Rafe Quintana, 58, retired wildland fire crew lead turned custom fire pit builder, leaned against the splintered pine rail of the Coconino County Fair beer garden, twisting the cap off a cold sarsaparilla. He’d only dragged himself out that afternoon because his 16-year-old granddaughter had begged him to watch her 4-H sheep show, and he’d never been able to say no to that kid. His forearms still bore faint, silvery burn scars from the 2017 Wallow Fire, crisscrossed with calluses from hauling firewood and welding steel rings all summer. The air smelled like cut hay, fried onions, and the faint, acrid tang of portable toilet sanitizer, and the distant bleat of show sheep mixed with the twang of a cover band playing old George Strait tracks by the grandstand.
He spotted her before she saw him. Elara Voss, 54, his ex-wife’s second cousin, the woman he’d avoided for 12 straight years over a stupid, drunken bet he’d lost at a family barbecue. The bet had been dumb, even by his 46-year-old drunk standards: he’d claimed he could outrun a 10-acre grass fire on foot, she’d called him a suicidal dumbass, put $200 on it, and he’d lost so badly he’d had to streak through the entire party wearing nothing but a cowboy hat pulled down over his crotch. He’d held the grudge ever since, skipped every family holiday, declined every invitation that mentioned her name, convinced she’d spent the last decade laughing at him behind his back.
She waved when she caught sight of him, weaving through the crowd of kids chasing cotton candy and men in cowboy hats hauling coolers. She was in cut-off denim shorts, scuffed red cowgirl boots, a faded Merle Haggard tee, and a sunflower tucked behind one ear, and when she got close enough, he caught the scent of cedar (she’d always burned cedar logs in her cabin, he remembered) and lavender lip balm. She leaned in for a hug before he could step back, her bare arm brushing the burn scars on his forearm, and he froze, half expecting her to crack a joke about the streak immediately.
“Figured I’d run into you here,” she said, leaning against the rail next to him, close enough that their shoulders brushed when she shifted her weight. She pulled a crumpled photo out of her purse, held it up: it was him, 12 years prior, hat over his crotch, sprinting across a lawn, a beer in one hand. “Carry this in my wallet for good luck. Always makes me laugh when I have a bad day with a stubborn steer.”
He felt his face heat up, equal parts embarrassment and irritation, but he couldn’t bring himself to snap at her. Her laugh lines crinkled at the corners of her eyes when she smiled, and he’d forgotten how bright her laugh was, loud enough to cut through the fair noise around them. She’d been working as a traveling large animal vet for the last decade, she told him, just moved back to the area two weeks prior, bought a small ranch 20 minutes outside Flagstaff. He found himself telling her about his fire pit business, about his granddaughter’s sheep, about quitting drinking 8 years prior after he woke up hungover and almost missed her birth.
They wandered over to the fried dough stand a half hour later, splitting a paper plate of the greasy, cinnamon-sugar coated stuff. Their hands brushed when they both reached for the same piece at the same time, and he felt a jolt run up his arm, warm and sharp, the kind he hadn’t felt since he was a teenager sneaking kisses in the back of a pickup truck. He told himself it was stupid, wrong, she was his ex’s cousin, he’d hated her for 12 years, but he couldn’t stop looking at her mouth, at the way the sun hit the streaks of gray in her dark hair.
The fireworks show started as they walked back toward the fence by the grandstand, the first boom shaking the ground under their boots, making them both flinch and lean closer together by instinct. The sky lit up in bursts of red and blue and gold, painting her face in shifting, warm light, and when she turned to look at him, she didn’t look away, her hand coming to rest on his forearm, right over the thickest burn scar he had, the one he’d always been self-conscious of.
“I never thought you were an idiot, you know,” she said, her voice just loud enough to hear over the fireworks. “The streak was the only fun thing that ever happened at those boring family barbecues. I didn’t tell anyone, but I thought you looked pretty good even then.”
The last of his resentment melted right then, the disgust he’d felt at the idea of being attracted to her fading faster than the smoke from the fireworks overhead. He didn’t say anything, just leaned in, and when she didn’t pull away, he kissed her. He could taste cinnamon sugar and lavender on her lips, and the distant boom of the last firework shook the air around them, and for the first time in 12 years, he didn’t regret losing that stupid bet.
When the crowd started dispersing, she laced her calloused, vet’s hand through his, her fingers fitting perfectly between his. She said she had a bottle of non-alcoholic blackberry cider back at her ranch, and a stack of old family photos he hadn’t seen, including a few more shots of his infamous streak. He laughed, nodded, letting her lead him through the crowd toward the parking lot, the crinkle of the photo of his younger, dumber self still tucked in the pocket of his work jeans.
