Leo Rojas is 62, spent 28 years perched in fire lookout towers across the Willamette National Forest, now fixes vintage chainsaws out of his garage for pocket cash and the quiet hum of a well-tuned motor. He’s stubborn to a fault, hasn’t worn a shirt without a smoke stain on the cuff since his wife Diane died eight years prior, and avoids small town events like they’re full of contagious bad luck. The only reason he shows up to the volunteer fire department’s summer beer garden is his neighbor left a free ticket taped to his screen door, scrawled with a note that they’re doing free chainsaw sharpening demos.
He knows who she is, everyone in town does. 41, runs the local horse rescue for neglected thoroughbreds, married to Jake Hale, the loud, square-jawed county sheriff who won re-election last fall by 70 points and likes to remind everyone he meets that he once wrestled a black bear off a hiker’s campsite. Leo’s only spoken to her twice before, both times at town hall meetings where she was arguing for more funding for the rescue and Jake was talking over her the entire time.
She’s wearing worn work boots and faded cutoff jeans, a flannel tied around her waist, her dark blonde hair pulled back in a messy braid strung with pine needles. She leans in to shout over the band, her shoulder brushing the frayed sleeve of his old fire crew jacket, and he can smell coconut shampoo and alfalfa, the faint tang of horse sweat clinging to her cuffs. She says she’s got a 1978 Stihl 041 her dad left her when he died, Jake’s been promising to fix it for six months and hasn’t touched it, a friend told her Leo’s the only person within 50 miles who knows his way around a vintage saw that old.
He nods, starts talking about carburetor adjustments, common gasket failures on that model, and she leans in closer, her elbow pressed to his now, hazel eyes locked on his scarred, calloused hands when he gestures to the parts of the saw he’s describing. He hasn’t had anyone listen that closely to anything he’s said in years. His chest feels tight, half from the thrill of it, half from the sharp, hot twist of guilt: he’s not supposed to want to talk to anyone, let alone the sheriff’s wife, let alone let himself notice the way her dimples show when she laughs at his dry joke about Jake’s habit of treating power tools like they’re toys for teenage boys.
A group of guys from the fire crew yells his name, waves him over for a shot, and he shakes his head, doesn’t take his eyes off her. She brushes a strand of hair off her face, her wrist brushing his jaw by accident, and he freezes, his skin buzzing where she touched him. He wants to reach out, tuck that strand behind her ear, but he shoves his hands in his jacket pockets instead, furious at himself for even thinking it. This is the kind of small town gossip that ruins lives, that gets the sheriff showing up at your garage at 2 a.m. with a chip on his shoulder, and he’s got no business dragging anyone into his quiet, uneventful life anyway.
Jake walks over then, slaps Marnie on the back so hard she stumbles forward a little, a half-empty shot of whiskey in his other hand. “What are you bothering old Leo for, honey?” he slurs, grinning like he’s told the funniest joke in the world. “Guy doesn’t talk to anyone unless it’s about chainsaws or forest fires.”
Leo tenses, ready to mumble an excuse and walk to his truck, drive home and lock the door and forget this ever happened. But Marnie stands up straight, tilts her chin up, and her voice is sharp enough to cut through the band’s noise when she speaks. “He’s the only person in this town who can fix Dad’s saw, Jake. You’ve been saying you’ll get to it since March. I’m not waiting another six months for you to forget about it again.”
Jake blinks, like he’s surprised she’s talking back, then snorts, claps Leo on the shoulder hard enough to make his shoulder ache, and stumbles off to join his buddies by the cornhole boards. Marnie turns back to Leo, a faint, embarrassed pink flush on her cheeks, and leans in so close her breath is warm against his ear. “He never listens. No one does, lately. Except you, right now.”
His heart is hammering so hard he can hear it over the music. He knows the right thing to do is tell her to bring the saw by the fire station next week, let one of the younger guys take a crack at it, keep his distance. But he pulls his phone out of his pocket, unlocks it, and shoves it at her. “Put your number in. Come by my place tomorrow at 10 a.m. I’ll have coffee on, and we’ll take a look at it.”
She grins, types fast, hands the phone back to him, and brushes her thumb across the thin, pale scar across his left knuckle when she lets go, the one he got when a saw kicked back on him 12 years prior, Diane had to drive him to the ER and teased him for three weeks about being clumsy. “I’ll bring donuts,” she says, then waves and walks off to help the fire crew carry a case of water over to the picnic tables.
Leo stays for the rest of the band’s set, doesn’t even mind the crowd of chattering town residents, the kids running through the grass screaming with glow sticks stuck in their hair. When he gets home, he pulls the tattered 1970s Stihl repair manual off the shelf above his workbench, sets it out next to a clean rag and a can of carb cleaner, then pulls a bag of cold brew coffee grounds out of the pantry and sets up the brewer on the counter, so it’ll be ready when she shows up.
