Rafe Marquez, 62, spent 28 years on wildland fire crews, 12 of those as a crew supervisor, before a 2017 burn to his left leg sidelined him for good. These days he runs a 10-acre native plant nursery outside Missoula, keeps a radio tuned to classic country in his shop, and hasn’t so much as held a woman’s hand since his wife packed her bags and moved to Phoenix 11 years prior. His biggest flaw, if you asked his older sister, is that he’s convinced his gruff, calloused, fire-scarred self is too set in his ways to be worth anyone’s time, so he avoids most community events unless someone strong-arms him into showing up.
That’s how he ended up at the county fire department’s annual August BBQ fundraiser, leaning against a splintered pine picnic table with a lukewarm Pabst in one hand, a flat of wildflower bouquets for the silent auction at his feet. The air smells like charcoal, charred bratwurst, and huckleberry lemonade from the stand 10 feet away. Kids scream as they chase each other with water guns, a group of retired firefighters yell over each other telling old fire line stories, and Rafe is already mentally mapping his exit route, planning to be back at the nursery potting milkweed seedlings before the sun dips below the Bitterroots.
He doesn’t see her until she’s three feet away, carrying a paper plate heaped with potato salad and a brat slathered in sauerkraut, her scuffed white sneakers catching on a loose cinder block propped under the picnic table’s leg. She stumbles, plate tipping, and Rafe reacts on muscle memory, lurching forward to wrap his calloused, scar-flecked fingers around her elbow to steady her. His palm brushes the soft, sun-warmed skin of her forearm, and he catches a whiff of lavender and old paper, the kind of scent that sticks to the spines of 100-year-old novels. She laughs, a warm, throaty sound, and steadies herself, pressing a hand to his chest for half a second to regain her balance.
“Sorry about that,” she says, brushing a strand of chestnut hair streaked with silver out of her face. There’s a smudge of charcoal on her left cheek, and a leather thong holding her hair back, a chipped silver moon charm dangling from the end. Her library tote is slung over one shoulder, a bright red “Banned Books Are My Love Language” patch sewn to the front. She introduces herself as Elara Voss, 58, the new county librarian, moved out from Seattle two years prior after her husband died of a heart attack, looking for somewhere quiet where she could plant a pollinator garden behind the library branch.
They start talking, and Rafe can’t remember the last time someone asked him so many questions about his nursery, about the difference between common milkweed and showy milkweed, about the best plants to attract monarchs that don’t need extra watering through the dry Montana summers. She leans in when he talks, her shoulder brushing his when a group of teen boys runs past yelling, and she doesn’t step back. She holds eye contact longer than casual acquaintances do, the corners of her hazel eyes crinkling when she teases him about the faded 2015 fire crew logo on his worn gray flannel, even when the August heat has most people in tank tops and cutoffs.
He’s fighting a war in his head the whole time, half of him screaming that this is a bad idea, that the whole town will be gossiping about them by tomorrow morning, that he’s too rough around the edges, too used to talking to plants more than people, to be any good for a woman who spends her days surrounded by books and kids looking for summer reading recommendations. The other half of him can’t stop staring at the little freckle above her upper lip, can’t stop replaying the feeling of her hand on his chest, can’t stop smiling when she laughs at his dumb joke about how half the local teens only come to the nursery to steal sunflowers for their girlfriends.
She asks if he’d be willing to come by the library the next afternoon to walk the empty garden plot behind the building, tell her what plants will grow best in the partial shade, how to space them so the bees have room to move. He’s already opening his mouth to make an excuse, to say he has too many seedlings to pot, too many orders to fill, when she reaches up to brush a stray pine needle off the collar of his flannel, her fingers lingering on the fabric over his collarbone for a beat too long to be accidental.
“I’ll pay you in huckleberry pie,” she says, grinning, and pulls a crumpled slip of notebook paper out of her tote, scribbling her personal cell number on it in bright blue ink, a tiny doodle of a monarch butterfly next to the digits. She tucks it into his palm, her fingers curling around his for a second, before she picks up her plate again. “I’m gonna go bid on one of those wildflower bouquets you brought. Don’t leave before I find you, okay?”
She winks, and turns to walk toward the silent auction tables, her tote swinging against her hip as she goes. Rafe stands there for a minute, twisting the slip of paper between his calloused fingers, the ghost of her touch still lingering on his elbow, his chest, his palm. He takes a sip of his now-warm beer, and realizes he’s no longer in a hurry to leave. He tucks the slip of paper into the inner pocket of his flannel, taps it twice to make sure it’s secure, and heads over to the huckleberry lemonade stand to buy her a cup before she leaves.
