Rico Marquez, 59, retired wildland fire crew boss, leaned his hip against the dented metal grill he’d hauled to the annual Maple Street block party, a crumpled paper towel swiping sweat off the back of his neck. He’d fought 17 major blazes in his career, outrun a crown fire that took out 300 acres of ponderosa pine, carried a 60-pound pack up a 40-degree slope at 10,000 feet, but he’d almost bailed on this stupid party three times that morning. His grandniece had begged, said everyone was asking for his famous mesquite brisket, and he’d caved, even though he’d avoided large crowds since his wife Lois passed three years prior. His worst flaw, he knew, was that he’d rather isolate than admit he still felt raw, still half-expected to turn around and see Lois laughing with the neighbors, holding a glass of sweet tea.
The air smelled like charcoal, cherry Kool-Aid spilled on hot asphalt, and bug spray. Kids screamed in the bounce house set up in the middle of the street, and some guy down the block was blaring 90s country so loud the cooler next to Rico’s feet rattled. He was just reaching for another beer when a shadow fell over the brisket tray he’d propped on a folding table, and he looked up.
It was Elara Voss, the new town librarian who’d moved to town six months earlier. He’d avoided her so far, mostly because he’d spent 30 years covered in ash and pine sap and felt out of place anywhere near a building that required silence, and partly because he’d caught himself staring at her once at the grocery store, when she’d been hefting a box of donated books into her hatchback, and had been embarrassed enough to duck behind a display of pickles. She was wearing a yellow sundress dotted with daisies, white sneakers caked in mud from working in her garden, he guessed, and she smelled like coconut sunscreen and old paper, a scent that hit him like a punch to the chest.
She leaned in a little to sniff the brisket, her shoulder brushing the scar on his left forearm, the one he’d gotten in the 2018 Jefferson Fire when a burning branch had fallen on him. He flinched before he could stop himself, no one had touched him that casually, that unthinkingly, in years. She pulled back a little, her hazel eyes flecked with gold locking onto his, a half-smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. That smells too good to be polite about.”
Rico grunted, grabbing a pair of tongs to poke at the crust of the brisket. His throat felt tight. “No harm. Just jumpy, I guess.” He nodded at the handwritten “NO SELF SERVICE” sign he’d taped to the edge of the tray, a joke he’d made after some guy had stolen half a brisket at last year’s fire department cookoff. “Sign’s mostly for the teens who think they can sneak a slice before everyone else. You’re fine.”
He cut a thick slice, layered it on a paper plate with a side of the pickled red onions Lois had taught him to make, and held it out. When she reached for it, her fingers brushed his, and he noticed two things: first, she had a thin, silvery burn scar wrapping around her left wrist, like she’d grabbed a hot pan straight off the stove, and second, her index finger had a callus right at the first knuckle, exactly the kind you get from turning thousands of book pages. He froze for half a second, half horrified he was overthinking a tiny accidental touch, half wanting to grab her hand and ask about the scar.
“Thanks,” she said, taking a bite, her eyes widening. “Holy shit, that’s better than the barbecue place downtown that charges $25 a plate. You’ve got a gift.” She leaned against the table next to him, close enough that he could feel the heat coming off her arm, not close enough to be pushy. “I’ve been trying to get up the nerve to say hi. Everyone in town says you’re the guy to call if something needs fixing. The back storage shelves in the library are sagging so bad I’m half-convinced they’re gonna collapse on the stack of vintage westerns someone donated last week.”
Rico’s chest tightened again, half desire, half that stupid stubborn shame he carried around, that he was just a retired fire guy with a GED, not someone who belonged in a library, talking to a woman who read for a living. He almost said no, almost made up an excuse about having to fix his fence or help his neighbor with his truck, but then he looked at her, and she was still holding his gaze, no pity, no expectation, just a little teasing glint in her eye, like she knew he was gonna say yes.
He nodded at the scar on her wrist. “How’d you get that?”
She laughed, rubbing the scar with her thumb. “Tried to pull a peach pie out of the oven without an oven mitt last month. Was distracted by a cat that had snuck through the library’s back window. Don’t tell the health inspector I brought that pie to the book club meeting the next day.” She nodded at his forearm, at the thick, twisted scar running from his wrist to his elbow. “Yours? Fire?”
“Jefferson Fire, 2018,” he said, the words coming easier than they ever had before, easier than when he’d talked to his therapist, easier than when he’d told Lois about it in the hospital. “Burning branch fell on me while I was pulling a rookie out of the path of a crown fire. Took 32 stitches. Still aches when it rains.”
She nodded, no wide-eyed horror, no soft pitying “I’m so sorry” that everyone else gave him when he talked about the fire. “My brother was a wildland firefighter. Passed in the 2019 Crane Fire. I moved out here because he loved this town, used to talk about it all the time.” She took another bite of brisket, wiping a smudge of sauce off her chin with the back of her hand. “He loved westerns too. Had a whole shelf of Louis L’Amour paperbacks he read so many times the spines fell off.”
Rico felt the tightness in his chest loosen, like someone had cut a rope he didn’t know he was tied to. He reached for his beer, took a long sip, and grinned. “I got a whole box of those in my garage. Read ’em every night before bed. Haven’t had a library card since I was 12, though. Got kicked out for forgetting to return a copy of *Where the Red Fern Grows* for six months.”
She laughed, loud and bright, loud enough that a couple of the neighbors turned to look. “I’ll waive the late fee if you help me fix those shelves. And I’ll save that first edition L’Amour I found in the donation box for you. It’s even got a handwritten note in the front from the original owner to his wife.”
He nodded, already making a mental list of the tools he’d need to bring: a drill, new brackets, a level. “Wednesday afternoon work for you? I can be there at 2.”
“Perfect,” she said, tucking a strand of hair that had fallen loose from her braid behind her ear. She pushed off the table, holding the half-eaten plate of brisket in one hand. “I’ll leave the back door unlocked. And I’ll make iced tea. Lemon, no sugar, right? Lois always drank hers that way, I heard.”
Rico blinked, surprised she knew that, but he didn’t ask. He just nodded, watching her walk back to the table where a group of teachers were sitting, her sundress swishing around her calves as she waved at a kid running past. He took another sip of beer, warm now, and wiped sweat off his forehead again, and realized he was smiling, a real smile, not the forced one he’d been wearing for three years. A mosquito bit his ankle, and he swatted at it, still grinning, already counting down the hours until Wednesday.
