Milo Rourke, 62, has spent the last 18 years structuring his days around the flow of the Gallatin River, not the whims of other people. Retired from 22 years as a smokejumper, he runs a small, by-invitation-only fly fishing guide service, keeps his cabin 12 miles outside Bozeman stacked with dry fly boxes and canned chili, and hasn’t so much as held a woman’s hand since his ex-wife left him for a crewmate mid-fire season in 2005. He tells himself he likes the quiet, even if sometimes he catches himself pausing mid-tie of a caddis pattern, wondering what it’d be like to have someone to pass the beer to at the end of a long day on the water. He’s at the late August downtown street fair only to pick up a custom walnut fly reel he commissioned from a local woodworker, no other agenda.
The smell of grilled bratwurst and pine hangs thick in the 75-degree air, bluegrass from the bandstand 50 feet away warbles over the hum of families pushing strollers and vendors calling out prices for homemade jam. He’s just stuffed the reel into the pocket of his faded work flannel when he spots a jar of pickled okra on a preserve booth’s top shelf, the exact kind his old fishing buddy Ray used to bring on every overnight float. He reaches for it at the exact same time a woman with sun-streaked brown hair and a trout tattoo peeking out from her flannel sleeve does, their knuckles brushing hard enough that he feels the rough callus on the side of her thumb through his own weathered skin.
He yanks his hand back like he’s touched a hot stove, mumbles an apology, and then blinks when she grins, wide and familiar, her hazel eyes crinkling at the corners. “Milo Rourke. I’d know that beat-up guide service hat anywhere.” It’s Lena, Ray’s daughter. He hasn’t seen her since she was 18, slinging a duffel bag into her mom’s minivan to leave for college in Seattle, yelling over her shoulder that she’d come back to outfish him one day. She’s 38 now, divorced, she says, just moved back to town two weeks prior, renting a small cabin 3 miles up the road from his. She’s been stopping by every booth selling fishing gear and preserved food, she says, trying to get re-acclimated to Montana after 20 years of city rain and overpriced coffee.
They grab two IPAs from the pop-up beer garden, squeeze onto a splintered pine picnic bench tucked just out of the flow of foot traffic. She teases him about the time he left her stranded on a sandbar for 45 minutes during a float when she was 16, too focused on hooking a 20-inch brown trout to notice she’d fallen behind. He laughs, scratches the back of his neck, admits he still feels guilty about it, that Ray gave him so much shit he didn’t live it down for a full year. She leans in when she laughs, her knee brushing his under the table, the scent of sage and vanilla lotion wrapping around him, sharp enough to cut through the beer and bratwurst smell. He tells himself he shouldn’t notice, that she’s Ray’s kid, that he’s almost old enough to be her dad, but he can’t look away from the way her tongue darts out to wet her lower lip when she asks if he’s still guiding.
The question hangs between them for a beat, the bluegrass band switching to a slower, twangier tune. He’s torn, half of him screaming that this is wrong, that Ray would roll in his grave if he saw the way Milo’s heart is hammering under his flannel, the other half hungry for the way she’s looking at him like he’s not just some grumpy old retired smokejumper who lives alone with his hound dog. She smirks, tilts her head, runs a finger along the brim of his hat, the tip of her nail grazing his forehead light as a fly landing on the water. “Relax. I’m not asking for a free guide trip. I caught three king salmon up on the Madison last weekend, they’re in a cooler at my cabin. I was gonna make salmon cakes for dinner, could use someone who knows what flies work on the upper Gallatin this time of year to eat them with. And before you say anything, my dad always said you were the only guy he knew who didn’t lie about how many fish he caught.”
He hesitates for two full seconds, sees a flash of Ray’s face, red-cheeked and laughing, holding up a jar of that same pickled okra on a float trip 10 years prior. Then he nods, pushes himself up off the bench, grabs the paper bag with the pickled okra they’d finally agreed to split. “I got a box of size 16 elk hair caddis in my truck. Work perfect for the upper stretch right now, especially at dusk.” She grins, stands up too, slings her canvas tote over her shoulder. The walk to his beat-up 2008 Ford F150 is quiet, the sun dipping low enough that it paints the Bridger Mountains pink at the peaks, the air cooling just enough that he can see his breath when he laughs at a joke she makes about the terrible Seattle weather. She walks close enough that her shoulder brushes his every third step, the heat of her seeping through his flannel, making his skin prickle.
He pulls his keys out of his pocket, unlocks the passenger door, holds it open for her. She pauses before she climbs up, leans in just enough that her chest brushes his, presses a soft, quick kiss to the corner of his mouth, the faint taste of cherry seltzer and IPA lingering on his skin when she pulls back. He reaches up, brushes a stray strand of wind-tousled hair off her face, his calloused thumb grazing the soft skin of her cheek. He tosses his fly box and the jar of okra into the passenger seat footwell, closes the door behind her, and walks around to the driver’s side, the faint ache in his bad knee from years of smokejumper landings barely registering over the hum of excitement in his chest.
