Russell “Rust” Pritchard, 62, is a vintage Airstream restoration specialist who lives 12 miles outside Bend, Oregon, down a rutted dirt road that only gets plowed after every other side street in town is clear. His biggest flaw is he’s spent the last 12 years avoiding any connection that doesn’t involve a rivet gun or a search and rescue radio, ever since his wife packed her bags and left him for a real estate agent 15 years her junior. He only comes into town once a week, for supply runs and the Elks Lodge Thursday night meat raffle, and he never stays longer than two beers, no exceptions.
Tonight he’s already lost three rounds of the raffle, his crumpled tickets sticking to the damp Formica bar top, when a hand he doesn’t recognize slides a cold Pabst Blue Ribbon across the surface toward him. He looks up, and it’s Clara Mckee, 41, the only daughter of his old wildfire crew partner Jake, who died of a heart attack three years prior on a hunting trip they’d taken together. He’s known her since she was 10, used to take her fishing on the Deschutes when Jake had to work overtime, and he’s only seen her a handful of times since she moved back to town six months ago after her divorce, to raise her 10-year-old son and work shifts at the horse rescue outside of town. He had no idea she’d picked up bartending shifts at the Elks to cover his travel soccer fees.
Her flannel shirt is rolled up to the elbows, showing the same smattering of freckles across her forearms that Jake used to complain made him look like a teenager even when he was 50, and her knuckles are scraped raw, like she’d spent the day hauling hay bales. When she leans in to grab the empty peanut bowl next to his elbow, her upper arm brushes his, and he can smell lavender soap and pine sap on her skin, the same scent that used to cling to the hoodies she’d wear on fishing trips when she was a kid. He fumbles his beer, his calloused rivet-gun rough hands sloshing a little over the edge onto his oil-stained work jeans, and she laughs, a low, throaty sound he doesn’t remember from when she was younger. She swipes the spill up with a rag, her fingers brushing his knee for half a second before she pulls back, holding his gaze for a beat longer than would be normal for someone who’s supposed to see him as a boring old family friend.
He’s torn immediately, a hot curl of desire low in his gut warring with the sharp, uncomfortable twist of guilt, like he’s betraying Jake, like he’s a dirty old man for even noticing how the overhead light catches the silver streak in her dark hair, how the top two buttons of her flannel are undone, showing a thin silver chain with a tiny horse charm on it. He tries to make an excuse to leave, glances at the window, but it’s pouring rain, the drops slamming against the glass so hard he can barely see the parking lot, and his truck has bald tires he’s been putting off replacing for three months. She nods at the rain, pouring a shot of the cheap bourbon Jake used to drink when they’d get back from a fire tour, sliding it across the bar to him for free. “Last call’s in 10 minutes,” she says, wiping the bar down slow, her eyes never leaving his. “You can wait out the worst of it here. I’m locking up by myself tonight.”
The rest of the crowd filters out fast, the chatter of the meat raffle fading until it’s just the two of them, the hum of the beer fridge the only sound in the room. She comes around the bar to lock the front door, her shoulder brushing his chest when she passes, and she stops, so close he can feel the heat coming off her, can see the faint laugh lines around her eyes that weren’t there the last time he saw her before she moved away for college. “I’ve had a crush on you since I was 16,” she says, quiet, like she’s admitting something she’s been holding in for years. “Used to make up excuses to come by your shop when my dad was working on trucks with you, just to see you. Thought you were the coolest guy I’d ever met.”
He freezes, half ready to stammer out some excuse about her being Jake’s kid, about him being too old, about how he’s not good for anyone, but then she reaches up, brushing a strand of gray hair off his forehead, and the guilt melts a little, replaced by something softer, something he hasn’t felt in over a decade. He admits he’s thought about her too, ever since he saw her at the grocery store a month back, carrying a case of Gatorade and a bag of soccer cleats, laughing so hard at something her son said she snort-laughed, same as she did when she was a kid and he’d told her dumb fishing jokes. He says he felt guilty for it, felt like he was doing something wrong, like Jake would yell at him if he knew.
She snorts, leaning in a little closer, so their foreheads are almost touching. “My dad always said you were the only good man he ever knew. Would’ve been thrilled I finally worked up the guts to say something.” The rain slows to a drizzle, and she pulls back, grabbing her raincoat off the hook by the door, tossing him a spare knit hat to keep his head dry on the walk to his truck. “I got leftover meatloaf at my place,” she says, slinging her bag over her shoulder, her hand brushing his when she hands him her scuffed work boots to carry out to the truck, since the parking lot’s full of ankle-deep puddles.
He tucks the hat on his head, grabs her boots in one hand, and holds the door open for her, the cool night air hitting his face, carrying the smell of rain and pine. The porch light catches the silver charm on her chain as she steps past him, and he smiles, for the first time in longer than he can remember.
