Cole Henderson, 58, retired Yellowstone backcountry ranger, leaned against a splintered pine picnic table at the annual Bozeman Fire Department wildfire gear fundraiser, sweating through the cuffs of his well-worn plaid flannel. He’d avoided the event for six straight years, but his next door neighbor had dragged him along, saying he spent too much time holed up on his 40 acres talking to his border collie instead of actual humans. His biggest flaw, he’d admit if pressed, was that he’d built a wall so thick around himself after his wife passed from breast cancer seven years prior, he couldn’t even hold a 10 minute conversation with the cashier at the feed store without looking for an exit. The last thing he expected that night was to be cornered by the woman he’d been sneaking glances at for three months.
Clara Bennett, 47, the new county librarian, moved to town six months prior after finalizing her divorce from Jake Marlow, the same prick of a senior ranger who’d gotten Cole written up for letting a group of teen campers sleep off-trail in 2019 to avoid a known grizzly den. Cole had hated Jake for 12 years running, so when Clara walked over holding two paper plates loaded with potato salad and smoked brisket, his first instinct was to mumble an excuse and bolt for his truck. She stood close enough that he could smell lavender shampoo tangled with the sharp, savory scent of charcoal smoke and grilled onions, and when she held out a plate to him, her knuckles brushed the back of his hand, warm and soft, and he froze.
She held his gaze for two full beats longer than polite conversation required, no demure look away, no awkward smile, just a half-smirk like she knew exactly who he was and what he was thinking. “You’re the guy who wrote those old backcountry safety pamphlets we’ve got archived at the library, right?” she said, nodding at the faded Yellowstone patch sewn to the breast of his flannel. “The ones with the snarky asides about not trying to pet bison because they’re faster than your drunk cousin at a rodeo. I’ve reprinted three sets this year. Tourists love ’em.”
Cole grunted, taking the plate. He’d almost forgotten he’d written those. Jake had thrown a fit when they came out, said they were unprofessional, that the park service shouldn’t make jokes at visitor expense. He was about to say as much when Clara laughed, a low, throaty sound that cut through the noise of the crowd and the crackle of the nearby bonfire. “Jake hated those, by the way. Ranted about them for an entire week when we found a stack in the old park service storage unit last month. Said the author was a reckless cowboy who didn’t respect protocol.”
The first flicker of wariness shifted to amusement, and Cole snorted, taking a sip of his cheap draft beer. The psychological tug of war hit him square in the chest then: on one side, the lingering hatred for Jake, the voice in his head saying messing with his ex was cheap, that small town gossip would paint him as the petty guy who stole the prick’s wife. On the other, the quiet hum of desire he hadn’t felt in years, the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she laughed, the fact that she’d sought him out, not the other way around. He’d spent seven years convincing himself he was better off alone, that any attention from a woman was either someone after his pension or the small plot of land he owned up in the foothills, but none of that felt true here.
They talked for 40 minutes, leaning against that picnic table, ignoring the calls of the crowd around them. She told him Jake had left her for a 28 year old park service intern who thought wearing cowboy boots to a desk job made her a backcountry expert. He told her about the time he’d seen Jake trip over a park sign while trying to yell at a group of hikers for littering. The accidental touches kept happening: her elbow brushing his when she pointed out the fire chief trying to line dance to an old Toby Keith song, her hand brushing his wrist when she passed him a napkin to wipe brisket grease off his chin. Every time, the warmth lingered, long enough for him to wonder what it would feel like to hold her hand properly.
The fire department guys dragged out the charity dunk tank soon after, yelling that anyone who paid $5 could take a shot at dunking a local “celebrity.” Cole’s neighbor pointed him out to the guys manning the tank, and before he could protest, he was climbing up the rickety ladder, sitting on the cold plastic seat above water that smelled like chlorine and pine. He scanned the crowd and spotted Clara standing near the front, holding a stack of tickets, grinning like she’d been waiting for this exact moment. She took the first throw, missed by a foot. The second, nicked the edge of the target. The third hit dead center.
Cole went flying back into the water, cold enough to make him gasp, and when he surfaced, sputtering and wiping hair out of his eyes, she was laughing so hard she was snorting, doubled over at the waist. He climbed out, dripping water all over the grass, and she met him halfway, holding out a faded cotton towel. When he took it, their hands locked for three full seconds, neither pulling away, and she leaned in, close enough that her breath brushed his ear over the noise of the crowd. “I’ve been asking about you for two months,” she said, quiet enough no one else could hear. “Was scared you’d hate me just for being married to Jake once.”
Cole shook his head, drying off his face, and for the first time in seven years, he didn’t overthink the words that came out of his mouth. “I’m not that petty. Also, anyone who thinks Jake is the standard for how to act is not someone I wanna waste time on anyway.”
They skipped the rest of the fundraiser, grabbing a half dozen lemon bars from the dessert table on their way out, and drove his beat up 2008 Ford F150 up the dirt road to his property, his border collie greeting them at the door, tail wagging so hard his whole body shook. They sat on his front porch, watching the sun dip below the mountains, painting the sky pink and orange, and he pulled out the old binder of pressed wildflowers he’d collected over 32 years on the job, showing her which ones were edible, which ones smelled like vanilla if you crushed the petals between your fingers. She told him she was putting together a local history display of park ranger stories, and asked him to help her curate it, said his voice was the one that deserved to be heard, not Jake’s stuffy rule-following drivel.
He agreed, no hesitation, no overthinking about what the town would say, no worrying about whether he was moving too fast. When she brushed a crumb of lemon bar off his flannel shirt sleeve, her fingers lingered on his forearm long enough for him to feel the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric.
