Ronan O’Malley, 51, spent 18 years as a smokejumper before a 2019 blaze in the Beaverhead-Deerlodge National Forest left him with a permanent limp, third-degree burn scars snaking up both forearms, and divorce papers slid across his hospital bed. He now runs a one-man wildfire mitigation consulting firm out of a converted garage behind his Bozeman, Montana, home, and his only consistent social commitment is a weekly trip to the downtown farmers market to pick up huckleberry jam for his 82-year-old mom, who’s been in assisted living since her stroke two years prior. His biggest flaw, the one he won’t admit to even himself, is that he’s spent every year since the divorce deliberately shutting down any hint of romantic interest, convinced he’s too broken, too set in his ways, to be worth anyone’s time.
It’s 87 degrees on the late August afternoon he runs into Maeve Carter. He’d only half-noticed the new jam booth, the hand-painted wooden signs propped next to rows of glinting glass jars, until he reached for the last jar of seedless huckleberry jam at the exact same time she did. Their hands brush first, her palm calloused from years of canning, the cool glass of the jar between their fingers, and he freezes when he looks up and recognizes her. She’s his ex-wife’s younger sister, 19 and mouthy and covered in dirt bike grease the last time he saw her, 12 years prior, the day he loaded his last box of stuff out of the house he shared with her sister. Now she’s 42, copper hair pulled back in a loose braid, freckles splashed across her nose, the same faint white scar on her left wrist from the time she crashed his old Yamaha when she was 20 and he stitched her up himself on his back porch.
The air between them goes thick for three full seconds, the hum of the market, the laughter of kids chasing a golden retriever, the tang of roasted almonds from the booth next door, all fading to static for a beat. She doesn’t pull her hand away. Her mouth tugs up at the corner first, a half-teasing grin he remembers well, the kind she’d give him when she was sneaking beer out of his fridge and lying to her sister about where she was going on Saturday nights. “Ronan,” she says, her voice lower than he remembers, warm, no trace of awkwardness. “Thought that was you. Limp’s still the same, huh?”
He huffs a laugh, finally letting go of the jar, rubbing the back of his neck with his other hand, his scarred skin prickling under the sun. He’s hit with that sharp, conflicting twist first, disgust at the way his chest feels tight, at the fact he’s noticing how her yellow sundress fits her shoulders, how she smells like pine and vanilla and the huckleberry simmering in the dented stock pot behind her. She’s his ex’s sister. Small town Bozeman, everyone knows everyone, if anyone saw them so much as talking for more than five minutes the gossip would spread faster than a grass fire in July. But the desire is there too, quiet, building, the same stupid spark he’d tried to stomp out 15 years prior when she’d showed up at his hospital room every day with homemade soup when his ex was too busy with her new job to stop by.
They chat for 10 minutes, leaning against the rough pine edge of the booth, and she tells him she moved back to Bozeman six months ago, runs the jam business with her 84-year-old grandma, got tired of waiting tables in Portland. She asks about his mom, remembers she loves seedless huckleberry jam, says she’s got a fresh batch that didn’t make it out to the front table, stored in the cooler behind the canvas curtain strung up at the back of the booth. He follows her without thinking, the space back there tight, shelves stacked high with jars, so he has to press his shoulder to hers to fit, the heat of her arm seeping through the thin fabric of his work flannel.
She turns to grab the jar from the cooler, and her face is inches from his, her breath fanning across his jaw. Her eyes drop to his scarred forearms first, and she lifts her hand, slow, like she’s waiting for him to pull away, and brushes her fingertips across the thick, raised scar tissue on his left wrist. “I always thought these were cool, you know,” she says, soft enough only he can hear. “Not something to hide under long sleeves all the time. You saved three guys that day. Your ex was an idiot for leaving.”
He doesn’t think before he leans in, his hand brushing the side of her face, and she meets him halfway, the kiss soft at first, then deeper, the faint taste of huckleberry on her tongue, the distant noise of the market completely gone for a minute. When they pull back, both a little breathless, she doesn’t look embarrassed, doesn’t pull away, just grins that same teasing grin, grabs the jar of jam, and scrawls her cell number across the lid in bright blue Sharpie.
“Call me when you’re done visiting your mom,” she says, handing him the jar, her fingers brushing his again. “The diner on Main still makes that green chile cheeseburger you used to love. I get off at 6.”
He tucks the jar under his arm, nods, and walks back through the market, the plastic of the lid warm under his fingers where her number is written. He glances over his shoulder halfway to the parking lot, and she’s leaning against the front of the booth, watching him, and she winks when he catches her eye.
