Roman Voss, 62, spent 28 years as a smokejumper in Idaho and Montana before a blown knee forced him into early retirement. Now he runs a tiny custom fly-tying shop out of his garage west of Bozeman, works only when he feels like it, turns down more orders than he fills just to keep his schedule clear for solo fishing trips. His biggest flaw? He’s held a grudge so tight against his ex-wife’s cousin Jake for 18 years that he’s skipped every family barbecue, holiday dinner, and even his own niece’s high school graduation rather than be in the same room as the guy. The fight had been over a stupid campsite dispute, the kind that gets blown out of proportion when everyone’s had too many cheap beers and a thunderstorm is rolling in, but Roman’s never been the type to back down first.
He’d only agreed to set up a pop-up at the downtown farmers market that Saturday as a favor to his buddy who runs the local outdoor gear co-op. The air smelled like roasted green chiles from the stand three booths over, cut with the sharp sweet scent of wild huckleberry jam and the faint tang of diesel from the food truck parked at the end of the row. A bluegrass trio plucked a wobbly version of “Foggy Mountain Breakdown” near the park entrance, kids screamed as they chased each other through the gravel paths, and Roman was already counting down the minutes until he could pack up and head home.
Then she showed up. She was 58, sun-kissed, with auburn hair streaked with silver that she’d pulled back in a messy braid, a faded Patagonia vest over a flannel shirt, scuffed hiking boots caked with mud from the trail she’d obviously just come from. She leaned against the edge of his folding table, her elbow barely an inch from his stack of pre-tied dry flies, and nodded at the jar of peacock herl he had sitting by the cash box. “You got enough of that to sell by the ounce?” she asked, her voice rough like she spent a lot of time outside yelling over wind. Her eyes were hazel, flecked with gold, and when she looked up at him he felt a jolt he hadn’t felt since his first smokejumper training jump, that sharp, fizzy rush of adrenaline right before you step out of the plane.
They talked for 20 minutes straight, no lulls, no awkward pauses. She told him she’d just moved to Bozeman three months prior, was still learning all the hidden fishing spots on the upper Madison, had ruined three separate caddis patterns the weekend before when she’d gotten caught in a fast current near Quake Lake. Roman laughed and told her he’d done the exact same thing back in 2017, had lost a whole tackle box and his favorite hat to that same stretch of water. When they both reached for the same spool of olive thread at the same time, their fingers brushed. Her palm was calloused, rough from casting and chopping firewood, and the contact sent a warm tingle up his forearm that lingered long after she’d pulled her hand back. A kid on a scooter zipped between their legs a minute later, and she stumbled into him, her shoulder pressing firm against his bicep for three full seconds, her lavender sunscreen mixing with the pine scent clinging to her jacket to make a smell he wanted to bottle and keep on his workbench. He leaned in closer when he showed her how to wrap the herl around a hook, his chin almost resting on the top of her head, and he could hear the little catch in her breath when he pointed out the tiny flaw in the sample tie she’d pulled out of her pocket.
He was just about to ask her if she wanted to grab a beer after the market closed when she smiled, twisted the peacock feather she’d been holding between her fingers, and said, “My husband Jake’s gonna lose his mind when he sees this stuff. He’s been bugging me to learn how to tie flies so he doesn’t have to pay 12 bucks a pop at the gear shop.”
Roman’s jaw went tight for half a second. Jake. Jake Marlow. The cousin he’d spent almost two decades avoiding, the guy he’d called a selfish prick under his breath at least once a week since that stupid campsite fight. The first instinct that hit him was anger, sharp and familiar, the urge to snap that he didn’t do business with anyone related to Jake, pack up his table right then and leave. He almost did it, too, had already reached for the stack of fly boxes when he looked at her again. She was still smiling, oblivious, talking about how Jake had dragged her out to Montana after he retired from his construction job, how he was terrible at fishing but loved it anyway, how he’d already made friends with half the guys at the local VFW.
That old resentment felt stupid, all of a sudden. Stupid to hold onto for 18 years, stupid to let it keep him away from family, stupid to let it ruin the first nice conversation he’d had with someone who got his obsession with fishing in longer than he could remember. He didn’t say anything about the fight, didn’t mention that he knew Jake, not yet. Instead he laughed, pulled a pre-tied caddis pattern out of his display, and handed it to her. “Tell Jake if he wants to stop wasting money on garbage flies, he can come by my shop later this week. I’ll show you both how to tie these for free. And tell him I still owe him a rematch at that cornhole game we played back in 2005.”
Her eyes went wide for a second, then she laughed, loud and bright, loud enough that the guy at the chile stand turned to look. “You’re Roman,” she said, shaking her head. “Jake told me about you. Said you were the most stubborn son of a bitch he ever met, but that you’d probably help me if I asked nice.” She scribbled her cell number on a scrap of brown paper from the bag of chiles she’d bought earlier, pressed it into his palm, her fingers lingering this time, deliberate. “I’ll text you Thursday. We’ll bring beer.”
She walked away a minute later, waving over her shoulder, and Roman stood there holding the scrap of paper for a full minute before he tucked it into the breast pocket of his flannel. The bluegrass band started playing a slower song, the sun dipped low enough that it painted the whole market gold, and for the first time in nearly two decades, he didn’t feel the familiar twist of resentment when he heard Jake’s name.
