Elias Voss is 52, spent 18 years as a smokejumper before a broken ankle and a widow’s empty house pushed him into consulting on forest fire mitigation for small Oregon towns. He’s stubborn to a fault, still sleeps on his side of the king bed he shared with his wife for 19 years, refuses to let anyone else fold his flannel shirts, has avoided even friendly flirting for 8 years straight because a quiet voice in his head calls any new attraction a betrayal. He only showed up to the county fire department’s annual chili cookoff because his old jump crew badgered him for three weeks straight, said they needed his venison-and-hatch-chili entry to keep the sheriff’s department from taking the trophy for the fourth year running.
He’s leaning against a splintered pine picnic table halfway through his second root beer when it happens. The air smells like charcoal smoke, cumin, and cut grass, kids are screaming as they chase a golden retriever through the field, and his work boots are still caked with pine duff from the burn site he surveyed at 6 a.m. that morning. Maren Hale, the 48-year-old new county parks director he’s only seen in formal board meetings before, trips over a half-buried cooler leg three feet away, sloshing a quarter cup of her bean chili onto the sleeve of his navy flannel.
She stumbles forward a step, one hand catching his bicep to steady herself, and he freezes. Her palm is warm even through the thick fabric, calloused at the fingertips from climbing and trail maintenance, and when she leans in to dab at the chili stain with a crumpled paper napkin, her shoulder brushes his chest. He catches the scent of jasmine shampoo and pine sap on her hair, and when she pulls back to meet his eye, her hazel irises are flecked with gold, the corner of her mouth tugged up in a sheepish half-smile. She holds eye contact a beat longer than polite, long enough that Elias feels the back of his neck heat up, and he has to fight the urge to step away like he’s been burned.
“Sorry about that,” she says, dabbing at the stain one more time before she drops her hand, though she doesn’t step back. They’re close enough that he can see the thin, silvery scar snaking up her left forearm, from her wrist to her elbow, identical to the one his wife got when she crashed a ski trip their second year of marriage. The voice in his head snarls that he shouldn’t be noticing that, shouldn’t be noticing how her faded green flannel fits across her shoulders, that this is wrong, that he’s a terrible person for even the smallest flicker of interest. But he can’t look away.
“Flannel’s washable,” he says, gruffer than he means to, and he nods at the paper plate in her hand. “You try the sheriff’s entry yet? Tastes like they dumped a whole bottle of hot sauce in it to cover up the fact they used ground beef from the dollar store.”
Maren laughs, loud and bright, cutting through the hum of the crowd around them. “I did. I spit it in the bush behind the beer tent ten seconds ago. A few people told me your entry’s the only one worth eating. Said it’s spicy enough to make grown firefighters cry.”
Elias smirks, grabs the small sample cup of his chili off the table next to him, holds it out. She reaches for it, and their fingers brush for half a second. Her skin is cooler than his, and he feels a jolt run up his arm, straight to his chest. He tells himself it’s just the root beer fizz, just the heat from the grills, but he knows it’s not. He’s not felt that little spark of anything that’s not grief or work stress in almost a decade.
She takes a sip, her eyes widening, and she coughs a little, swatting at her chest. “Jesus Christ, you weren’t kidding. That’s incredible.” She leans her hip against the picnic table next to his, their elbows pressing together, and she doesn’t move away. Elias doesn’t either. They talk for 40 minutes, about the dry summer they’re having, about the stand of old growth pines on the north ridge that’s at high risk for wildfire, about the way her old dog likes to steal socks and hide them under her porch. The voice in his head gets quieter and quieter, until it’s gone entirely.
When she mentions she’s planning a prescribed burn for the north ridge next month, and needs someone who knows the area like the back of their hand to consult, Elias is already nodding before she finishes asking. “I’m free to hike the ridge with you tomorrow at dawn, if you want,” he says, and he’s surprised at how easy it comes out, no hesitation, no guilt clawing at his throat.
Maren grins, pulls a crumpled receipt out of her jeans pocket, scrawls her cell number on the back, shoves it into his flannel shirt pocket. Her fingers brush his chest again, deliberate this time, and she winks. “Don’t be late. I leave stragglers behind on the trail.”
He’s at the north ridge trailhead at 5:45 a.m. the next day, 15 minutes early, holding two thermoses of black coffee, the receipt with her number folded tight in his jeans pocket. He sees her beat-up silver pickup come around the curve in the dirt road, dust kicking up behind the tires, and she leans out the window to wave, her hair tied back with a faded red bandana, a thermos of her own slung over the passenger seat.
