Rafe Mendez, 62, retired wildland fire crew supervisor, has avoided the Yamhill County Harvest Fest for six straight years. He only showed up this time because his 11-year-old granddaughter begged him to enter his homemade alder-smoked salmon in the local food contest, and he’d never been able to say no to her. He’d taken third place, accepted the tiny blue ribbon with a gruff nod, and retreated to the furthest back corner of the beer tent before anyone could corner him into small talk about fire seasons past or his very public, three-year long feud with county commissioner Roger Hale over logging access on the old buffer lands Rafe spent 20 years fighting to protect.
The tent reeked of hop ale, burnt kettle corn, and the faint pine smoke curling in through the flapped entrance from the bonfire pit out front. The bluegrass band on the outdoor stage was so loud the wooden support beam he leaned against thrummed under his palm. He’d just twisted the cap off a cold IPA when someone else leaned against that same beam, their shoulder brushing his hard enough that a drop of beer sloshed over the rim onto his work boot.
He looked down, ready to snap, and froze. It was Clara Hale, Roger’s wife of 32 years. She was holding a paper cup of pear cider, her cheeks flushed from the autumn chill and the hour she’d spent hovering by her husband’s side as he gladhanded voters for his re-election campaign. Rafe had only ever exchanged icy glares with her across crowded county meeting rooms, had written her off as just another extension of her husband’s greedy, careless agenda. She held his gaze for three full beats before she smirked, the corner of her mouth tugging up like she knew exactly what he was thinking. “Figured you’d be up front heckling Roger about that logging proposal right about now,” she said, her voice low enough that no one passing by could hear.
Rafe grunted, wiping the beer off his boot with the side of his sock. “Got better things to do with my afternoon,” he said. He didn’t move away, even though her shoulder was still pressed to his, even though he could smell lavender shampoo and cinnamon gum under the sharp scent of her cider. She laughed, a quiet, rough sound that didn’t match the polished, demure smile he’d seen her wear at meetings. “Yeah, me too,” she said. “Spent the last two hours listening to him lie to old farmers about how cutting down that old growth is going to ‘boost the local economy.’ I’m this close to telling him I’m moving to a cabin in the woods and never coming to another campaign event again.”
Rafe blinked. He’d never heard her say a single critical word about her husband in public. He passed her a crumpled napkin from his pocket when a drop of cider spilled down her wrist, his fingers brushing the soft, slightly freckled skin on the inside of her elbow as he did. She flinched, just a little, but didn’t pull her arm away. They talked for 45 minutes, leaning against that beam, the noise of the festival fading into background static as they traded complaints about Roger, stories about the valley, Rafe’s old fire crew stories that made her snort so hard cider came out of her nose. Rafe fought the urge to stare at the way the silver streaks in her dark hair caught the string lights strung across the tent, the way her jeans fit snug over her hips when she shifted her weight, the warmth of her leg pressed against his through the denim. He hated himself for noticing, for feeling that low, warm spark in his chest he hadn’t felt since his wife died 8 years prior. This was wrong. She was married to the man he hated most in the county. Everyone they knew would talk if they saw them together. He should leave.
Instead, when she leaned in so close her breath fanned over his cheek and said she’d always wanted to see the old fire lookout he’d overseen for 12 years, the one perched on the ridge overlooking the valley, he nodded. They slipped out the back of the tent, no one noticing, and climbed into his beat up 2008 Ford F-150 that smelled like pine and his old hound dog’s hair. The dirt road up to the lookout was bumpy, and she grabbed his forearm when they hit a pothole, her fingers curling tight around the muscle under his flannel sleeve. She didn’t let go until they pulled into the small parking lot at the top.
The sun was just dipping below the coastal range when they stepped out of the truck, painting the valley below streaks of pink and tangerine. The wind was sharp up there, carrying the smell of fir and damp earth. She leaned against the wooden railing of the lookout deck, and Rafe stood next to her, their shoulders brushing again. This time, when their hands knocked together, he didn’t pull away. He laced his calloused, scarred fingers through her softer, smaller ones, and she squeezed back. She turned to him then, tilting her chin up, and kissed him slow, the taste of pear cider and cinnamon on her lips. He didn’t fight it. He kissed her back, one hand cupping the side of her face, the other resting light on her waist.
They stayed up there until the first stars pricked through the dark sky, talking quiet, no pressure, no plans beyond the next minute. He drove her back to her car parked by the festival grounds, and she squeezed his hand one last time before she climbed out, saying she’d text him when Roger left for a three-day campaign trip next week. He watched her pull out of the parking lot, her taillights fading into the dark, and sat in his truck for ten minutes, no guilt, no lingering regret, just a light, buzzing warmth in his chest he’d forgotten was possible. His phone buzzed in his flannel pocket, and he fished it out, grinning when he saw a text from an unknown number, a photo of the view from the lookout attached.
