Rayburn Hoss leaned against the gnarled trunk of a white pine, steam curling off the bowl of brisket chili in his left hand, the calloused pad of his right thumb rubbing the faded scar across his knuckle from a longhorn steer that’d kicked him mid-auction chant back in 1998. He’d told himself he wouldn’t come to the town’s annual fall chili cookoff, had hidden in his cabin for every community event since he moved to the Blue Ridge two years prior, but his next-door neighbor had stuck a free entry ticket under his doorknob that morning, and his fridge was empty save for a six pack of Pabst and half a jar of pickles. The air smelled like hickory smoke and crushed oak leaves, the bluegrass band off by the picnic tables sawing through a cover of *Folsom Prison Blues* so loud he could feel the thrum of the standup bass in his work boots.
The collision came out of nowhere. A woman in a faded plaid flannel and scuffed leather work boots stepped back fast to avoid a kid darting after a stray golden retriever, her elbow slamming hard into the side of his chili bowl, a dollop of sauce splattering across the cuff of his gray Carhartt shirt. She yelped an apology, grabbing a handful of napkins from the stack in her other hand, leaning in close enough that he could smell lavender hand cream mixed with the chipotle and cocoa that perfumed the chili in the crockpot slung over her shoulder. Her fingers brushed his forearm as she blotted at the sauce, calloused at the tips from stacking books and turning brittle pages, he realized, when he recognized her as Clara Voss, owner of the town’s only used bookstore, and the ex-wife of the county sheriff who’d written him three tickets in the last six months for his fence edging too close to the public easement.
He’d avoided her on principle for months, had written her off as another stuck-up local who’d side with the sheriff on every petty fight, but when she looked up at him, her hazel eyes flecked with gold, crinkled at the corners like she smiled more than she frowned, he couldn’t summon the sharp retort he had ready. She didn’t drop his gaze, held it for three beats longer than polite, the corner of her mouth tugging up when she noticed the custom silver auctioneer’s ring on his index finger, the one his late wife had gotten him for their 25th anniversary. “You’re the Texas guy, right? The retired auctioneer?” she said, wiping the last of the chili off his sleeve, her thumb brushing the thin scar on his wrist for half a second before she pulled back. “Found a box of old 1970s cattle auction cassettes at a yard sale last month, can’t understand a damn word any of those guys are saying, they talk so fast.”
The conflict hummed under his skin before he even named it. He knew better than to talk to the sheriff’s ex, knew the man had a hair-trigger temper, had already made it clear he didn’t like “out-of-staters” buying up property in the county. He’d spent two years pushing everyone away, had convinced himself he was fine alone, that he didn’t need anyone messing up the quiet, uncomplicated routine he’d built, but when she held out a small paper sample cup of her chili, steam curling off the top, he took it without thinking. It was the best thing he’d tasted since his wife died, rich and spicy with a hint of cinnamon, and he told her so, making her laugh, a loud, warm sound with a little snort at the end that made his chest feel light, like he was 20 again and asking a girl to dance at the Fort Worth stock show fair for the first time.
They leaned against the pine tree for the next hour, talking over the noise of the band and the crowd, her shoulder brushing his every time she shifted her weight, his knee knocking hers when he leaned in to hear her better over a particularly loud fiddle solo. She told him she’d left the sheriff six months prior, caught him cheating with the 911 dispatcher he’d been lying about working late with for two years, that she’d owned the bookstore for 18 years, had a rescue quarter horse named Mabel out at her small farm on the other side of town. He told her about his wife, about the 38 years he’d run the auction yard outside Fort Worth, about why he’d moved to the mountains, and she didn’t give him that pitying, tight-lipped look everyone else did when he mentioned the lung cancer, just nodded, like she knew what it felt like to lose something you thought you’d have forever.
When the sun started to dip below the mountains, painting the sky streaky pink and tangerine, she nodded toward the end of the field, where the streetlights were just flicking on. “Got a wood stove going in the back of the bookstore,” she said, twisting the hem of her flannel between her fingers, the thin white scar on her left wrist from a high school horse riding accident catching the golden light. “Baked a cinnamon apple pie this morning, still got half of it left. You wanna come taste it? I can play those auction tapes for you, if you want.” He glanced over at the prize table, where the sheriff was leaning in too close to the dispatcher, his hand on her waist, not even pretending to hide it. For half a second he thought about saying no, thought about going back to his empty cabin, drinking his beer alone, but then she slipped her hand into his, her palm warm against his calloused one, and he didn’t hesitate.
They walked the three blocks to the bookstore slow, the cold air nipping at their cheeks, her hand fitting in his like it was made to be there. She unlocked the front door, the little brass bell above the frame jingling as they stepped inside, the smell of old paper and vanilla candle wax wrapping around them, warm and soft. She led him toward the back room, where the wood stove glowed orange through the glass, and kicked the door shut behind them with the heel of her work boot.
