Rafe Marquez, 53, spent 22 years as a wildland firefighter before a 2018 blaze left a thick, silvery scar snaking up his left forearm and a medical discharge in his mailbox. He’d spent the eight years since running a small firewood and forest stewardship outfit out of his cabin outside Missoula, avoiding anything that smelled like commitment—romantic, social, even the weekly town hall meetings he used to show up to just to yell. His biggest flaw, as his older sister liked to nag him, was that he’d rather dig a two-mile fire line in 100-degree heat than admit he might be wrong about anything, especially people.
The first hard frost of October had hit that afternoon, so he’d trundled into The Smoldering Pine, the only dive bar within 15 miles, for a draft beer and a basket of fried pickles before heading home to his two hounds and an old Western he’d watched 17 times. The bar was half empty, so he’d claimed his usual stool at the far end of the counter, propped his work boots on the lower rail, and was halfway through his first beer when he smelled lavender and pine over the stale beer and grease.
She slid onto the stool directly next to him, even though there were three empty stools between his spot and the only other patron, a retired logger passed out over his Pabst. Rafe tensed immediately. It was Clara Bennett, the county public health nurse who’d moved to town from Portland three years prior, the same woman he’d screamed at for 20 minutes at a 2022 town hall over mask mandates, wearing a homemade t-shirt that read MASKS ARE FOR SMOKE JUMPS. He’d called her a meddling city liberal then. She’d called him a reckless idiot who’d get his elderly neighbors killed. He hadn’t spoken to her since.
She knocked the side of his work boot with her scuffed hiking boot when she shifted to face the bartender, and mumbled an apology, her voice softer than he remembered. He grunted in response, eyes fixed on his beer, until she reached across him to grab the napkin dispenser, her bare forearm brushing the raised scar tissue on his left arm. He flinched, not from pain—the scar hadn’t ached in years—but from the unexpected warmth of her skin. He glanced over, and she was holding a glass of bourbon, no ice, her dark hair pulled back in a messy braid, chipped navy nail polish on her fingers, no fancy jewelry. She’d been out working, not stuck behind a desk.
“Sorry,” she said again, nodding at his arm. “I heard how you got that. Was out checking the Rattlesnake trailhead last week, saw all the dead firs you cut down to reduce fire risk. My 16-year-old bikes that trail every weekend. I’ve been meaning to thank you.”
Rafe blinked. He’d spent months assuming she thought he was nothing more than a loudmouthed redneck who hated rules. He mumbled a gruff thanks, and before he could stop himself, he added, “Saw you out at the mobile home park last January, handing out free space heaters to the old folks who couldn’t pay their heating bills. Even the ones who yelled at you for the mask rules. That took guts.”
She laughed, a low, throaty sound that cut through the jukebox playing Johnny Cash. They talked for two hours, trading barbs about the town council’s dumbest decisions, swapping stories about bad winter storms, her complaining about her son’s obsession with downhill mountain biking, him complaining about his hounds eating a whole package of raw bacon off his kitchen counter the week before. She teased him about the t-shirt he’d worn to the town hall, and he admitted he’d made it specifically to get under her skin, that he’d thought she was just another city transplant who’d leave as soon as the first snow stuck. She admitted she’d thought he was just a stubborn old bull who cared more about being right than keeping people safe.
When the bartender called last call, Rafe noticed fat, wet snowflakes sticking to the window. He offered to walk her to her car, even though it was only 20 feet from the bar door, and she agreed. The snow was coming down faster by the time they reached her beat up 2012 Subaru, caked with mud and covered in mountain biking stickers. She stopped by the driver’s side door, and leaned in before he could say goodnight, her thumb brushing a fleck of snow off his gray-flecked beard, catching the corner of his lip by accident. He didn’t pull away.
“I’ve been wanting to ask you something for months,” she said, her voice low enough that only he could hear it over the wind. “I need to learn how to use a chainsaw to clear fallen trees off the hiking trails behind my house. Was too embarrassed to ask, after all the crap we said to each other.”
Rafe smiled, the first real smile he’d had that wasn’t at his dogs in months. “I’ll pick you up at 9am Saturday. Bring warm layers. I got extra gloves that’ll fit your smaller hands.”
She nodded, unlocked her car, and slid behind the wheel, waving as she pulled out of the parking lot. Rafe stood there in the snow for another minute, finishing the last sip of beer he’d brought out with him, flexing his left forearm where her skin had brushed his scar. The wind picked up, cutting through his flannel, but he didn’t feel cold at all.
