Rafe Mendez, 52, retired wildland firefighter, hauled his dented 30-year-old cast-iron Dutch oven across the dirt parking lot of the Mesa County fairgrounds, the weight of it pulling at the scar across his left bicep. The late August sun beat down on the back of his neck, sharp with the smell of roasted pork, cumin, and wood smoke from the portable burners strung along every booth. He’d entered the annual town chili cookoff seven years running, never won first place, never cared much—this was the only ritual he allowed himself, a way to honor the crew mate he’d gotten hurt on a 2013 fire outside of Boise, the guy who’d taught him to make green chile over a campfire with nothing but a dented pot and a pocketknife.
He’d avoided his new neighbor, Clara, for three months straight since she’d moved into the cottage two doors down from his off-grid adobe. She ran the town’s used bookstore, showed up to town meetings in flowy dresses and boots, always waved too bright when she saw him out hauling firewood or tuning up his 1998 F150. He’d written her off as too soft, too settled, too far removed from the mess he still carried in his bones to waste her time. So when he tripped over a stray cooler at the edge of his assigned booth, his Dutch oven slipping out of his grip, he almost had a heart attack when her hands wrapped around the hot rim of the pot right alongside his, steadying it before it spilled all over his boots.
Her palm brushed the scar on his bicep as they lowered the pot onto the burner, and he flinched like he’d been burned. She laughed, low and warm, wiping her hand on the faded Willie Nelson tee she wore under a frayed denim jacket. “Figured I’d catch you off guard one of these days. I’ve been trying to say hi since I moved in, but you vanish faster than a prairie dog when a pickup drives by.” She nodded at the chile simmering inside the pot, the steam curling up to carry the sharp scent of hatch chiles and roasted tomatillos. “Green chile entry? Bold. Most of the old judges here think anything spicier than ketchup is a felony.”
Rafe grunted, leaning down to adjust the burner knob, suddenly hyper aware of her standing so close her shoulder brushed his when she shifted her weight. He could smell lavender lotion mixed with the smoke off the nearby food truck, could hear the faint click of her silver hoop earrings as she tilted her head to look at him. He noticed the thin scar snaking across her left wrist, raised and pale, and she held it up before he could look away, grinning. “Barrel racing accident, 10 years back. Shattered my wrist, had to quit competing. Now I just sell used romance novels and make terrible white chicken chili that’s definitely going to beat yours.”
He found himself teasing her back before he could stop himself, pointing at the crockpot she hauled to the booth next to his, the label on the side scrawled with pink marker. “White chicken chili? That’s church potluck food. You gonna bring Jell-O salad to serve with it, too?” She threw a crumpled napkin at his chest, laughing so hard her eyes crinkled at the corners, and for the first time in years, he didn’t feel the heavy weight of guilt sitting on his chest when he talked to someone new. They spent the next three hours bantering back and forth, swapping stories about bad jobs and worse exes, her hand brushing his every time she reached across his booth to grab a napkin or a water bottle, his skin buzzing every time their eyes met across the space between them.
When the judges announced the winners, Rafe’s green chile got second place, Clara’s white chicken chili took first, the prize a $200 gift card to the local feed and seed store. She grabbed his arm the second the announcement finished, her fingers wrapping tight around his bicep, and didn’t let go even when the crowd around them dispersed. “You told me to add extra roasted garlic right before the judges came by,” she said, holding out half the gift card to him, her thumb brushing the scar on his arm like she didn’t even realize she was doing it. “This is half yours. No arguing.”
That stubborn streak he’d carried his whole life flared up first, the part of him that always refused help, always pushed people away before they could see how broken he was. But then he looked at her, her hair windblown from the prairie gusts, a smudge of chili powder on her cheek, her hand still warm on his arm, and he let it go. “Fine,” he said, tucking the gift card into the pocket of his flannel shirt. “But only if you come over tonight. We’ll mix both our chilis together, drink the cold IPA I’ve got in the chest freezer, and watch the sunset off my back porch. No Jell-O salad allowed.”
She grinned, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, and when she took his hand to pull him toward the food truck for a funnel cake, her fingers laced through his tight enough to let him know she wasn’t going anywhere.
