Clay Bennett, 58, retired U.S. Forest Service ranger, leaned against the rough-hewn oak beam of the Whitefish harvest festival beer tent, cold IPA sweating in his grip. A smudge of apple pie flour dusted the toe of his scuffed work boot, leftover from judging the amateur baking contest an hour prior, and the frayed cuff of his red plaid flannel brushed the knuckle of his left hand every time he lifted the beer to his mouth. He’d shown up only because his 17-year-old niece had begged him, said the pie contest needed “a judge who doesn’t lie about how good Aunt Mabel’s rhubarb crap is,” and he’d never been able to say no to her. He’d planned to stay an hour max, drink two beers, head back to his cabin 10 miles out of town before the crowd got too rowdy.
The crowd shifted hard to the left when a golden retriever bounded through the tent, chasing a kid holding a caramel apple, and Lila Marlow stumbled straight into him. She caught herself with one palm flat to his right bicep, fingers splayed just enough that her thumb brushed the faint, 20-year-old chainsaw scar curving over his muscle, and Clay flinched before he could stop himself. She was 42, the town’s first-term mayor, the woman who’d fought the state legislature for six months the year prior to keep the backcountry trails he’d spent 30 years maintaining open to the public, and he’d never spoken more than three words to her at city council meetings before that second. She held his eye for two full beats longer than polite, her brown eyes crinkling at the corners when she laughed, soft and breathless, at her own clumsiness. Her blazer was slung over her opposite arm, the sleeves of her white henley rolled up to her elbows, and her dark hair was sticking up in a tuft at the crown, like she’d been running her hands through it all day. She smelled like cedar and pear, sharp and sweet, matching the crates of pressed cider stacked by the tent entrance.
He mumbled an “it’s fine” before she could even apologize, and he hated how rough his voice sounded, like he hadn’t spoken to anyone other than his hound dog in a week, which he mostly hadn’t. He expected her to nod, move on, go back to schmoozing the local business owners who’d been hovering around her all night, but she didn’t let go of his arm. She nodded at the flour on his boot, asked if he’d been the judge who’d given her cousin’s salted caramel apple pie first place, and when he said yes, she grinned so wide the dimples in her cheeks showed. For a split second, he felt a hot twist of something in his gut, half disgust at himself for even noticing how that grin hit him, half sharp, unexpected desire. He’d spent 12 years shutting that part of himself down, ever since his wife had left him for a real estate agent in Boise three weeks after his best friend died in a backcountry wildfire, and he’d told himself a hundred times that kind of softness wasn’t worth the hassle, not for a guy his age, not for a guy who’d already had his heart ground into dust once.
She must have picked up on the way he tensed, because she let go of his arm then, but she didn’t step away. She leaned in a little, close enough that he could hear her over the bluegrass band playing on the main stage, and said she’d been meaning to track him down for weeks, that the trail usage logs he’d dropped off at city hall back in spring had been the exact evidence she’d needed to win the state funding fight. No one else had bothered to count how many hikers, hunters, kids on horseback used those trails every year, she said, and she owed him a drink for it. He hesitated for three full seconds, his first instinct to make up an excuse about his dog waiting at home, but then he glanced down at her hands, saw the faint scar wrapping around her left wrist from a climbing accident she’d once mentioned in a council meeting, and he nodded.
They snuck out the back of the tent, past the group of old guys playing cornhole, and climbed onto the tailgate of his beat-up 2008 Ford F-150, parked at the edge of the festival grounds where the pine trees started. The noise of the festival softened to a low hum, mixed with the chirp of crickets in the underbrush, and she kicked off her white sneakers, propping her bare feet on the hitch. He handed her a can of black cherry seltzer he’d had stashed in the cooler, and she took a long sip, then leaned in to brush a stray piece of apple skin off his jaw, her fingers grazing the gray stubble along his cheek. He didn’t flinch this time. He told her he’d stopped letting anyone get close after his wife left, that he’d figured he was better off alone, that he’d felt stupid even thinking about talking to her earlier, like he was some kid hitting on a teacher. She laughed, soft, and said she’d been avoiding dating for two years, because everyone in town only saw her as the mayor, not the girl who still got lost on the backcountry trails sometimes, who ate cold pizza for breakfast every Sunday, who’d had a crush on the gruff ranger who gave her extra trail mix when she was 16 and got stranded on a hike with her friends.
The sun dipped below the mountains while they talked, painting the sky pink and orange over Flathead Lake, and when she asked if he’d show her that hidden overlook he’d mentioned, the one only the old rangers knew about, he didn’t hesitate. He hopped off the tailgate, held out a hand to help her down, and when her palm fit in his, calloused from climbing and years of hauling campaign signs, it felt like it belonged there. He opened the passenger door for her, and when he leaned across the seat to adjust her seatbelt, her knee brushed his thigh, warm through the worn denim of his jeans. The radio flicked on as he turned the key, blaring a Johnny Cash song he hadn’t heard since he and his ex-wife were first dating, and he didn’t reach to turn it off.
