Clay Bennett, 58, retired Yellowstone backcountry ranger, leans against the chipped red brick of Mack’s Tavern on the edge of the town’s summer street fair, Coors Banquet sweating through the cuff of his faded plaid flannel. He’s got a scar slicing through his left eyebrow from a 2019 grizzly encounter, a permanent scowl he picked up after his ex-wife left him for a 38-year-old realtor a decade back, and a habit of judging every new face in town by the yard signs in their front yard. He’s only here to grab a beer before meeting his 12-year-old granddaughter for the ferris wheel, and to avoid the small crowd of protestors yelling across the street about the library’s drag story hour, the same fight that filled the town hall auditorium three weeks prior, where Clay stood up and yelled that the new library director was shoving “agendas” down kids’ throats.
A shadow falls over his boots. He looks up. It’s her. Mara Carter, 49, the library director in question, dark hair streaked with silver pulled back in a messy ponytail, denim cutoffs hitting mid-thigh, steel-toe work boots dusted with pine straw from setting up the library’s book booth that morning. A bead of sweat rolls down the side of her neck, past the silver chain around her throat holding a tiny pressed pinecone charm. She nods at the pack of Marlboros peeking out of his flannel pocket. “You got a light? Mine fell in a bin of picture books an hour ago.”
He fumbles for the Zippo in his jeans, hands it over. She leans in, cupping her hand around the flame, and her shoulder brushes his, warm through the thin fabric of her white cotton tank top. The scent of lavender lotion, cigarette smoke, and sun-warmed skin hits him, sharper than the smell of fried Oreos and fair ride exhaust hanging in the July air. She passes the lighter back, their fingers brushing, and he notices the calluses on her palm, the thin white scar wrapping around her left wrist from a backcountry fall she took in her 20s, a detail she mentioned at that town hall he’d been so mad at.
“Recognize the hat,” she says, nodding at the scuffed Yellowstone ranger cap perched on his head, blowing a plume of smoke off to the side so it doesn’t hit his face. “You’re the guy who yelled at me for 10 minutes about corrupting the youth, then mentioned you read *Where the Red Fern Grows* to your kids every summer when you were on patrol. Still have that tattered copy, I hope.”
His ears go pink. He’d forgotten he’d said that, had been too caught up in the talking points he’d seen scrolling on his Facebook feed that morning to remember half the things he’d yelled. “Uh. Yeah. It’s on the shelf in my living room. Granddaughter’s reading it now.”
She smirks, leaning back against the brick next to him, close enough that their elbows knock every time one of them shifts. She swats a mosquito off his bare forearm half an hour later, when they’re still talking, her palm lingering for a beat, nails short and chipped from stacking books. He learns she moved to town six months prior from Portland, after her husband died in a logging accident, that she still hikes 10 miles every weekend, that half the protestors yelling across the street have checked out Louis L’Amour paperbacks from her in the last two months, that she thinks his old ranger stories are way more interesting than the town council’s endless budget fights.
He’s torn. Part of him still wants to walk away, to go back to his quiet house, his old westerns, his routine that doesn’t involve anyone who posts “vote blue” stickers on their car. The other part can’t stop staring at the way her eyes crinkle at the corners when she laughs at his story about the tourist who tried to pet a bison because she thought it was a “costumed park employee,” can’t stop thinking about how long it’s been since someone asked him about his time in Yellowstone instead of just tuning him out as another grumpy old boomer.
“Y’know,” she says, dropping her cigarette butt and grinding it under her boot, “I’ve been trying to find someone to show me the new backcountry trail up at Table Rock. Don’t want to go alone, still don’t know the area well enough. Most of the guys my age around here either spend their weekends golfing or yelling at librarians.” She pauses, tilting her head, and her knee brushes his. “You seem like you know the trails. And you yell way less in person than you do at town hall.”
He should say no. He told himself after the divorce he’d never get tangled up with anyone who didn’t think the exact same way he did, never risk getting his heart broken again by someone who might leave. But she’s looking up at him, eyes bright, and he can hear his granddaughter yelling his name from the ferris wheel line a block over, and for the first time in 10 years, he doesn’t care about the signs across the street, or the Facebook arguments, or what his buddies at the VFW will say if they see him out with the library director.
“Saturday,” he says, taking a last sip of his beer, tossing the empty can in the trash can next to him. “7 a.m. Meet me at the trailhead. Bring two liters of water, and don’t wear those boots. They’re too heavy for that incline.”
She grins, squeezing his bicep before she pushes off the wall, the callus on her palm rough against the flannel. “I’ll even bring that tattered copy of *Where the Red Fern Grows* if you promise not to yell at me about agendas on the hike.” She nods over at the ferris wheel, where his granddaughter is waving wildly. “Go see your kid. I’ll see you Saturday, Bennett. Don’t be late.”
He stands there for another minute, watching her walk back through the crowd, the hem of her cutoffs swinging, the silver streak in her hair catching the sun, the protestors’ yells fading into background noise. He checks his watch, realizes he’s 10 minutes late to meet his granddaughter, and tucks his Zippo back into his pocket, the corner of his mouth tugging up into a real, unforced grin.
