Roy Pacheco, 62, spent 28 years as a smokejumper before retiring to run a one-man wildfire mitigation consulting business out of his truck and the sun-faded shed behind his cabin outside Grass Valley, California. His biggest flaw, one he’d never admit out loud, was that he’d spent the 8 years since his wife Elaine died actively avoiding any interaction that didn’t involve chain saws, fire risk maps, or arguing with local county officials about brush clearance rules. He’d turned down every invite to community barbecues, every holiday potluck, every drink with his old jump team, convinced that letting himself enjoy anything again was a betrayal of the 32 years he’d had with Elaine. The only reason he was even at the county fire department’s chili fundraiser at The Rusty Spur that Saturday was because his old crew chief had showed up at his door at 3 PM, grabbed his favorite frayed flannel off the hook, and told him if he didn’t come, he’d clear Roy’s 10 acres of brush for him using nothing but a pair of kiddie safety shears.
He was leaned up against the far end of the bar nursing a Coors Banquet, half watching the crowd, half scrolling through fire risk reports on his beat-up old flip phone, when he heard the yelp. A group of drunk teen volunteers carrying cases of soda had jostled Clara Marlow, the 54-year-old who ran the county’s only no-kill animal rescue, and she stumbled sideways, a glop of chili from her hot dog splattering right on the scuffed steel toe of his work boot. She froze for half a second, then laughed, a low, rough sound that cut through the Johnny Cash playing on the jukebox, and leaned down to wipe it off with the edge of her flannel shirt. Roy reached down to stop her before he thought about it, his calloused palm brushing hers, and he caught a whiff of pine shampoo and cinnamon gum, the faint smell of dog fur and hay still clinging to her stained work jeans.
He’d seen her around town a dozen times before, hauling crates of rescue dogs to adoption events, patching fence line on the edge of her property, once yelling at a guy who’d dumped a litter of kittens on the side of the road so loud her voice had carried a full half mile down the highway. He’d always looked away fast, scared if he held eye contact too long he’d do something stupid like strike up a conversation. Now she was standing right in front of him, a streak of silver in her dark hair catching the neon light over the bar, a smudge of chili on her left cheek, grinning like she knew exactly how uncomfortable he was.
She teased him first, about the “I <3 Smokey Bear” sticker he’d slapped on the back of his work truck after a 7-year-old at a school presentation gave it to him, the one he thought no one ever noticed. He grumbled at first, short, gruff answers, but she didn’t back off, leaning in every time he spoke like whatever he was saying was the most interesting thing she’d heard all week, her shoulder brushing his every time someone squeezed past them in the crowded bar. He found himself telling her about the time he’d jumped into a fire outside Redding and landed in a bush of poison oak, spent two weeks laid up in a motel covered in calamine lotion, and she laughed so hard she snort-laughed, and he didn’t even feel the twinge of guilt he’d expected when he realized he was having fun for the first time in years.
The MC announced they were auctioning off chances to dunk the local fire chief in the dunk tank out back, and Clara nudged him with her elbow, nodding at the tank, and dared him to take a shot. He hesitated, the old voice in his head screaming that he should go home, that he didn’t get to do this, that Elaine would hate him for it. The disgust he felt at his own eagerness curdled in his stomach for half a second, until Clara reached out and brushed a stray fleck of sawdust off the scar on his left cheek, the one he’d gotten pulling a family out of a burning trailer in the 2019 Camp Fire, and said she’d already heard all the stories about him, that he didn’t have to be the grieving widower all the time if he didn’t want to.
He paid the $5 for three balls, walked up to the line, and nailed the target on the first throw, the crowd cheering loud enough to make his ears ring as the chief fell backwards into the cold water. When he turned around, Clara was leaning against the fence right behind him, grinning so wide her dimples showed, and she admitted she’d been working up the nerve to ask him out for three months, had been “accidentally” driving past his cabin twice a week hoping to catch him outside. He felt that tight knot of fear and guilt in his chest loosen all at once, no fight left in him.
They left the bar an hour later, the air still warm from the day’s heat, crickets chirping in the oak trees lining the parking lot. She handed him a crumpled flyer for the animal rescue, her phone number scrawled across the back in neon pink marker, and told him to call her tomorrow so she could take him to that steak dinner she owed him. He tucked the flyer into the inner pocket of his flannel, right next to the folded photo of Elaine he kept there, and didn’t feel even a flicker of guilt. He watched her taillights fade down the dirt road, then pulled his flip phone out of his pocket, already pecking out a text about the time he’d rescued a baby bear from a burn zone that he’d never told anyone else about.
