Rafe Mendez, 59, spent 22 years as a smokejumper before a blown knee forced him into early retirement, now he carves custom backcountry trails for the Willamette National Forest, works alone 90% of the time, still hates crowds even after 7 years off the jump line. He’d been roped into manning the chili cookoff booth for the local volunteer fire department’s Fourth of July picnic, and he’d already turned down three offers to join cornhole games, two invitations to post-picnic bonfires, and one overly enthusiastic widow’s request to fix her fence the next Saturday. His scarred left eyebrow twitched every time someone called his name too loud, the old jump injury still acting up when he was overstimulated.
The first time he saw Clara, she was hauling a stack of dog-eared western paperbacks from the back of a sky-blue vintage van, her dark gray hair pulled back in a braid, flannel sleeves rolled up to show a constellation of freckles across her forearms. She was his new neighbor, had moved into the cabin three miles down his road three months prior, ran a mobile used bookstore out of the van, and he’d only waved at her twice from his pickup before now, too stubborn to introduce himself, too used to keeping his own company to bother. She walked up to his booth, boots dusted with pine needle grit, and smiled, and he froze for half a second before he remembered he was supposed to hand out sample cups.
She leaned across the picnic table when she spoke, close enough that he could smell pine soap and vanilla lip balm over the sharp tang of his award-winning spicy chili and the charred hot dogs cooking on the grill 20 feet away. Her fingers brushed his when she took the paper cup, warm and calloused, like she worked with her hands too, and he held the contact a beat longer than he should have before yanking his hand back like he’d touched a hot stove. He knew who she was before she said it—Clara Hale, ex-wife of his old jump crew lead, the guy he’d worked under for 14 years, the guy he’d never even had a full conversation with back then, out of some stupid unspoken rule about not fraternizing with your boss’s wife even when she brought the crew donuts after long fire seasons.
The guilt hit him first, sharp and heavy, like the weight of his jump pack hitting his shoulders mid-drop. He should step back, tell her he’s busy, go hide in his truck until the picnic ends. But she laughed when she took a bite of the chili, wiping a smudge of red sauce off her chin with the back of her hand, and said it was the only thing at the picnic that didn’t taste like boiled cardboard, and the tension in his shoulders loosened a little. She told him she and her ex had divorced 8 years prior, that he’d quit the service to take a corporate safety job and cheated on her with a woman half his age 6 months after that, that she’d moved out here alone to get away from all the old smokejumper gossip, and she’d recognized his name on the cookoff sign the second she pulled into the park.
Firecrackers popped in the distance, kids screamed as they ran past chasing each other with water guns, and she leaned in closer to talk over the noise, her shoulder pressing firm against his bicep, the soft cotton of her flannel warm against his sun-warmed skin. She didn’t move away for three full seconds, not until a group of teens knocked over a stack of paper plates a few feet away, and when she did she glanced up at him from under her lashes, a small, teasing smirk on her face, like she knew exactly what she was doing. He told her about the trail he was carving up by the mountain lake, planned to open it to backpackers by the end of summer, and she asked if she could tag along sometime, bring him a sandwich and a stack of old westerns to leave in the backcountry shelter he was building at the trailhead.
He hesitated, the old guilt niggling at the back of his head, the voice that told him he was crossing a line, that he owed his old boss better, even if the guy was a cheating asshole who’d abandoned his crew the second he got a better offer. But she was looking at him like he was something worth paying attention to, not just the quiet, gruff trail builder who avoided everyone at the post office, and he found himself saying yes before he could think better of it. She asked if he wanted to walk down to the creek to get away from the noise for a minute, and he nodded, grabbing his iced tea off the table, leaving the half-empty pot of chili unattended for whoever wanted to serve themselves.
The creek was quiet, the only sound the gurgle of water over smooth river rocks and the distant buzz of crickets starting to wake up as the sun dipped low behind the pine trees. She stopped at a flat rock half over the water, sat down, patted the spot next to her, and he sat, close enough that their knees brushed when he shifted. She told him she’d always thought he was the most decent guy on the crew, that her ex used to complain about him all the time, jealous that the other guys listened to Rafe more than they listened to him, that she’d wanted to talk to him back then, but never got the chance. He told her about the crewmate he’d lost on a jump 12 years prior, the guilt he’d carried ever since, the reason he kept to himself so much, and she put her hand on his arm, her palm warm through the worn fabric of his hoodie, told him it wasn’t his fault, that no one blamed him but himself.
He leaned in then, slow, like he was approaching a spooked deer, and she didn’t pull away, tilting her chin up, her eyes dark in the fading light. The kiss was soft at first, tentative, like both of them were waiting for the other to pull back, but then she tangled her hand in the short gray hair at the nape of his neck, and he pulled her closer, the taste of chili and vanilla on her lips, no guilt, no hesitation, just the quiet hum of the creek and the warmth of her body against his.
They walked back to the picnic 40 minutes later, her hand loosely tucked in the crook of his arm, the hem of her jeans damp from kneeling by the creek. His old high school buddy, manning the grill, nodded at him, raised an eyebrow, gave him a knowing smirk, and Rafe just shrugged, grinning, squeezing her hand a little tighter when she laughed at the look on his friend’s face. He grabbed a half-eaten container of potato salad off a nearby table, led her toward his pickup, already planning the route up to the lake trail for the next morning.
