Eli Pacheco, 62, retired forest fire spotter who logged 38 years manning towers in the High Sierras, had stood in enough slow-moving lines to know when to cut his losses. The line for the county fair’s smoked food contest stretched three deep outside the white canvas tent, his left knee throbbing where he’d twisted it hiking a week prior, the glass jar of alder-smoked Chinook heavy in his grip. He’d debated skipping the contest entirely for three days, convinced it was just another excuse for the town’s retirees to gawk and swap empty small talk, but his old fire crew had badgered him into entering, said his salmon was good enough to beat the old guy who’d won four years running.
He shifted his weight, about to turn and leave, when a voice called his name from the other side of the tent. He spun too fast, jar knocking into a woman holding a pitcher of iced lemonade for the contest judges. A splash of cold, sweet liquid soaked the cuff of his red plaid flannel, dribbling down his wrist. He tensed, ready to snap the automatic gruff retort he used for strangers who got too close, until he looked up. She was in her late 50s, hazel eyes crinkled at the corners with unfeigned apology, short salt-and-pepper curls tucked under a straw cowboy hat, a faded Pacific Crest Trail patch sewn to the lapel of her denim jacket. She smelled like lavender and freshly cut hay, the same scent his late wife used to wear when they went camping in the national forest.
“Jesus, I’m so sorry,” she said, grabbing a crumpled napkin from her pocket and dabbing at his sleeve. Her hand brushed his bare wrist, warm and calloused, and Eli flinched before he could stop himself. He hadn’t let anyone touch him casually, not even a handshake, for close to six years, not after Carol died. The guilt hit sharp and fast, like a fist to the ribs—he’d sworn he’d never so much as flirt with anyone else, that it was a betrayal of the 32 years they’d had together. He opened his mouth to mumble that it was fine, that he was leaving anyway, when she said his name again. “Eli Pacheco, right? I’m Maeve, the new county extension agent. I’ve been digging through old fire mitigation records for the Deschutes National Forest, and half the incident reports from the 90s have your signature on them. I asked the old forest service guys about you, they said you’d probably be hiding out somewhere avoiding people.”
Eli huffed a laugh, the tight knot in his chest loosening a little. They talked while the line inched forward, Maeve leaning in close to be heard over the fair’s calliope and the roar of the monster truck rally off in the distance, her shoulder pressing an inch from his, her hip brushing his every time a stranger squeezed past the narrow tent entrance. He found himself telling her stories he hadn’t told anyone since Carol died: the time a baby black bear climbed 80 feet up his fire tower to steal his peanut butter granola bar, the summer the sky stayed orange for three weeks straight during the 2002 Hayman Fire, the way Carol used to bring him peach pie up to the tower every Sunday during fire season. Maeve laughed so hard at the bear story she snort, clapping a hand over her mouth, and Eli’s stomach flipped in a way he hadn’t felt since he was a teenager asking Carol to prom.
He was torn the whole time they talked, half of him screaming that he was making a fool of himself, that he was too old, too set in his ways, too broken to be any good for someone who clearly had her whole life put together. The other half of him was buzzing, his knee not even throbbing anymore, his cheeks sore from smiling for the first time in months. When the judges called his name, Maeve squeezed his arm before he stepped up to hand over the salmon, her fingers warm through his flannel, and he didn’t flinch this time.
He won third place, a crumpled $25 check and a blue ribbon that said “Honorable Mention” scrawled across the bottom. Maeve cheered so loud the people in line behind them turned to stare. They walked over to the food truck row, split a corn dog and an order of curly fries, sat on a weathered wooden bench next to the ferris wheel as the sun dipped below the Cascades, painting the sky pink and tangerine. Maeve wiped a fleck of cornmeal off his cheek with her thumb, her touch lingering for a beat longer than necessary, and Eli didn’t pull away. He told her he hadn’t even considered going on a date since Carol died, that he’d thought he’d spend the rest of his life alone fixing up his 1972 F-150 and hiking the same trails over and over. Maeve nodded, told him her ex-husband left her for a 28-year-old realtor six years prior, that she’d moved to Bend to start over, that she’d spent the first year there too scared to even say hello to her neighbors.
She asked him if he wanted to hike the stretch of the Deschutes River trail that ran past the old abandoned fire lookout tomorrow, said she’d bring the peach iced tea if he brought his good hiking boots. He almost said no, almost made up an excuse about needing to feed his hound dog, almost let the guilt win, but he said yes before he could overthink it. He handed her the $25 prize check, told her to buy more lemonade for next year’s contest, and she tucked it into her jacket pocket, lacing her fingers through his as they stood up to leave. Her hand was smaller than his, warm, calloused at the fingertips from gardening, and he squeezed back. He tucked the jar of leftover salmon under one arm and walked her to her beat-up Subaru, the sound of the fair’s calliope fading behind them as his thumb brushed the knuckle of her hand.
