Cole Hendricks, 58, retired U.S. Forest Service wildfire crew lead, leans against a splintered pine picnic table at the county’s annual summer beer and BBQ festival, calloused fingers wrapped tight around a frosty IPA. He’d fought coming for three weeks, still prickly from half a year of seething over the new county commissioner’s vote to slash the retired fire crew’s supplementary medical stipend, but his old crew buddy Mike had begged, swore the brisket had been smoked for 18 hours over oak from the national forest Cole had spent 32 years protecting. The sun burns warm on the back of his neck, the air thick with the scent of smoked meat, cut clover, and the faint, acrid tang of citronella torches keeping mosquitos away from the picnic tables.
He spots her before she sees him, across the packed square: Clara Bennett, 54, the commissioner he’d ranted about to every guy at the VFW, the woman he’d left three angry comments on the public Facebook page for, the one his ex-wife had spent their entire marriage warning him was “too much, too sharp, off limits for guys like you.” Her silver-streaked auburn hair is pulled back in a thick braid slung over one shoulder, she’s wearing faded high-waisted jeans and a linen button-down unbuttoned one notch lower than most local women her age would dare, wiping a smudge of BBQ sauce off her wrist with a crumpled napkin. He tenses, ready to cut through the crowd to his truck before she notices him, but Mike’s already waving, yelling her name before Cole can stop him.
She crosses the square in quick, easy strides, and when she stops in front of him, she smells like cedar and lime seltzer, stands close enough that her shoulder brushes his bicep when Mike leans past to grab a stack of extra napkins off the table. Her smile is sharp, unapologetic, when she holds out a hand to shake. “Cole Hendricks. I was wondering if I’d run into you eventually. You’ve been awfully hard to track down.” Her palm is warm, softer than he expects, calloused only at the fingertips from years of tending a half-acre vegetable garden behind her house, a detail he will connect later. He doesn’t let go as fast as he should, and he sees the corner of her mouth twitch like she notices.
He’s gruff when he speaks, still clinging to the anger he’s carried for months. “Surprised you’re not up on the stage giving a speech about screwing over old guys who spent their careers pulling your county’s ass out of wildfire season.” She flinches, just a little, then leans in so her mouth is close to his ear, voice low enough that the fiddle player off to the side and the kids screaming as they chase a golden retriever through the crowd drown it out for anyone else. “I didn’t have a choice. The state gutted our operating budget by 30 percent. I could either cut the stipends, or let the active crew run 10-year-old fire trucks with busted hoses this season. Figured you of all people would get prioritizing the guys out on the line.”
He blinks, no one had told him that. He’d only seen the headline in the local paper, hadn’t bothered to read the full story, too used to assuming every politician was out to screw the people who did the real work. She’s still close, he can see the faint smattering of freckles across her nose, the tiny scar above her left eyebrow from when she crashed her dirt bike as a teen, a story he’d heard his ex tell a dozen times. She holds up her seltzer can, twists it in her hand, and her knuckle brushes his wrist when she does it, intentional enough that he can’t write it off as an accident. “I’ve been lobbying the state rep for three months to get a grant to backfill the stipends. I was gonna call you next week, actually. You’re the only guy who has the old crew records I need to prove we qualify.”
Mike is busy flagging down the BBQ vendor to get a second order of ribs, so Cole nods his head toward the edge of the square, where a gnarled old oak tree casts long pink shadows as the sun dips low toward the Cascade foothills. She follows him without question, and when they stop under the branches, she leans back against the rough bark, tilting her head up to look at him. “Your ex always said you were the most stubborn man alive, by the way. Refused to ask for help, refused to listen to anyone who didn’t think exactly like you did.” He laughs, rough, not expecting that, and shakes his head. “Your cousin left me for a realtor who wears loafers without socks. I don’t put a lot of stock in her opinions these days.”
She snorts, a loud, unselfconscious sound that makes his chest feel lighter than it has in years. She pushes off the tree, steps closer until there’s barely six inches between them, and he can feel the heat coming off her skin, hear the faint catch in her breath when he doesn’t step back. “For the record,” she says, voice soft now, “I thought she was an idiot for leaving. You saved my kid from drowning at the lake 12 years ago, and you never even stuck around long enough for me to say thank you. I’ve been waiting to do that for a long time.”
He stares at her, the last of his anger melting fast, replaced by a warm, thrumming curiosity he’d thought died years ago, when his ex had packed her bags and driven to Portland. He lifts a hand, slow, so she can pull away if she wants, and brushes the smudge of BBQ sauce off the corner of her mouth with his thumb. Her skin is soft, warm, and she leans into the touch, her eyes not leaving his. “You gonna make it up to me?” he says, grinning, and she smiles back, wide and unapologetic, as she slips her hand into his, her fingers lacing through his calloused ones easy, like they’re supposed to fit that way.
“Buy me another seltzer first,” she says, squeezing his hand, “and then you can tell me exactly what you need for that grant over breakfast tomorrow. I’ll even pay for the blueberry pancakes.” He lets her lead him back toward the drink tent, the noise of the festival fading into background static, the weight of six months of anger and seven years of loneliness slipping off his shoulders faster than he ever thought possible. He doesn’t let go of her hand, not even when they pass Mike, who winks and gives him a thumbs up from the picnic table.
