Roland Voss leans against the rusted front bumper of his 2008 F-150, plastic cup of craft lager in one hand, waiting for his bison burger order to come up. His faded 2012 Salmon-Challis National Forest fire crew tee sticks to the back of his neck with August humidity, and Mae, his 10-year-old blue heeler, is curled at his boots, snoring softly, half-asleep even as kids dart past chasing ice cream trucks. The 53-year-old retired smokejumper, who now runs a small wildfire mitigation consulting firm out of Missoula, had avoided the annual food truck rally for six straight years, hated the small talk, the way half the town still stared at him like he was some kind of hero for jumping out of planes into fires. But his daughter Lila had texted that morning begging him to pick up a jar of the huckleberry jam sold at one of the booths, so he’d caved.
He’s halfway through his beer when he hears a sharp, startled laugh ten feet away. He looks up just in time to see Elara Mendez trip over a loose curb stone, loaded tray of carne asada fries tipping in one hand, iced hibiscus tea sloshing in the other. He moves before he thinks, one hand wrapping gently around her elbow to steady her, the other catching the edge of her tray before the fries hit the dirt. Her free hand flies to his left bicep to steady herself, palm cool from holding her drink, fingertips calloused from turning thousands of book pages, and he can feel the press of her skin right through the thin cotton of his tee, right over the four-inch silvery scar he got from a 2016 Boise blaze that put him in the hospital for three weeks.
She holds that contact for three full beats before she pulls back, brushing a strand of dark, curly hair out of her face, cheeks flushed pink. Elara runs the town’s independent bookstore, he knows, used to babysit Lila when she was 12 and Elara was 20, home from college for the summer. Roland’s spent the last year carrying a stupid, guilty twist in his chest every time he’s run into her at the grocery store, caught himself staring at the way her jeans fit her hips, the tiny silver hoop through her left nostril, and hated himself for it—like he was being creepy, like he was looking at someone he was supposed to protect, not someone fully grown who owned her own business and hiked 14ers on weekends. He’s avoided extended conversation with her for years, convinced any interest he felt was inappropriate, that his rough, routine-obsessed self was too much for someone so bright.
“Shit, thank you,” she says, grinning, wiping a drop of tea off her wrist. “I’ve been tripping over curbs since I was five. My mom used to say I’d trip over air if it was in my way.” Her shoulder is still almost touching his chest, close enough that he can smell her perfume, jasmine and pine, like the woods after a light rain, no sickly sweet artificial notes. Mae lifts her head, trots over, and nudges Elara’s free hand with her nose, and Elara laughs, kneeling down to scratch behind her ears. Her cutoff denim shorts ride up a little at the waist as she leans down, and he catches a glimpse of a tiny, black pine tree tattoo on the curve of her hip, before he looks away fast, face heating up, like he just snooped through her mail.
She stands back up, holding her tray, and nods at the empty tailgate of his truck. “You waiting for food too? I ordered way too many fries. Mind if I sit? All the picnic tables are taken.” He nods, too flustered to say no, even as the little voice in his head is screaming that this is a bad idea, that people will talk, that she’s too young, too good for him. They climb up onto the tailgate, and she shoves the tray between them, passing him a handful of fries loaded with guac and cotija cheese. She mentions she saw his presentation at the town hall last week, about fire-safe landscaping for homes up in the Bitterroot Mountains, says she’s been meaning to reach out to him for weeks to ask him to look at the little cabin she bought last year, right on the edge of the Lolo National Forest.
He blinks, surprised. He’s used to people zoning out halfway through his presentations, checking their phones, only half-listening until he gets to the part about insurance discounts. “You paid attention to that?” he says, taking a sip of his beer. She snorts, popping a fry in her mouth. “Of course I did. I grew up in Oregon, lost my grandma’s house to a wildfire when I was 16. I take that stuff seriously. Plus, you’re way more interesting to listen to than half the guys who come to town hall to rant about mask mandates or property taxes.” She leans in a little to point at a golden retriever chasing a frisbee across the field, and her thigh presses against his, warm through her shorts and his heavy canvas work pants, and he doesn’t move away.
She says she always thought he was intimidating back when she babysat Lila, that he never talked much, would just nod at her when he got home from work, hand her a $20 bill and a beer if she stayed late. “I thought you hated me, honestly,” she says, grinning, and he laughs, a rough, low sound he doesn’t make often. “I didn’t hate you. I was just bad at talking to people back then. Still am, most days.” He admits he’s avoided talking to her the last few years because he felt stupid, like he had nothing in common with someone 15 years his junior, who grew up with social media and all that, and she snorts so hard she snorts a piece of cilantro out of her nose, wiping her face with the back of her hand, cackling. “I deleted TikTok three years ago. Most of my free time is spent repairing old leather-bound books and hiking alone. I’m about as boring as you are, trust me.”
She brushes a crumb of cotija cheese off his jaw with her thumb, and her finger lingers on the rough stubble of his cheek for half a second longer than it needs to, her eyes locked on his, no trace of the awkward teen he used to know there, just warm, dark brown eyes flecked with gold, like sunlight through amber. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away, just holds her gaze, and the little voice in his head that’s been screaming about guilt and inappropriateness for the last hour goes quiet, finally.
He asks her if she wants to come back to his place after they’re done eating, says he has a whole folder of pre-drawn fire plans for that section of the Bitterroots, and a bottle of 12-year bourbon he’s been saving for no good reason. She grins, biting her lower lip, and nods, says she’s had a copy of his favorite wildfire memoir, the one he mentioned in passing to Lila last Christmas, behind the counter at her store for two months, waiting for an excuse to give it to him. He smiles, a real, unforced smile, the first he’s had since Lila graduated high school last spring, and takes another fry off the tray, their fingers brushing when they both reach for the same one at the same time.
