Javier “Javi” Ruiz, 57, wiped the dust off his frayed Carhartt sleeve as he stepped into the Missoula farmers market, the crisp October air stinging the split on his left knuckle he’d earned splitting oak before dawn. He’d been running his one-man tree trimming and firewood service for four years, ever since he retired from the wildland fire crew he’d led for 12 years, and most days he preferred the quiet of the woods to the noise of crowds, but the volunteer fire department’s chili fundraiser was the one event he never missed. He owed those guys too many favors to skip out.
The line for chili snaked past a booth selling honey sticks and hand-knit wool hats, and when the old guy in front of him stopped short to pet a passing golden retriever, Javi bumped into the woman behind him. He turned to apologize, and his throat went dry. It was Marnie Carter. Ron Carter’s widow. He hadn’t seen her since Ron’s memorial in 2019, when he’d left early because he couldn’t stand the way his chest tightened every time he looked at her, the guilt mixing with a stupid, stubborn crush he’d carried since the day Ron brought her to the crew’s annual barbecue back in 2011.
She smelled like pine soap and cinnamon gum, her dark hair streaked with silver pulled back in a braid, and she grinned like she’d been waiting to run into him. “Javi. I was just thinking about you last week. The ponderosa in my backyard’s leaning so far over the garage I’m scared the next windstorm’s gonna send it through the roof. Every tree service I call says it’s too small a job to bother with.”
He fumbled for his wallet to pull out a business card, his calloused fingers brushing hers when she took it, the contact sending a jolt up his arm he hadn’t felt in years. They got their bowls of chili and sat at a wobbly picnic table on the edge of the market, their knees brushing under the slats every time one of them shifted. He could feel the heat of her leg through his worn denim, and he kept having to remind himself to look at her face instead of the smudge of chili powder on her lower lip. The sound of a bluegrass band playing off to the side mixed with the shouts of kids chasing each other with caramel apples, and for a second he forgot how to talk.
He’d spent 12 years avoiding any real interaction with her, convinced that liking his former boss’s wife was a betrayal, that he had no right to even look at her that way after Ron had hand-picked him to take over the crew when he stepped down for health reasons. He’d turned down every invitation to their house for dinner, every time she’d brought the crew donuts on early season burn assignments, always making up an excuse to be somewhere else. His ex-wife had left him in 2015 because he was always putting the crew, the job, everyone else’s needs ahead of his own, and that habit had only gotten worse after Ron died. He’d convinced himself he didn’t deserve anything good, not when so many guys he’d worked with had gotten hurt, or worse, on his watch.
Marnie leaned in to tell him a story about Ron accidentally setting their backyard grill on fire during a Fourth of July party, her elbow brushing his when she reached for a piece of cornbread, and he realized she wasn’t mad at him, wasn’t put off by how quiet he was being. “Ron talked about you all the time,” she said, wiping crumbs off her jeans. “Said you were the only guy he ever trusted to have the crew’s back. I always wondered why you never came around after he got sick. I thought you hated us.”
He froze, his spoon halfway to his mouth. “Hated you? Hell no. I just… I felt like I didn’t have a right to be there. Like I was taking something I didn’t earn.”
She laughed, a low, warm sound that made his chest feel loose for the first time in years. “You earned every bit of that job, Javi. Ron would’ve been insulted if you thought otherwise.” She nodded at his truck parked across the street, the logo for Ruiz Tree Service painted on the door, and raised an eyebrow. “You gonna come look at that pine for me today? I got a six pack of that hazy IPA you used to drink after burn shifts in the fridge.”
He didn’t even hesitate. He followed her back to her house, a small, cozy cabin on the edge of town with a porch strung with fairy lights, and when he climbed the hill in her backyard to check the tree, he could feel her watching him from the porch. He told her he could take it down the following Saturday for half his usual rate, and she rolled her eyes, saying she’d pay full price if he’d stay for dinner.
The sun was setting pink and orange over the Bitterroot Mountains by the time he came back down to the porch, pine needles stuck in the collar of his jacket, and when she reached up to brush one off his cheek, her hand lingered on his jaw, her thumb brushing the scar on his chin he’d gotten in a 2017 burn over. He didn’t pull away. He’d spent 12 years fighting this, pushing it down, telling himself he was a terrible person for wanting her, but right then none of that mattered. He leaned in, slow, giving her time to pull back if she wanted, and when she kissed him back, he tasted cinnamon gum and the hint of the IPA she’d been sipping, her hands fisted in the front of his Carhartt.
Her tabby cat rubbed against his work boot, meowing for attention, and he pulled back, grinning so wide his cheeks hurt. She tugged him toward the front door by his sleeve, saying she had an apple pie in the oven she’d baked that morning, the same kind she’d brought to the memorial potluck that he’d snuck two slices of before he left.
He kicked his boots off on the porch, leaving the pine needles scattered across the wood, and followed her inside.
