Rafe Mendez, 53, spent 22 years leading U.S. Forest Service wildfire crews across the Rockies before a blown knee forced him into early retirement three years prior. His biggest flaw, one he’d never admit out loud, was that he’d turned into a deliberate hermit after his wife left him for a Denver insurance salesman eight years back. He drove 22 miles to the big grocery store in Grand Junction every two weeks specifically to skip the small town farmers market, where every retiree and part-time bartender had a cousin or coworker they were dying to set him up with. The only reason he showed up that sweltering mid-July Saturday was he’d polished off the last of his favorite blackberry jam the night before, and the old lady who made it only sold at the market.
The asphalt under his scuffed work boots radiated heat up through his socks, and he’d already sweated through the armpits of his faded 2019 fire crew tee by the time he spotted the jam stand. First, though, he caught the smell of clover honey, thick and sweet enough to cut through the smell of grilled corn and sunscreen hanging over the crowd. He glanced over, and the woman behind the honey stand laughed at something a kid holding a popsicle said, and the sound hit him square in the chest, soft and warm as summer rain. She had dark hair pulled back in a messy braid, a smudge of beeswax on her left jaw, and calloused, sticky-looking fingers as she handed the kid a tiny sample cup of honey.
She looked up before he could look away, and her face lit up. He recognized her then, Clara, the daughter of the old beekeeper Tom who’d passed last winter. He’d chatted with Tom a dozen times over the years, mostly when crews were staging near his hives before controlled burns. She yelled his name, and he hesitated for half a second before walking over, already aware of Mabel the librarian and her friend nudging each other from the peach stand two stalls over, no doubt already drafting the next edition of the town gossip chain.
“Tom talked about you all the time,” she said, leaning over the edge of the stand so her shoulder brushed his bare bicep when she pointed at a row of dark amber jars on the top shelf. He caught a whiff of lavender shampoo under the honey and beeswax scent clinging to her shirt, and his throat went dry for a second. “Said you wrapped his whole west hive line in retardant fabric when you guys were evacuating the 2021 fire, saved every last one. I’ve been wanting to thank you for years, but everyone said you never came into town unless you had to.”
Rafe scratched at the scar snaking across his left forearm, the one he got pulling a rookie out of a dead tree during that exact 2021 fire. He didn’t remember saving the hives, specifically. He’d done a hundred tiny, stupidly brave things that week, running on three hours of sleep a night and cold gas station coffee, none of them felt like a big deal. He mumbled that it was nothing, just part of the job, and she shook her head, grinning, her eyes the exact same color as the fireweed honey in the jar she picked up next.
She held out a small wooden popsicle stick dipped in honey, and when he leaned in to taste it, his lower lip brushed the pad of her thumb. Neither of them pulled away for a beat, the noise of the market fading out for two full seconds, just the buzz of a stray bee hovering near the stand and the heat of the sun on the back of his neck. The honey tasted like clover and faint wood smoke, the kind of flavor that stuck to your tongue for hours. He glanced over at the peach stand, saw Mabel pretending to sort peaches while clearly staring, and that familiar twist of annoyance hit him—he hated being the town’s favorite project, hated everyone thinking they had a say in who he spent time with.
But when he looked back at Clara, she was rolling her eyes, following his line of sight. “Ignore them. They’ve been pestering me for six months about when I’m gonna sell the hives and move to the city to get a ‘real job’,” she said, wiping her thumb on the leg of her worn denim overalls like she was trying not to look flustered. “Apparently beekeeping isn’t a respectable career for a 48 year old divorcee.”
Rafe laughed, loud and unexpected, the kind of laugh he hadn’t let out in months. He asked her if she was busy after the market closed, said he knew a spot up the creek where the 2021 fire didn’t reach, had shade until sundown and a cooler of cheap lager in the back of his truck. He didn’t care if Mabel saw him ask, didn’t care if the whole town was talking about it by dinner time.
She grinned, scribbled her number on the back of a honey jar label in blue ballpoint, and pressed it to his chest, her fingers lingering on the faded fire crew logo on his tee for a full second before she pulled away. He grabbed the jar of blackberry jam he’d come for, plus two jars of the fireweed honey, and stuffed them in his canvas bag, already mentally planning to stop and pick up a bag of those spicy corn nuts she’d been snacking on when he walked up. He didn’t glance at the peach stand on his way to the truck, didn’t slow down when a neighbor yelled a teasing question about where he was off to. He could already taste the cold beer, the faint smoke of the honey, and the quiet possibility of not eating dinner alone for the first time in three months.
