Rafe Mendez, 62, retired wildland fire crew boss, hauled the foil-wrapped brisket case across the community center gravel lot, his work boots kicking up puffs of red Arizona dust. He’d smoked the 12-pound brisket for 18 hours straight, stoking the fire in his backyard pit every two hours through the night, and he planned to drop it off with the volunteer coordinator and hightail it home before anyone could corner him into small talk. Eight years out from his wife’s stroke, he’d gotten used to solo evenings: wrenching on his half-restored 1972 F-150, rereading tattered western paperbacks, drinking cheap beer on his porch while coyotes yipped in the distance. His only consistent flaw, the one his old crew used to tease him for, was that he’d rather dig a 10-foot fire line in 100-degree heat than admit he wanted company.
The air reeked of melted tar and charred hot dogs, the sound of cornhole bags thudding against plywood and kids screaming as they chased each other through the grass. He’d just handed the brisket off to the harried coordinator, wiping grease off his calloused palms on the cut-off sleeves of his faded 2011 Wallow Fire crew hoodie, when his shoulder collided with someone smaller, softer. He grabbed her elbow automatically to steady her, his rough, scarred palm pressing against the cool linen of her blouse, the soft give of her forearm under his grip. She laughed, a low, warm sound, and when he looked down she was grinning up at him, hazel eyes flecked with gold, silver streaks threading through the dark braid draped over her shoulder. She smelled like lavender and lemon furniture polish, the kind his mom used to use on the oak dining table back in New Mexico.
“Sorry,” she said, brushing a stray strand of hair off her face. “Was staring at the used book sale sign so hard I forgot how to walk. New librarian, still getting used to how bright the sun is out here. Moved from Portland three months ago, still half convinced I’m gonna melt into the asphalt.”
Rafe nodded, already mentally mapping his exit, when she nodded at the fire crew logo stitched to his chest. “My brother was on a hotshot crew out of Bend. Died in the 2013 Cascades fire. You guys have the hardest job on the planet.”
He froze. No one had asked him about his crew in years, not unless it was a neighbor fishing for dramatic fire stories. He didn’t have to lie to her, didn’t have to soften the rough edges of the job, so he told her about the Wallow Fire, about the three guys they lost when a wind shift trapped them on a ridge, about the way you learn to trust the people you’re fighting fire with more than you trust yourself. She didn’t flinch, didn’t offer empty condolences, just leaned in a little, their shoulders brushing as a breeze kicked up dust off the lot. She was a good six inches shorter than him, so when she tilted her head up to listen the tip of her nose was almost level with his collarbone.
She gestured to the row of folding tables stacked with books at the edge of the lot, the sale to raise money for the library’s new western history section. “I’ve been hunting for a copy of *The Ox-Bow Incident* for months. All the copies we have at the library are falling apart.”
The refusal was on the tip of his tongue, the usual excuse about needing to fix the F-150’s carburetor, about having to feed his neighbor’s dog while they were out of town, but he looked at her, her knee pressing against his for half a second before she shifted back, her bracelet jangling when she tucked the book into her tote bag, and he nodded. They grabbed two cold cans from the drink tent, climbed onto the tailgate of his truck, and watched the sun dip below the red rock buttes, painting the sky pink and tangerine. She told him about the library’s new late-night story hour for seniors, the guy who came every week to read cowboy poetry, the teen girls who snuck in after school to check out romance novels. He told her about the F-150, about the way the engine purrs when you get the carburetor tuned just right, about the trip he was planning to drive up to Glacier National Park next fall, the trip he’d been putting off for years because he didn’t want to go alone.
They finished their beers as the last of the barbecue crowd packed up their coolers, the sky turning dark purple, fireflies flickering in the grass at the edge of the lot. She slid off the tailgate, pausing to squeeze his hand, her fingers soft against his scarred knuckles, and told him she had a bottle of anejo tequila at her place, and a stack of Louis L’Amour paperbacks she’d picked up at a garage sale, if he wanted to come over, no strings attached, just hang out.
He nodded, not overthinking it, not listing all the reasons he should say no, all the ways he could get hurt, and grabbed his keys off the dashboard. He watched her walk to her beat-up Subaru, the silver streak in her braid catching the glow of the parking lot lights, and turned the key in the F-150’s ignition, the engine rumbling to life under his hands.
