Hank Collier is 58, retired 3 years from the U.S. Forest Service after 27 years on wildland fire crews, his left knee still throbs when the humidity climbs, a souvenir from a 2019 blaze outside Helena where he dragged a 22 year old rookie to safety before a dead pine fell on the spot they’d been standing. He restores vintage fly reels out of his garage now, charges 40 bucks an hour, only takes jobs he feels like, spends every morning at The Notch, a dive bar on Bozeman’s Main Street, drinking black coffee and ignoring the same crew of retirees who rehash the same football and fire stories every damn week. His biggest flaw, if you asked the ex-wife who left him 7 years prior for a cruise ship director, is that he’d rather push people away than risk being disappointed again. He’s spent the last half decade proving her right, turning down blind dates, skipping the town’s stupid summer events, even avoiding his new next door neighbor for three months after she moved in, because the guys at The Notch had already labeled her a problem.
Clara Bennett is 54, runs a small vintage lingerie and loungewear shop downtown, the one the local evangelical church group spent two months protesting earlier this summer, claiming her silk slip window displays were “a danger to family values”. The city council held a hearing last week, voted 5-2 to let her stay, and the guys at The Notch had been grumbling about it ever since, calling her every name they could think of that didn’t get them thrown out by the bartender. Hank had never said a word either way, but he’d walked past her shop twice, caught a glimpse of her behind the counter, bent over a sewing machine, a streak of auburn hair falling in her face, and he’d felt a twist in his chest he hadn’t felt since he was a kid sneaking into drive-in movies with his high school girlfriend.
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He’s at the annual Main Street street fair only because his old crew chief begged him to help man the display for the department’s vintage 1972 fire truck, wiping down the chipped red paint with a rag, the smell of fried onion rings and pine and cut grass hanging thick in the 82 degree heat, when he hears that laugh, low and warm, and looks up. She’s standing two feet away, holding a paper plate of fried cheese curds, wearing cutoff denim shorts, a faded Johnny Cash tee that’s frayed at the hem, scuffed cowboy boots, silver hoop earrings that catch the sun so bright he has to blink for a second. She’s close enough he can smell her perfume, something like cedar and ripe peach, mixed with the salty grease from the curds, and he freezes, the rag still in his hand.
“Figured that was your truck,” she says, nodding at the beat up Ford F150 parked behind the display, the one with the fly fishing sticker on the back window. “I see it in the driveway next door every morning. You’re the one who’s always out on the porch at dusk tying lures, right?” She holds out a curd, and when he reaches to take it, their fingers brush, her skin soft but with a faint callus on her index finger, from sewing, he guesses, and the contact sends a jolt up his arm so sharp he almost drops the curd. His knee throbs when he shifts his weight, and he leans against the fire truck for support, suddenly very aware of the grease stain on his work jeans, the scrape on his knuckle from prying apart a stuck reel that morning.
He mumbles a thanks, eats the curd, it’s salty and crispy, and he doesn’t know what to say, so he nods at the tee shirt. “Nice Cash. You ever see him play?” She grins, leans against the truck next to him, her shoulder almost touching his bicep, and he can feel the heat of her skin through the thin cotton of his work shirt. “1994, in Billings. Got kicked out for screaming the lyrics to *Folsom Prison Blues* too loud. You?” They talk for 15 minutes, about the show, about the city council hearing, she laughs and says half the women who signed the protest petition have bought loungewear from her for their anniversary trips, too embarrassed to use their real names when they check out. He teases her about the window displays, says they’re better than the garbage the local art gallery was showing last month, and she leans in a little closer, her breath fanning against his jaw when she laughs.
He’s fighting a war in his head the whole time, half of him screaming to walk away, go back to his quiet house, no drama, no risk of getting left again, no dealing with the guys at The Notch giving him hell for talking to the “lingerie lady”, the other half of him wanting to stay, to listen to her talk, to see that grin, because no one’s talked to him like he’s a person with a brain, not just a retired fireman with a good story, in years. The bluegrass band at the end of the block shifts to a slow, scratchy cover of *Folsom Prison Blues*, and couples start swaying in the street, the sound of the fiddle curling through the warm air. She holds out her hand, her nails painted a deep burnt orange, and tilts her head. “C’mon. Dance with me.”
He hesitates, nods at his left knee. “Knee’s shot. Can’t move much.” She shrugs, her hand still out. “We don’t have to move. Just sway. I’ll lead if you want.” He takes her hand, and she steps closer, her free hand resting light on his shoulder, his hand settling on her waist, he can feel the curve of her hip under his palm, the soft fabric of her tee. They’re six inches apart, and when he looks down at her, she’s already looking up at him, her eyes hazel, flecked with gold, no hesitation, no shyness, and his face gets hot, something he hasn’t felt since he was 17 asking a girl to prom. “I know the guys at your bar talk about me,” she says, quiet enough only he can hear, over the music. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to deal with the jokes.”
He snorts, gives her waist a little, gentle squeeze. “I spent 27 years running into burning buildings for people who never even bothered to send me a thank you card. I don’t give a damn what those old farts at the bar think. You’re the first person in this town who hasn’t asked me to tell the story about the Helena fire at least three times.” She grins, and for a second, he thinks she’s going to kiss him, right there in the middle of the street, but the song ends, the crowd cheers, and she pulls back, but she doesn’t let go of his hand first.
She tells him she’s got a bottle of 12 year old bourbon back at the shop, and a vintage sewing table with a stuck brass drawer pull she’s been trying to fix for weeks, asks if he wants to come by later, bring his tools. He nods, says he’ll bring a couple of the fly lures he tied last week, the ones with the iridescent peacock feathers, if she wants to hang them up on her shop wall. She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, says she’d love that, and squeezes his hand one more time before she turns to walk away, her boots scuffing the asphalt, the sun catching the auburn strands of her hair as she merges into the crowd.
His old crew chief yells over from the other side of the fire truck, grinning, yelling something about him fraternizing with the “controversial lingerie lady” and how the guys at The Notch are gonna give him so much shit tomorrow. Hank grins, wipes his hands on his jeans, feels the faint tingle of her hand in his still lingering on his palm. He yells back that they can say whatever they want, he’s got plans tonight, and he’s not canceling for anything.
