Milo Rourke is 61, spent 32 years with the U.S. Forest Service as a wildland fire crew lead, retired three years prior, now runs a small firewood delivery service out of his dented 1998 Ford F-150 with a bumper sticker that reads “Only You Can Prevent Bad Decisions.” His biggest flaw, the one he’s refused to admit to for 11 years, is that he’s shut himself off from any casual connection that might lead to more, ever since his ex-wife left him for a 28-year-old park ranger. He hates asking for help, hates owing anyone anything, and his left knee is permanently stiff from a 2019 blaze where he slipped on a wet basalt rock and tore his ACL, still popping ibuprofen like candy instead of going to the physical therapy his doctor begged him to attend.
He’s manning the volunteer fire department raffle booth at the small town harvest festival outside Roseburg, Oregon, mid-September, crisp air sharp with the smell of fried dough and hickory-smoked brisket drifting across the fairgrounds, kids yelling as the hayride bounces past, a bluegrass band plucking twangy tunes off to the side. He’s been there two hours, on his second hard cider, knee throbbing so bad he’s shifted most of his weight to his right leg, half-watching the pie-eating contest across the field where a 10-year-old kid is covered in apple filling, grinning like he just won the lottery.
Elena walks up, 48, moved into the old log cabin three miles up the road from his place three months prior, runs foraging and wild mushroom identification workshops for out-of-town tourists, he’s only waved at her from his truck a handful of times, never stopped to talk. She’s wearing a faded indigo flannel, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, forearms dusted with pine sap, auburn hair pulled back in a messy braid dotted with a stray pine needle, freckles scattered across her nose, scuffed steel-toe work boots caked with mud. She’s holding a jar of wild blackberry jam, label handwritten in curly purple ink, says it’s for the grand prize raffle basket.
She leans against the booth edge, her elbow brushes his when she sets the jar down on the rough wooden counter, her fingers cold from the chilled glass, he catches a whiff of pine resin and vanilla lip balm when she leans in to squint at the raffle prize sign. She says she’s been trying to win the 18-inch chainsaw they’re giving away as first prize, has a 40-foot Douglas fir down across her property line, access road washed out last week so no local company will haul a heavy splitter out there.
Milo’s first instinct is to shut it down, tell her good luck with the raffle, he’s got enough work on his plate already, his knee hurts too bad to be hauling equipment up muddy rutted roads for a stranger. But she’s looking at him, head tilted, hazel eyes flecked with gold when the sun hits them, laughs soft and warm when she notices he’s rubbing his knee through his worn Carhartt pants. She says she’s got homemade arnica salve that works better than that ibuprofen he’s been popping every hour, points out the little orange pill bottle peeking out of his flannel shirt pocket.
He feels his ears warm up, hasn’t been caught out like that in years, disgusted with himself for even considering helping her, knows it’s just a favor, nothing more, right? He’s got a portable gas splitter in the back of his truck, small enough to haul up the washed out road, tells her he can bring it out tomorrow, 9 AM, no charge, just don’t make him eat any of her weird foraged mushroom dishes that might send him to the ER.
She grins, leans in closer, her shoulder presses firm against his scarred bicep, the fabric of her flannel soft against the rough skin of his arm, says she’ll make him huckleberry pancakes if he shows up 20 minutes early, says she picked the berries herself last weekend up on the ridge behind her property. He nods, can’t think of anything to say, hasn’t blushed like that since he was 17 and got caught making out with his high school girlfriend behind the gym bleachers.
He leaves the festival an hour later, stops at the grocery store on the way home, buys a new pack of heavy-duty work gloves, the old ones he had were caked with sap and motor oil, he hasn’t bought new gloves in two years.
Next morning, he’s at her place 22 minutes early, truck idling at the end of her driveway, splitter tied down tight in the back, he’s wearing the new gloves, his knee still throbs a little but not half as bad as it did yesterday.
She’s on the front porch when he walks up, holding two mugs of black coffee, steam curling off the top, she’s wearing the same indigo flannel, unbuttoned over a faded 90s grunge band tee, bare feet on the weathered wooden porch steps, the smell of pancakes and warm maple syrup wafts out the open front door behind her. She holds out one of the mugs to him, her fingers brush his when he takes it, warm from holding the hot ceramic, he doesn’t pull away, hasn’t let anyone touch him that casually in over a decade.
He lifts the mug to his lips, steam curls up to fog his wire-rimmed glasses, and he smiles before he even tastes the coffee.
