother, half convinced he’s too rough around the edges, too scarred up from both fire damage and heartbreak, for someone as soft and steady as her. His first instinct is to make an excuse to leave, to say he’s got to get back to the shop, but then she leans in a little closer to hear him over a sudden cheer from the chili cookoff crowd, and the ends of her wavy brown hair brush his cheek. His chest tightens, equal parts disgust at his own cowardice and hot, sharp desire he hasn’t felt in over a decade.
She laughs when he fumbles the plate for a second, calloused fingers brushing hers when he grabs it right before it hits the ground. “I’ve been bringing you those stupid little repair jobs for months, you know,” she says, like she’s reading his mind. “I could’ve fixed most of them myself. I just wanted an excuse to hear you talk about those fire jumps you did, or that hidden alpine lake you hike to every summer.” She reaches up, slow, like she’s giving him time to pull away, and wipes a smudge of chili off his chin with her thumb, holding the contact for a beat longer than necessary. “I know you think everyone around here just sees you as the grumpy ex-smokejumper who fixes backpacks. But I see more than that.”
Manny knows he should turn her down, that hooking up with the fire chief’s little sister is going to spark more drama than he’s dealt with in years, that he’s probably just going to mess this up like he messed up his marriage. But when she tilts her chin up a little, dark eyes warm, waiting, he doesn’t overthink it. He laces his calloused, scarred fingers through hers, ignores the little jolt of electricity that shoots up his arm when their hands fit together like they were made to. “I’ve got a cooler of IPA in the back of my truck,” he says, nodding toward the parking lot. “And my place is 20 minutes outside town, sits on a ridge where you can see the whole valley’s fall foliage. Beats standing here getting hit on by retired ranchers.”
She squeezes his hand, doesn’t let go when they walk past the fire department booth, doesn’t even glance over when her brother yells her name, loud enough that half the crowd turns to look. Manny can feel heat rising up his neck, half nervous, half giddy, like he’s 19 again sneaking out of base camp after a fire call to meet a girl at a dive bar. He unlocks the passenger side of his beat-up 2008 Ford F-150, holds the door open for her, and when she climbs in, she leans over the center console to kiss him quick, the sweet taste of cinnamon cider on her lips, before he even gets in the driver’s seat.
