Clay Bennett, 58, would have rather spent the Saturday mending the split-rail fence around his property than traipsing through the small-town Montana summer street fair, but his sister had threatened to drop off three boxes of Linda’s old kitchenware at his cabin if he bailed. He’d retired from the Forest Service two years prior, 32 years leading wildfire crews across the West, the 4-inch silvery scar across his left forearm the only physical souvenir he bothered to show off from the 2018 blaze that ate half of Paradise, California. He leaned against the splintered post of the beer tent, plastic IPA cup sweating through the thigh of his worn work jeans, and tuned out the off-key Johnny Cash cover drifting from the stage at the end of the block, the high-pitched screams of kids chasing each other with cotton candy, the endless stream of neighbors stopping to ask how he was settling into retirement.
He was halfway to convincing himself he could sneak out to his beat-up F-150 without his sister noticing when a woman leaned around the post next to him, holding a chipped stainless steel flask out in offering. She was 54, he guessed later, sun-freckled across the bridge of her nose, a gap between her two front teeth when she grinned, a utility belt slung low on her jeans slung with dog treats and a pair of heavy-duty work gloves. She was Mara Carter, Jax’s ex-wife, he realized a beat later, the woman he’d avoided running into for a full decade after his blowout fight with her then-husband, the fight that ended with Jax quitting the crew and moving three hours east, the two men never speaking again.
She stood close enough that he could smell coconut shampoo mixed with the pine sol she’d clearly been using to scrub the dog crates for the rescue booth she was running that day, her elbow brushing the raised edge of his forearm scar when she pressed the flask into his hand. “Figured you looked like you needed something stronger than IPA to get through the fair,” she said, holding his gaze for two full beats longer than polite, like she knew exactly who he was and exactly why he’d avoided her for years. He hesitated, his first instinct to hand the flask back, tell her he didn’t want any trouble, that he still thought Jax was an idiot who’d missed that wind shift and nearly gotten a 19-year-old rookie killed. Instead he unscrewed the cap, tipped it back, and swallowed a mouthful of Fireball that burned all the way down to his sternum.
They talked for 40 minutes, leaning against that post, the crowd swirling around them. She told him about the golden retriever she’d pulled from a wildfire burn zone outside of Missoula the month prior, the dog had hidden under a fallen pine for three days before her team found it, half-starved and singed around the ears. He told her about the time his crew had rescued a litter of bobcat kittens from a controlled burn gone wrong, how they’d kept them in the crew trailer for a week until a wildlife rehab could take them. She laughed so hard at his story about the time a rookie had tried to deep-fry a burrito on the crew’s camp stove and set a tarp on fire that she snort-laughed, and when she leaned in to slap his arm playfully, her calloused palm lingered on his bicep for half a second too long. He kept waiting for the disgust to kick in, the voice in his head telling him he was betraying some unwritten crew code by talking to Jax’s ex, but all he could focus on was the way the sun hit the gold streak in her dark hair, the way she kept leaning in closer when the band got too loud, the way she didn’t flinch when his hand brushed hers when he passed the flask back.
The rain hit without warning, fat cold drops splattering against the hot asphalt so fast the whole crowd scattered in a matter of seconds, people grabbing coolers and strollers and running for cover. He grabbed her wrist without thinking, yanking her around the side of the dive bar two doors down, squeezing into the narrow covered back entryway so they wouldn’t get soaked. The space was barely four feet wide, their shoulders pressed flush together, her left knee pushed up against his right, the rain pounding so hard against the metal awning above them they could barely hear each other speak. The smell of fried dough and cut grass drifted through the rain, and when she tilted her head up to look at him, her cheeks pink from the cold, he forgot every argument he’d ever had with Jax, every excuse he’d made for staying alone in his cabin for seven years.
“I know you and Jax haven’t spoken in 10 years,” she said, her voice just loud enough to cut through the rain, “and I know you think he messed up that day. He knows it too, for what it’s worth. I didn’t talk to him for six months after it happened, either. But I’ve heard about you for years. I always thought you sounded like a stubborn, closed-off ass. Turns out I was only half right.” She leaned in before he could say anything, kissing him slow, her lips tasting like Fireball and cherry lip balm, her hand coming up to rest on the scar on his forearm. He kissed her back, his hand cupping her jaw, his thumb brushing the freckle next to her left eye, and for the first time since Linda died, he didn’t feel guilty for wanting something that felt good.
The rain slowed to a drizzle 10 minutes later, the sound of the band tuning back up drifting down the street. He wiped a drop of rain off her cheek with his thumb, and she grinned up at him, tucking a strand of wet hair behind her ear. He asked if she wanted to go inside the bar, split an order of the famous cheese curds the place was known for, maybe play a round of pool if the tables were open. She nodded, lacing her fingers through his, her calloused palm fitting against his like it was made to be there. When she tugged him toward the red vinyl booth by the jukebox, he didn’t even think to check if anyone they knew was watching.
