Leo Marquez, 52, retired smokejumper turned wildfire mitigation consultant, hunches over the cast-iron grill at the Missoula VFW’s annual summer cookoff, left shoulder throbbing so bad he’s grinding his molars to keep from grunting. He hasn’t told anyone the old injury flared up after he spent three days clearing brush on a client’s property earlier that week. Asking for help feels like surrender, a habit he picked up over 18 years jumping into wildfires where showing weakness could get you or someone on your team killed. His wife has been gone 8 years, ovarian cancer that moved too fast, and he’s gotten so used to handling everything on his own he doesn’t know how to do anything else.
He’s mid-tug on a rack of ribs, tongs slipping in his sweat-slick grip, when a voice cuts through the buzz of country music and yelling kids. “You look like you’re about to pop a blood vessel, Marquez.” He looks up, and it’s Clara Hale, 48, the daughter of his old jump partner Jake, who passed three years back from a heart attack on a hunting trip. She just moved back to the area last month to take over the Lolo National Forest visitor center, a park ranger with 20 years under her belt, hazel eyes crinkled at the corners like she’s always half-amused by something. He’s only seen her a handful of times since she was a teen, and the jolt that goes up his spine when she leans against the picnic table next to the grill catches him off guard. She’s close enough he can smell pine soap and lavender hand lotion on her, sun catching the copper streaks in her dark hair pulled back in a braid.
He brushes off her offer to help, gruff, says he’s got it. She snorts, crosses her arms, calls him out on the wince he can’t hide when he shifts his weight to take pressure off his shoulder. “Jake always said you were the most stubborn son of a bitch he ever met. Refused to let anyone carry his gear even when he had a broken rib on that 2017 Lolo fire, remember?” She reaches for the tongs at the same time he does, their knuckles brushing, and he yanks his hand back like he touched a hot coal. The last thing he needs is to be attracted to his dead best friend’s daughter, feels like a betrayal, like he’s some kind of creep for even noticing how her uniform shirt pulls tight across her shoulders when she moves. He’s halfway to making an excuse to leave when she points to a char spot on the far end of the rib rack, leaning in so close her forearm brushes his good shoulder, and he can feel the heat off her skin even through his thick flannel shirt.
A group of kids chasing a golden retriever comes barrelling around the corner of the VFW hall, one of them slamming into the picnic table holding a tray of potato salad. The tray teeters, and Clara lunges to catch it, her boot catching on a loose cinder block under the table. She stumbles, grabbing for his arm to steady herself, and ends up pressed flush against his chest for half a second. He can feel her heartbeat through both their shirts, fast at first, then slowing when she doesn’t jump back immediately. She looks up at him, no trace of the teasing smile on her face now, and says, “Jake also said if I ever moved back here and needed someone to watch my back, you were the only guy he’d trust. Even if you’re too stubborn to ask for help opening a jar of pickles.”
The tightness in his chest loosens, all that stupid guilt melting away faster than butter on a hot griddle. He doesn’t say anything, just hands her the tongs, his fingers lingering on hers for a beat longer than necessary. She grins, taking them, and sends him a look that says she knows exactly what he’s thinking, that she’s been thinking it too. They finish grilling together, her flipping the ribs and brats while he holds the basting brush, his shoulder aching less than it has all week even when he has to reach across the grill to baste a rack of chicken. He doesn’t argue when she says she’s bringing a bottle of Jake’s old favorite bourbon over to his place after the cookoff, that she knows all the stretches for old jump injuries, used to do them with her dad when his back acted up. He doesn’t argue when she says he doesn’t have to do everything alone, either.
He watches her carry a heavy tray of ribs over to the serving line, laughing when the golden retriever trots over to nudge her hand for a scrap, sun glowing on her face. For the first time in 8 years, he doesn’t feel stupid for looking forward to something that doesn’t involve a fire map or a busted grill he’s fixing for free.
