Dale Rainer, 58, retired U.S. Forest Service hotshot crew lead, leaned against a split-rail fence at the Missoula County Fire Department’s annual summer BBQ, condensation from his Coors Banquet dripping sticky down his wrist. He’d showed up only because his former second-in-command Jimmie begged him, said the 22-year-old rookie who’d joined the local volunteer crew last year was getting his first-year service award, and the kid thought Dale was a legend. For six years, since his wife Linda died of ovarian cancer, Dale had skipped every community event that wasn’t a funeral or a hardware store run, convinced even small talk with anyone who wasn’t his old hound dog Max was a waste of breath. He’d already turned down two offers to get his blood pressure checked at the public health tent strung up near the beer cooler, wrote the whole thing off as leftover COVID-era overreach that never quite went away.
Clara Bennett, 54, the county’s new public health nurse, walked over not three minutes later, clipboard tucked under one arm, faded green Pendleton flannel thrown over light blue scrubs, scuffed steel-toe boots kicking at a loose patch of grass. She didn’t crowd him, stopped a foot away, nodded at the embroidered hotshot logo on his worn ball cap, said she’d checked half his old crew already, most of them had blood pressure high enough she was writing statin prescriptions on the tailgate of her truck between checks. Dale smirked, said he hiked five miles a day, split his own firewood, didn’t need a nurse telling him his vitals were fine. She laughed, low and rough, like she snuck a cigarette every now and then when no one was looking, said that’s what every single one of you tough guy fire boys says right before you keel over cutting down a dead pine in your front yard.
She stepped a little closer, close enough that he could smell eucalyptus lip balm and a faint hint of pine, like she’d gone for a hike up Mount Sentinel before she showed up to work the event. She reached for his beer cup, said let me set this down for you, just a quick check, I won’t even send you a bill. Her knuckles brushed his wrist when she took the cup, and he flinched hard, like he’d touched a live wire. He hadn’t been touched by anyone who wasn’t his primary care doctor in six years, not since Linda squeezed his hand the night before she died in the ICU. A sharp twist of guilt coiled in his gut, stupid, for even noticing how warm her skin was, for letting himself feel anything other than vague annoyance at the intrusion. He didn’t pull away, though, when she wrapped the blood pressure cuff around his sun-browned bicep, the vinyl cool against his skin.
She adjusted the cuff, her fingers brushing the thick, silvery scar running up his left arm from a 2012 burn incident, asked how he got it. He told her about the 100-foot ponderosa that fell near the fire line, how he’d shoved a 19-year-old rookie out of the way and caught the brunt of the burning bark on his arm. She nodded, said she’d treated a guy last winter who fell through ice on Seeley Lake ice fishing, had a scar almost exactly the same shape across his shoulder. The cuff deflated, she squinted at the reading, hummed, said it was a little high, which she expected given the three pork ribs he had barbecue sauce smudges for on his flannel shirt, and the beer. She teased him, said if he bought her a s’more from the dessert table by the grill, she wouldn’t put him on the “cut back on red meat and beer” list she had tucked in her clipboard.
Dale stood there for a full minute after she walked off to check an old guy in a search and rescue hoodie, fighting the urge to grab his keys off his belt and drive home to his quiet cabin. His brain screamed at him that this was a betrayal, that Linda would hate this, that he was too old for stupid, clumsy flirting with a woman he didn’t know. Then he saw Jimmie wink at him from across the lawn, holding up a s’more of his own like he was issuing a challenge, and Dale huffed, wiped the barbecue sauce off his shirt on his jeans, and trundled over to the dessert table, grabbing two s’mores still oozing melted marshmallow and dark chocolate, graham cracker crumbs sticking to his calloused fingers.
He found her sitting on the tailgate of a beat up 1998 Ford F150, cheering when the search and rescue team yanked the fire department crew across the tug of war line, dust flying up around their boots. He handed her one of the s’mores, she grinned, took it, her fingers brushing his again. This time he didn’t flinch, let his fingers linger for half a second, just long enough to notice her nails were short, chipped, no polish, had a little dirt under the edges like she’d been planting tomato plants in her garden that morning. She told him she moved to Missoula last year, after her ex-husband left her for a 28-year-old yoga instructor in Bozeman, said she wanted a place where people cared more about if you could help pull a lost hiker off a mountain than how much your car cost. He told her about Linda, about the cabin they built together in 1998 up the road from Lolo National Forest, about how Max the hound dog ate half a loaf of his homemade sourdough just that morning.
They sat quiet for a minute, watching kids run around with glow sticks tripping over lawn chairs, the sun dipping below the Bitterroot Mountains, painting the sky streaks of tangerine and soft pink. She shifted closer, so her shoulder was pressed against his, the wool of her flannel scratchy against his bare forearm, and he didn’t move away. The faint guilt was still there, tucked in the back of his throat, but it was overshadowed by the warmth of her next to him, the sound of her laugh when a kid face planted into a bowl of potato chips. The announcer yelled over the speaker that fireworks were starting in two minutes, everyone needed to clear the field by the stage.
She didn’t move, just leaned back on her hands, tilted her head up at the darkening sky, said she’d always thought fireworks were kind of a waste if you had to watch them alone. Dale nodded, took a bite of his s’more, the chocolate melting sticky and sweet on his tongue, and didn’t reach for his keys like he’d planned to an hour earlier. The first firework burst red over the top of the pine trees, loud enough to rattle the truck’s tailgate, and she gasped a little, her knee bumping his when she shifted to get a better view. He didn’t take his eyes off the sky, but he let his arm rest loose against hers, no pressure, just there, as the next round of gold fireworks painted the dark blue sky bright enough to light up the smile on her face.
