Elias Voss, 53, spent 22 years as a wildland fire crew boss before a blown knee and a pile of unprocessed survivor guilt pushed him into early retirement. These days he runs a tiny smokejumper gear repair shop out of a converted garage behind his Missoula rental, works only when he feels like it, and avoids all mandatory “community bonding” events like the plague. His core flaw? He’d spent 8 years since his ex-wife left convincing himself anyone who didn’t carry the acrid smell of fire retardant in their pores for weeks at a time couldn’t possibly understand the weight he carried, so he didn’t bother trying to connect. The only reason he showed up to the annual fire season wrap-up potluck at the dive bar off Higgins Avenue was because his old second-in-command showed up at his shop at 2 PM with a case of his favorite Pabst and threatened to hide all his replacement sewing machine needles if he bailed.
He was perched on the last open stool at the bar, flannel sleeves rolled up to show the thick, silvery scar snaking across his left bicep from the 2017 Bitterroot Range blaze, picking at a bowl of venison chili someone had brought, when the seat next to him scraped against the linoleum. He huffed, ready to tell whoever it was to go find somewhere else to sit, until he looked over. She was in a faded navy fleece emblazoned with the Missoula Public Library logo, silver hoop earrings catching the neon beer sign light, a smear of charcoal on the side of her thumb from grading her teen niece’s art homework, he’d later learn. The bar was packed wall to wall with off-duty crew, their partners, and random plus-ones, so she had no choice but to sit so close their thighs brushed through the denim of their jeans. He flinched first, then froze when he caught her scent: pine dish soap and old, yellowed paper, nothing like the cloying perfume his ex used to douse herself in that gave him headaches.
She ordered a rye old fashioned, extra bitters, no cherry, and he raised an eyebrow before he could stop himself. She turned to him, eyes the color of the Clark Fork River on a cloudy day, and smiled, slow and sharp. “Don’t look so shocked. Librarians drink harder than firefighters half the time. We deal with people who tear pages out of first editions and ask us how to use Google every single shift.” He grunted, a half laugh, and when she reached for her drink, her forearm brushed his scar, sending a jolt up his spine he hadn’t felt in close to a decade. He tensed, half ready to pull away, half ready to lean in, when she nodded at the scar. “Wildland?” He nodded, surprised she could tell the difference between that and a construction injury or a car crash. “My dad was on a crew out of Los Alamos. Died in the Cerro Grande fire in 2000. I know the marks.”
For the next 45 minutes, he talked more than he had in the past three months combined. He told her about the time he got stuck in a burnover, huddled under a fire shelter with three 19-year-old rookies, all of them crying, convinced they were going to die, and how he’d sang old Johnny Cash songs off key until the flames passed. He told her about the guilt of coming home when 2 members of his 2019 crew didn’t. She leaned in the whole time, knee pressed firm against his under the bar, never pulling away, never flinching at the gory or sad parts, asking quiet, sharp questions that showed she actually knew what he was talking about, not just making polite small talk. When he finished the story about the 2017 blaze that left him with the scar, she reached out, slow, like she was approaching a skittish deer, and brushed her cold, drink-chilled fingers across the raised silver skin. He didn’t flinch this time. His breath caught, and he realized he’d spent so long pushing people away that he’d forgotten what it felt like to be seen, not just tolerated.
He’d spent years judging anyone who didn’t have a direct tie to fire work as soft, as unworthy of the stories he carried, and the shame of that judgment hit him sharp, right next to the low, warm hum of desire thrumming in his chest. He didn’t want this to be a throwaway one night stand, but he also didn’t want to go back to his empty house alone, either. He cleared his throat, picked at the label on his beer bottle for half a second before meeting her eyes. “I got a shop out back of my place. Got a whole binder full of old crew patches, from every fire I ever worked. You wanna come see it? I got that rye you like, too, stashed under the counter.” She smiled, that same slow, sharp smile, and slid her hand across the bar, palm up, so he could take it if he wanted.
He slid his calloused, resin-stained hand into hers, laced their fingers together, and pulled her off the stool. They walked out into the crisp October air, the sky streaked pink and orange over the Bitterroots, the smell of pine and wood smoke hanging thick in the air. Her hand was warm now, small against his, and when she leaned into his side a little as they walked down the sidewalk, he didn’t pull away.
