Roland Voss, 57, spent 29 years fighting wildland fires across the West before a blown knee and a divorce that left him with nothing but a beat-up F-150 and 12 acres of pine outside Missoula pushed him into semi-retirement. He runs a small firewood and tree trimming service now, keeps to himself mostly, still sleeps with his boots by the bed and a radio tuned to the fire dispatch frequency out of habit. His biggest flaw? He’d rather haul 80 pounds of oak up a flight of stairs in 90-degree heat than ask a stranger for a hand, and he’s spent the last 8 years writing off any casual connection as more trouble than it’s worth. He showed up to the town’s Fourth of July picnic only because the event coordinator begged him to drop off a free load of split oak for the evening bonfire, and he’s never been able to say no to a woman who brings him homemade jerky as a thank you.
He’s leaning against the bed of his truck, sipping a root beer he grabbed from the cooler by the picnic tables, when he spots her. Mara, the new librarian who moved to town three months prior, is struggling to right a stack of folding tables that got knocked over by a gust of wind that swept down off the mountains ten minutes prior. Her linen blouse is sticking slightly to her shoulders from the heat, strands of silver-flecked brown hair falling in her face as she yanks at the leg of a metal table that’s wedged in the dirt. He hesitates for ten full seconds, half ready to pretend he didn’t see her, before he pushes off the truck and walks over.
He doesn’t say anything, just grabs the other end of the wedged table and lifts, the metal groaning as it pulls free from the mud. She jumps slightly, then laughs, a warm, throaty sound that cuts through the buzz of kids screaming and the country music blaring from the speakers by the pavilion. They carry the rest of the tables over to the grassy area set aside for the fireworks, and when they set down the last one, their hands brush. His are calloused, crisscrossed with small cuts from his chainsaw, the pale, ropy scar of a third-degree burn wrapping around his left forearm peeking out from the rolled-up cuff of his work shirt. He yanks his hand back fast, like he’s been burned again, already waiting for the usual pitying wince or the awkward question about how he got it.
She doesn’t wince. She just tilts her head, her dark eyes locking on his, and asks if that was the scar from the 2011 Lolo Creek fire, the one he got pulling a 7-year-old kid out of a burning cabin. He blinks, stunned. No one’s brought that fire up in years without the sad head tilt, the quiet “you’re a hero” line that makes his skin crawl. He nods, mumbles that it was no big deal, and she snorts, leaning in close enough that he can smell the lavender hand cream she’s wearing, mixed with the sweet scent of the cherry lemonade she’s holding in her other hand. “No big deal,” she repeats, shaking her head. “The town meeting minutes have a whole page dedicated to it. I read every back issue when I started the job, remember?”
He can’t think of anything to say. He’s torn between leaning in closer, so he can hear her better over the noise, and turning around to jump in his truck and drive home, embarrassed at how fast his heart is beating, disgusted with himself for even thinking a woman who smells like lavender and spends her days surrounded by books would give a guy who reeks of sawdust and gasoline the time of day. He shifts his weight, his work boot scuffing at the dirt, and she doesn’t step back. She just keeps looking at him, her gaze steady, a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth, and he realizes she’s been standing this close on purpose.
The first firework goes off a few minutes later, a burst of red that paints the whole sky pink, and the crowd cheers, surging toward the open field. A group of kids running past with glow sticks slams into Mara’s shoulder, and she stumbles forward, right into his chest. He catches her without thinking, his arm wrapping around her waist, her hand splayed flat against his t-shirt right over his heart. She doesn’t move away right away, just looks up at him, the blue and gold light from the next firework catching the flecks of gold in her eyes, and she says, quiet enough only he can hear, “I’ve been trying to run into you for weeks. I saw you carry Mrs. Henderson’s groceries up three flights of stairs last Tuesday, when you thought no one was looking.”
He freezes, then laughs, a rough, rusty sound he hasn’t heard come out of his own mouth in years. He admits he’s been stopping by the library every Wednesday at 2 PM, when he knows she’s working the front desk, just to check out a random western novel he’ll probably never read, just so he can say hi. She grins, and when she laces her fingers through his, her soft hand wrapping around the scar on his forearm, he doesn’t pull away.
They sit on the tailgate of his truck for the rest of the fireworks show, her shoulder pressed against his, her head resting on his upper arm when the finale starts, the sky lighting up so bright it looks like midday for half a second. When the last firework fades and the crowd starts to disperse, she turns to him, and says she baked a peach pie that morning, still sitting on her kitchen counter, if he wants to come over and split it with her. He doesn’t make a joke about not being a pie guy, doesn’t make an excuse about having to get up early to cut wood the next day. He just nods, hops off the tailgate, and walks around to the passenger side of the truck to open the door for her. His hand brushes hers again when she climbs up, and this time, he laces their fingers together for half a second before he lets go to shut the door.
