Roman Voss, 59, retired Teton Valley Wildlife Refuge manager, leaned against the splintered wooden rail of the harvest chili cookoff tent and sipped lukewarm beer. He’d only agreed to judge the wild game category after his old deputy threatened to drop a load of elk manure on his cabin porch if he bailed again. Crowds made him antsy. He’d spent seven years since his wife left for a sunburnt travel blogger in Arizona perfecting the art of being alone, and small-town events full of prying neighbors and forced small talk felt like walking through a patch of prickly pear barefoot.
He spotted Maren halfway through his third bowl of elk chili. She was manning the baked goods booth for her aunt’s church group, wiping flour from the elbow of her cream flannel shirt as she handed a paper plate of snickerdoodles to a group of chattering teen boys. He’d met her three weeks prior, when she showed up on his porch asking for help prying a stuck deer fence post out of her aunt’s backyard. She was 48, a botanical illustrator from Portland, in town to help her aunt recover from knee replacement surgery, recently divorced after 20 years of marriage to a corporate lawyer who cared more about his golf handicap than her paintings of alpine wildflowers. He’d spent an hour helping her that day, had a glass of iced tea on her aunt’s porch afterward, and had replayed the sound of her laugh every night since. He’d avoided her ever since, too stubborn to admit he liked the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she made a dumb joke about moose, too convinced any connection at his age was just a recipe for disappointment.
The sky opened up ten minutes later, cold October rain pouring down so hard it drowned out the bluegrass band playing at the far end of the fairgrounds. Everyone scrambled for cover, bodies pressing tight under the narrow awnings of the adjacent buildings, and before he could process what was happening, Maren was pressed shoulder to shoulder with him in the entryway of the feed store, a paper bag of leftover cookies clutched to her chest. The smell of wet pine and cinnamon wrapped around him, mixing with the faint lavender scent of her shampoo. The rough canvas of his work jacket brushed the soft fabric of her flannel sleeve every time someone shifted behind them, and he could feel the heat of her arm through the layers, sharp and bright against his skin.
“Figured I’d see you here,” she said, tilting her head up to look at him, rain droplets clinging to the ends of her chestnut hair. Her eyes were the color of the glacial lakes he used to patrol in the backcountry, bright and clear, and he had to fight the urge to look away. “Heard you’re the guy who decides if a chili’s tough enough to pass for wild game.”
He grunted, half smiling. “Most of these guys just dump half a bottle of hot sauce in ground beef and call it elk. I’ve had better campfire food at 2 a.m. after a 12 mile hike.”
She laughed, the sound cutting through the drumming of rain on the metal awning, and when she passed him a snickerdoodle from the bag, their fingers brushed. He felt the callus on her index finger, thick from years of holding paintbrushes, and she ran her thumb lightly over the thin, pale scar across his knuckle, the one he’d gotten when a young grizzly swatted at him while he was relocating a lost calf three years prior. “You told me about that,” she said, her voice softer now, so quiet only he could hear it. “Said you were stupid enough to get between a mom and her baby.”
He froze, his chest tight. He’d told her that once, during that iced tea on the porch, had almost forgotten he’d said it. He’d spent so long not talking to anyone about the parts of his life that mattered, the fact that she’d remembered made his throat feel thick. He’d spent weeks telling himself she was just being nice, that she’d go back to Portland in a month and forget he ever existed, that he was better off alone in his cabin with his dog and his old pickup than risking getting his heart broken again. The disgust at his own vulnerability warred with the hot, sharp pull of desire low in his gut, the want to lean in closer, to see if her lips tasted as sweet as the cookie he was holding.
“I’m not going back to Portland, by the way,” she said, like she could read his mind. She shifted a little closer, her shoulder pressing harder against his, and he could feel her breath on his neck when she spoke. “The park service offered me a six month contract to do illustrations for their new visitor guide. I’m renting that tiny studio above the bookstore on Main Street. Move in next week.”
She looked up at him then, her cheeks pink from the cold, her eyes bright, and he knew he was done fighting it. The rain had slowed to a light drizzle, the sun peeking through the clouds for the first time all afternoon, painting the wet pavement gold. “I’ve been meaning to ask you,” she said, biting her lower lip a little, like she was nervous. “I want to paint the moose that calve up in the meadow off the Cache Creek trail. Would you take me? I don’t want to go alone, and I know you know that area better than anyone.”
He almost said no. Almost made an excuse about being busy fixing his truck, about having plans to go hunting with his old coworker, about how the trail was too steep for someone who didn’t hike it every week. But then she smiled, and he remembered how quiet his cabin was at night, how the chipped coffee mug his ex left in the cabinet felt heavier every morning, how he’d walked past the bookstore three times in the last week just to see if he could spot her through the window. “Yeah,” he said, his voice rougher than he intended. “I’ll take you. Best time to go is sunrise, first week of May. They’re less skittish then.”
Her grin widened, and she tucked a strand of wet hair behind her ear as they stepped out from under the awning, the rain now light enough that it only dotted the shoulders of his jacket. He grabbed the old umbrella he’d stuffed in his jacket pocket earlier, held it over her head, their hips bumping every few steps as they walked across the fairground toward his truck parked down the street. “I got spiced cocoa in the cab,” he said, nodding toward the old F-150, its paint chipped, a moose decal peeling off the back window. “Still warm, if you want a cup before I drop you off at your aunt’s.”
She nodded, stepping closer to him under the umbrella, and he could feel the heat of her body against his side, warm and solid, for the first time in years not feeling like the solitude he’d clung to was a prize worth keeping. He reached for the truck door handle, his palm brushing the small of her back as he stepped aside to let her climb in first.
