Thorne Holloway, 61, retired wildfire crew boss turned part-time firewood hauler, leaned against the scuffed pine bar of The Pine Tap and stared at the dented silver third-place ribbon pinned to his flannel shirt. His chili had packed enough habanero to clear a smokejumper’s sinuses at 100 yards, but the judges had docked him points for “lack of subtlety,” as if subtlety belonged anywhere near a pot of chili meant to feed volunteer firefighters after a 12 hour shift of cutting brush. He’d planned to leave 20 minutes prior, but his granddaughter had roped him into judging the pie contest, and now he was stuck nursing a warm Pabst while a group of retirees argued about the 2023 Lolo fire season.
He spotted her across the room first, and his jaw went tight. Elara Mendez, 48, Rico’s widow, had moved back to town six months prior to run her mother’s downtown bookstore, and Thorne had gone out of his way to avoid her every single time their paths almost crossed. He’d skipped the farmers market three Saturdays in a row when he’d heard she was selling used books there, had rerouted his firewood delivery runs to skip the block her store was on, had lied to his granddaughter when she’d invited Elara to their family cookout in August. Guilt sat heavy in his chest every time he thought of her: he’d been the crew boss the day Rico died on the 2016 Lolo fire, had sent him to check the west flank right before the wind shifted and the blowout hit. He’d spent seven years convinced he had no right to even say hello to her, let alone look at her the way he was looking at her now, watching her laugh as she accepted a blue ribbon for her peach pie.
She turned, caught his eye, and smiled before he could look away. He froze, holding his beer halfway to his mouth, as she wove through the crowd of flannel and work boots toward him. She was wearing faded high-waisted Levi’s and a threadbare crew hoodie that had once been Rico’s, her dark hair pulled back in a messy braid, and when she leaned against the bar next to him, he caught the scent of pine soap and cinnamon lip balm. Their elbows brushed when she reached for a seltzer the bartender set down in front of her, and he flinched like he’d touched a hot coal, but she didn’t pull away.
“Your chili tasted like I licked a campfire,” she said, grinning, and tapped the third-place ribbon on his shirt. “I snuck a bite before the judges got to it. My tongue’s still tingling.”
Thorne grunted, staring at the label on his beer. He didn’t trust himself to speak, not when she was this close, not when he could see the faint smattering of freckles across her nose that he’d forgotten were there, not when every cell in his body was warring between the urge to lean in and the urge to run out the back door. Disgust curled in his gut first: what kind of man looks at his dead best friend’s wife like that? What kind of man would even consider betraying a brother who’d saved his life twice over? But the desire was louder, warm and heavy in his bones, the kind of quiet want he’d buried so deep after his ex-wife left he’d thought it was gone for good.
“I heard you’re still hauling firewood,” she said, and when he glanced up, her dark eyes were steady on his, no anger, no pity, just something soft he couldn’t name. “I need three cords for the bookstore this winter. The old furnace barely works, and I’m tired of wearing three sweaters to ring up customers.”
He nodded before he could think better of it. “I can drop it off tomorrow afternoon, if that works.”
She leaned in a little closer, so her shoulder was pressed to his, and lowered her voice so the guys arguing about fire seasons a few feet away couldn’t hear. “I know you blame yourself for what happened to Rico,” she said, and her hand landed on his forearm, warm and firm through the flannel, and he didn’t flinch this time. “He talked to me about it, three months before that fire. Said if anything ever went wrong on a run, he wanted you to check on me. Said you were the only person he trusted to make sure I was okay.”
Thorne’s throat went dry. He’d spent seven years carrying that weight alone, convinced he was the only one who thought he was responsible, convinced everyone in town thought he’d gotten Rico killed. “I was scared,” he said, quiet, the words sticking in his throat. “Scared everyone would talk. Scared I was dishonoring him. Scared I wanted this too bad.”
Elara laughed, soft and low, and squeezed his forearm. “Half the town’s been running a betting pool on how long it’d take you to stop being an idiot and ask me out. The old fire crew has $400 riding on you making a move before the first snow.” She pulled a napkin out of her jeans pocket, scribbled her address on it, and tucked it into the breast pocket of his flannel, her fingers brushing the old branch-strike scar on his chest through the fabric, the one Rico had pulled him out of the way of back in 2012. “Bring the wood tomorrow. And stay for dinner. I’m making meatloaf, the same recipe Rico used to make for crew cookouts. You always did love his meatloaf.”
She turned and walked away, stopping to hug his granddaughter on her way out the door, and Thorne stared after her, his hand pressed to the napkin in his pocket, the cinnamon scent of her lip balm still lingering on the sleeve of his flannel. He lifted his beer to his lips, and for the first time in seven years, he didn’t taste guilt when he swallowed.
