Rafe Mendez, 52, spent most of his 20s and 30s jumping out of planes into burning forest, so the last place he wanted to be on a 90-degree July Saturday was the Boise National Forest volunteer fire department barbecue. His old jump partner had begged him to show up, said the department needed to pick his brain about a new mitigation plan for the ridge above town, and Rafe had caved, even though he’d spent the last eight years avoiding any event where more than three people he knew would be present. The scar snaking up his left forearm, a souvenir from a 2013 jump gone wrong outside Salmon, itched under the sleeve of his faded flame-resistant work shirt, a familiar irritation that always flared when he was forced into small talk.
He’d planned to eat a single cheeseburger, chug one beer, hand off his notes to the chief, and bolt back to his cabin in the foothills before anyone could ask him about his dating life, the question that had become a mandatory punchline at every local gathering since his wife left him mid-physical therapy, saying she couldn’t stand being married to a man who “chose fire over her.” He was halfway to the cooler tucked under a pine tree when a woman reached for the same IPA he was reaching for, their knuckles brushing hard enough to make the cold can rattle.
She was new, he’d seen her around the county office once or twice, name was Clara, 48, the new extension agent who’d moved up from Reno three months prior. She wore scuffed work boots, jeans caked with dust from a day spent testing soil at the community farm, and a faded Flaming Lips t-shirt that caught him off guard, the same shirt he’d had in college that got ruined in a jump bag fire back in 2007. She laughed, a low, scratchy sound that cut through the noise of kids yelling and burgers sizzling on the grill, and pulled her hand back, holding it up in mock surrender. “My bad. I’ve been craving one of these all day, but I’ll let the guy who probably fights fires for a living take first dibs.”
Rafe grunted, grabbed two cans, and handed her one, his fingers brushing hers again, deliberately this time, even as a voice in the back of his head screamed that this was a bad idea. Half the town was convinced she was dating the county sheriff, and Rafe had never been the type to step on anyone’s toes, especially not a guy who carried a gun and had the power to write him speeding tickets for the way he drove his beat-up F-150 up the mountain roads. But when she leaned in to ask him about the scar peeking out from under his shirt cuff, her shoulder pressing against his bicep, he didn’t step back.
He told her the story of the 2013 fire, the way the wind had shifted mid-jump, the tree branch that had cracked and sent him tumbling into a patch of burning underbrush, and she didn’t wince or look away like most people did. She ran a finger lightly along the raised edge of the scar, her calloused index finger rough from marking up soil surveys, and said it looked exactly like the map of the Salmon River she kept taped to her desk. The comment stopped him cold. He’d spent every summer since he was a kid floating that river, had even named his old hunting dog after the tributary he’d grown up camping on, and no one had ever made that connection before.
They drifted away from the crowd, leaning against the trunk of the pine tree, their boots almost touching, as they traded stories about bad first dates, dumb local government decisions, the way the air smelled different in the mountains after a rain. Rafe found himself talking more than he had in months, not just the one-word answers he usually gave people, but full stories, the kind he hadn’t told anyone since his wife left. Every time she laughed, she leaned in a little closer, her elbow brushing his forearm, and he could smell the pine soap she used, the faint sweetness of cherry lip balm, the dust of the dirt roads she’d been driving all day.
He checked his watch for the first time an hour later, shocked that it was already 7:30, the sun starting to dip below the ridge, painting the sky pink and orange. He told her he should head out, and she stopped him, her hand wrapping around his wrist for half a second before she let go, a faint flush rising on her cheeks. “For the record, the sheriff’s my cousin. Everyone in this town has been getting that wrong since I moved here, and I’m tired of guys acting like I’m off limits. I was gonna drive up to the overlook at Mores Mountain to watch the sunset. You wanna come?”
Rafe hesitated for three full seconds, the voice in his head listing all the reasons this was a bad idea: he didn’t date, he didn’t let people get close, he was too set in his ways to make room for someone new. But then he looked at her, the way the golden sun was catching the auburn streaks in her hair, the half-smile on her face like she already knew he’d say yes, and he nodded.
They drove up the mountain in his truck, the windows rolled down, the smell of pine and wild sage blowing through the cab, and when they got to the overlook, they sat on the hood of the F-150, their legs dangling over the edge. She pulled a crumpled bag of saltwater taffy from her jacket pocket, handed him a peppermint one, and their fingers brushed again as he took it. He popped the taffy into his mouth, the sweet briny taste spreading across his tongue, and for the first time in eight years, he didn’t make a mental list of all the reasons he should leave before dawn.
