Rudy Galvan, 62, retired wildland fire crew lead, spent 34 years digging fire line across 11 western states, still bore a pale, jagged scar snaking up his left forearm from a 2018 blaze outside Bend that took out three cabins and half a square mile of old growth ponderosa. His biggest flaw, the one his ex-wife had screamed at him about through the kitchen door the night she left 12 years prior, was that he prioritized every fire call, every crew check-in, every unexpected blaze over the people who cared about him most. In retirement, he’d leaned into that stubbornness, spending most days fixing up his dented 1987 Airstream parked on 5 acres of scrub oak outside town, or hiking solo for 6, 8 hours at a time, avoiding community events like the plague. The only reason he was at the local volunteer fire department’s annual summer fundraiser at all was his 16-year-old granddaughter Lila, who’d batted her big brown eyes and said she was running the snack stand and needed a “big tough ex-fire guy” to carry heavy coolers for her. He’d caved in 10 seconds flat.
He was leaning against the back of the beer cooler, hat pulled low over his graying hair, second Bud Light sweating in his hand, when someone slammed into his left side hard enough to make him slosh beer down the front of his faded fire crew hoodie. Cold, sweet, peach-scented liquid splashed over the top of his scuffed work boots next, and he huffed, looking down first to assess the damage, then up. The woman in front of him had silver streaks woven through her dark brown braid, freckles dusted across her nose, and a flustered half-smile on her face, dabbing at his boot with a crumpled napkin she’d pulled from her jeans pocket. Her knuckles brushed his ankle through the thin fabric of his work pants, and he froze, so unused to casual, intentional touch from anyone but Lila that his brain short-circuited for a full three seconds. She introduced herself as Marnie, ran the used bookstore on Main Street, had been chasing her golden retriever Gus, who’d just stolen a corn dog from a 7-year-old’s plate. Sure enough, the fluffy dog was curled under a nearby picnic table, munching the corn dog like he’d earned it.
They talked for 45 minutes straight, leaning up against the cooler, the noise of the fundraiser fading to background hum. He found out her husband had died 8 years prior from a sudden heart attack halfway up a hike to the top of the local butte, that she’d kept hiking solo every weekend after because it felt like he was still there with her. She listened when he talked about the Idaho blaze that had trapped his crew for 12 hours on a ridge, no radio signal, no backup, rubbing the scar on his forearm without noticing as he spoke, and she nodded like she got it, no pity, just quiet recognition. She leaned in so close her shoulder brushed his every time she laughed, the scent of lavender laundry detergent and lemonade clinging to her linen shirt. He caught himself staring at her mouth when she talked, fought the stupid, childish urge to tuck the loose strand of hair falling out of her braid behind her ear. A sharp twist of guilt hit him then, old and familiar, the same voice that had rumbled in his head every time he’d skipped a dinner with his wife to answer a fire call telling him he’d just mess this up too, that he was too broken, too set in his ways to be good for anyone. He took a step back, mumbled something about finding Lila to make sure she didn’t need help carrying anything.
Before he could walk away, the auctioneer’s voice boomed over the speakers, announcing the next item: a homemade peach pie, baked by Marnie herself, plus a guided sunrise hike to the top of the butte with the baker. Bids started at 15 dollars, jumped to 25, then 30 from a retired teacher who lived down the street from him. Rudy didn’t even think before he yelled 40, loud enough that a few people turned to stare. No one outbid him. He walked up to the stage to grab the paper slip for the pie and hike, and Marnie was standing next to the auctioneer, grinning so wide her cheeks were pink, her hand brushing his when she passed him the slip. Her palm was warm, calloused at the fingertips from turning book pages and pulling weeds in her front garden, and he didn’t pull away.
They met at the trailhead at 5:30 the next Saturday, the pie tucked in a cooler slung over his shoulder, Gus trotting ahead of them the whole way up. They ate the pie on the rock ledge at the top, watching the sun paint the valley pink and orange, and Marnie wiped a smudge of peach filling from his chin with her thumb, slow and deliberate, like she knew he hadn’t let anyone touch his face that gently in years. They hiked back down as the morning heated up, their hands brushing every few steps, neither of them pulling away. By the time they got to the parking lot, he’d worked up the nerve to ask her to get burgers and shakes at the old diner on Main Street after. She said yes, slipping her hand into his, her fingers lacing through his easy like they’d done it a hundred times before. He held the diner door open for her an hour later, already looking forward to the stupid grinning face he’d make when he told Lila she was right about the fundraiser being worth his time.
