Rafe Mendez, 57, retired smokejumper turned backcountry gear repair shop owner, had the same Saturday morning routine down pat for 11 years: roll out of bed at 6:30, drink two black coffees on his porch while the sun came up over the Bridger Mountains, swing by the downtown farmers market exactly at 8:15 to grab the last jar of wild raspberry honey from the old beekeeper out of Livingston, then head to his shop to catch up on repairs before the weekend rush hit. He never stopped to chat with anyone but the beekeeper, never lingered longer than 10 minutes, never invited attention. Small town gossip had followed him since his wife left for California a decade prior, and he’d learned the hard way that keeping his head down meant less nonsense to deal with—he hated being the topic of anyone’s dinner table conversation, even if it was just idle speculation about why he never brought a date to the town barbecues.
The air smelled like roasted green chiles and fresh sourdough when he walked up to the honey stand that Saturday, the first crisp September weekend where the leaves had just started to turn burnt orange at the edges. He reached for the only jar of wild raspberry left on the table at the exact same time as another hand, smaller, with chipped burgundy nail polish and a smudge of navy ink across the wrist, bumped his knuckles. He pulled back fast, like he’d touched a hot stove, mumbled an apology, and glanced up to see Clara Hale, the new part-time librarian the entire town had been squabbling about for the last month.
He knew who she was, even if he’d never spoken to her. Half the guys at his weekly VFW poker night were boycotting the library because she’d pulled three conspiracy theory books about 2020 election fraud from the adult nonfiction section, calling them poorly sourced misinformation. The other half were sneaking in just to flirt with her, from what he’d heard. He’d stayed out of the whole mess, figured what people read was none of his business, but he’d also avoided any interaction with her so he wouldn’t have to hear the guys razz him for “siding with the book banner” at the next game.
She laughed, a low, warm sound that cut through the noise of the market, and pulled her hand back too, tucking a strand of chestnut hair that had fallen out of her braid behind her ear. “I’ve been camped out by this stand for 20 minutes waiting for that jar,” she said, leaning in just a little so he could hear her over the kid yelling for a snow cone a few feet away. She smelled like pine soap and vanilla lip balm, close enough that he could see the tiny smattering of freckles across her nose, the faint scar at the corner of her left eyebrow. “Wanna split it? I don’t go through a whole jar before it crystallizes, and I’m guessing you don’t either.”
His first instinct was to say no, turn on his heel, and head back to his truck before any of the poker guys saw him talking to her. He could already hear the jokes, the jabs about him ditching his no-drama routine for the town’s most controversial new resident. But he looked down at her hand, still resting half an inch from the jar, and the words came out before he could stop them: “Sure. My treat.”
They paid the beekeeper, took the jar, and found a splintered wooden picnic bench tucked between the craft booths and the food trucks, far enough away from the main crowd that no one would pay them any mind. She twisted the lid off the jar, dipped a cheap plastic spoon into the thick, golden honey, and held it out to him first. His fingers brushed hers when he took the spoon, and he didn’t pull away this time, even when he felt that little jolt of electricity up his arm that he hadn’t felt in years. The honey was sweet, bright with the taste of wild raspberries, better than he remembered.
She told him about the hate notes she’d found taped to her library car door the week prior, about the guy who’d come in yelling at her for 20 minutes about “censorship” before the cop on patrol escorted him out. She leaned in when she talked, her knee brushing his under the table every time she shifted, and he found himself leaning in too, telling her about the time he’d jumped a fire outside of Yellowstone in 2011, about the way the smoke had turned the sun bright red for three days straight. He didn’t talk about that stuff with anyone, usually.
By the time they finished half the jar between them, the market was starting to fill up, and he could see a couple of the guys from the VFW walking toward the honey stand, squinting like they recognized him. He didn’t move. Didn’t slump down, didn’t pretend he was talking to someone else. He just kept looking at her, the way she smiled when she told him about her old golden retriever that she’d brought with her from Portland, the way she kept tucking that same strand of hair behind her ear.
She handed him the half-full jar when she stood up to leave, slinging her frayed canvas hiking pack over her shoulder. He noticed the big tear along the bottom seam before she did. “That’s an easy fix,” he said, nodding at the pack. “Bring it by my shop tomorrow after closing. 7 PM. I’ll fix it for free, and we can polish off the rest of the honey.”
She grinned, scribbled her cell phone number on a scrap of receipt from her pocket, and tucked it into the collar of his flannel shirt, her fingers brushing the skin of his neck for half a second. “Don’t stand me up, smokejumper,” she said, and turned to walk away, her boots tapping against the asphalt.
He watched her walk through the crowd, the scrap of paper warm against his chest, and didn’t even look up when the VFW guys clapped him on the shoulder and started teasing him about the librarian. He twisted the lid on the honey jar tight, slipped it into the pocket of his work jacket, and headed for his shop, already looking forward to the next night.
