Ray Voss, 62, retired wildland fire crew boss, had avoided the annual Clear Creek Fire Department cookoff for three straight years. He’d hated the pitying head tilts, the offhand “how you holding up, Ray?” questions, the way every woman in town seemed to slip him extra casseroles like he couldn’t boil water on his own after his wife Lynn passed. He only showed up this year because his former second in command, Javi, had showed up on his porch at 7 a.m. holding a six pack of his favorite Coors Banquet and threatened to tow his beat up 2008 F150 if he bailed again.
He was leaned up against the truck’s tailgate, half a beer in one hand, the other resting on the dutch oven of smoked green chili he’d spent three hours smoking the night before, when he first saw her. Elara Mendez, 58, the new town librarian who’d moved up from Santa Fe last fall, was weaving through the crowd of firemen and local families, silver hoop earrings catching the late afternoon sun, tooled leather boots kicking up small clouds of dust. He’d heard the guys at the gas station joking about her for weeks, all of them acting like she was some untouchable, buttoned up stereotype who’d never so much as eaten a messy ribs dinner, but he’d never bothered to introduce himself.
She made a beeline straight for him. “You’re the one who brought the smoked chili, right? Javi said it’s the only thing worth eating at this whole thing.” Her voice was warm, a little rough around the edges like she spent half her days laughing too loud, and she smelled like pine soap and orange blossom when she leaned in to peer at the dutch oven, closer than most people ever got to him these days. He fumbled with the ladle when he reached for it, spilling a dollop of chili right on the soft skin of her wrist, bright red and steaming, thick with the scent of hickory and roasted green chiles.
“Shit, I’m sorry, that’s hot—” He grabbed a handful of napkins from the roll on the tailgate, dabbing at the mess before he could think better of it, his calloused, scarred fingers brushing the curve of her wrist. She didn’t flinch. She just laughed, the sound cutting through the off-key country cover band playing near the picnic tables, and wiped a smudge of chili off his stubble with her free hand before he could pull away.
“Relax, I’ve spilled far worse on myself unpacking 100 year old book boxes. Besides, I already know who you are, Ray.” She pulled a tattered, leather bound journal out of the canvas bag slung over her shoulder, and his throat went dry. It was the fire journal he’d lost when he moved out of his old cabin two years prior, full of his scribbled notes from the 2012 Big Elk Fire, the terrible bear doodles he’d drawn in the margins during slow shifts, the dumb poems he’d written for Lynn when they were first dating. He’d thought it was gone for good, thrown out in a box of old gear he’d donated to the library’s annual book sale.
He stared at it for a long minute, the guilt he always carried when he thought about moving on prickling at the back of his neck. He’d told himself he’d never look at another woman, never let anyone get that close again, that it was disrespectful to Lynn’s memory. But Elara was flipping through the pages, pointing at a doodle of a bear wearing a fire helmet, and she was so close he could taste the lime from the frozen margarita she was holding on her breath, and for the first time in three years, the guilt didn’t feel like it was going to swallow him whole.
They talked for an hour, leaning against the tailgate, ignoring the calls from Javi to come join the cornhole tournament, ignoring the sideways glances from the other guys who’d clearly never had the nerve to go up and talk to her. She teased him about his terrible drawing skills, he teased her about the 3 inch pocket knife clipped to her jeans, which she said she used both to cut open sealed book boxes and fend off guys who tried to buy her drinks and wouldn’t take no for an answer. She told him she’d moved up to Colorado after her ex husband retired to Florida and she realized she hated humidity more than she hated being alone. He told her about the time he’d gotten stuck on a ridge for 12 hours during the Big Elk Fire, sharing a granola bar with a baby deer that had gotten separated from its mom.
A group of teens set off a box of fireworks early, a dozen loud cracks echoing off the mountains, and a pack of little kids went sprinting past, one of them barreling straight for Elara. She grabbed Ray’s arm to steady herself, yanking him close enough that their foreheads almost touched, and he didn’t pull away. He looked down at her hazel eyes, crinkled at the corners from laughing, and the last of the resistance melted right out of him.
He didn’t make a big speech. He just asked her if she wanted to come back to his cabin, that he had a whole shelf full of old fire journals she hadn’t seen yet, plus a cooler of cold beer and a porch with a perfect view of the fireworks show they were supposed to start after dark. She smiled, slipping the journal back into her bag, and laced her fingers through his, her hand soft but firm in his.
He dumped the leftover half pot of chili on Javi’s tailgate without a word, ignoring his friend’s whooping cheers as he led her around to the passenger side of the truck. He opened the door for her, and when she climbed in, she squeezed his hand twice before she let go, the turquoise ring on her index finger cold against his skin. He shut the door behind her, walked around to the driver’s side, and slid behind the wheel, turning the key so the old truck rumbled to life, the faint sound of the cover band fading as he pulled out of the parking lot, heading up the dirt road toward his cabin.
