Rafe Mendez, 52, retired smokejumper turned wildfire mitigation consultant, had planned to drop off his silent auction donation and bolt before anyone could corner him into small talk. The custom restored Stihl chainsaw he’d engraved with the local volunteer fire department logo took three weekends to finish, and he’d already lingered too long at the Bend, Oregon, bar, the air thick with the sharp tang of pine sap, hazy IPA, and the faint, familiar smoky edge of recent controlled burns clinging to every attendee’s jacket. He was mid-sip of his beer, one boot propped on the bar’s lower rail, when her elbow brushed his forearm.
He froze first. He’d recognize those chipped forest-green nail polish, that soft vanilla-and-pine scent, anywhere. Clara Bennett, Jake’s widow. He’d avoided her for four straight years, ever since he’d handed her Jake’s dog tags on her front porch, his own face still crusted with soot and stitched closed along the jaw where a falling branch had caught him mid-escape from the 2019 blaze that killed her husband, his 22-year-old rookie crew member. He’d always thought if he looked at her too long, he’d see the blame he carried for himself reflected back at him.
But when he turned, she was smiling, not scowling. Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy braid, a strand falling loose across her freckled cheek, and she was holding an empty cider glass, her shoulder pressed so close to his he could feel the warmth of her through the thin cream sweater she wore under an open flannel. “You owe me a drink,” she said, and her voice was lower than he remembered, rough like she’d spent the day raking leaves, and she held eye contact for three full beats, no look away, no awkward fidgeting.
He ordered her the spiced cider she pointed to on the tap list, his calloused fingers brushing hers when he passed the glass over. The guilt hit him sharp first, hot in his chest, like he was cheating somehow, like he had no right to notice how the string of her flannel slipped off her shoulder, how she laughed so hard at his dumb joke about the time a moose chased his crew away from a burn site that her whole body shook against his. He’d spent four years punishing himself, turning down every date, every casual invitation, convinced he didn’t get to be happy after he couldn’t bring Jake home.
She leaned in, her mouth almost touching his ear so she could be heard over the bluegrass band cranking up in the corner, and said, “I don’t blame you, you know. I read all the incident reports. Talked to the rest of the crew. You carried him three miles through that fire. You didn’t fail him.”
Rafe’s throat went tight. He’d never heard anyone say that out loud, not even his old crew chief. He looked down at her, and she was still so close he could count the silver strands woven through her braid, see the faint scar on her upper lip from a skiing accident she’d told him about once at Jake’s graduation from the smokejumper academy. She didn’t pull away when his knee brushed hers under the bar.
When the silent auction winners were announced, they slipped outside before anyone could call his name, the air sharp and cold, fat snow flurries sticking to his hair the second he stepped through the door. He shrugged off his heavy wool work coat, the one with the faded smokejumper patch still sewn on the sleeve, and draped it over her shoulders before he could overthink it. She wrapped it around herself, the sleeves swallowing her hands, and stepped closer, so their chests were almost touching.
“I’ve been trying to work up the nerve to ask you out for six months,” she said, and she reached up, brushed a fleck of old ash off his jaw, her thumb lingering on the raised scar there. “I was scared you’d keep shutting everyone out forever.”
Rafe didn’t say anything at first. He’d spent so long stuck in the guilt, he’d forgotten what it felt like to want something that wasn’t penance. He could hear the band playing inside, the sound of people cheering, feel the snow melting on his neck, the heat of her hand still on his face. He leaned down, just a little, and she met him halfway, kissing him slow, her cold hands tucked into the front of his flannel shirt.
A group of off-duty volunteer firefighters walked past, whooping and catcalling, and Rafe flipped them off without breaking the kiss, his hand fisted in the back of her braid to hold her close.
