Ronan Hale, 52, spent 22 years leading wildfire hotshot crews across the west before a blown-out knee and a messy divorce pushed him to settle in the tiny Montana mountain town of Silverpine. His biggest flaw? He’s stubborn to a fault, avoids all local community events like they’re smoldering spot fires he doesn’t have the crew to contain, prefers spending his days stripping rust off 1970s Airstream trailers in his workshop, no small talk required. His old crew buddy Jase dragged him to the summer fire relief fundraiser at The Pine Tap anyway, saying the department needed the cash and Ronan owed him for covering his property check when his knee acted up last spring.
He’s leaned against the scuffed edge of the pool table, half-empty can of Pabst in one hand, watching a group of teens fumble their way through a game of cornhole near the front door when he spots her. She’s leaning against the bar, faded red flannel thrown over a flowy cream sundress, bare legs dusted with a faint smattering of freckles, holding a glass of peach seltzer that glows pink under the neon beer sign. He recognizes her as Maeve, the new part-time librarian who moved to town three months prior, married to the newly elected mayor everyone in town gushes about like he’s the second coming of Teddy Roosevelt.
She catches him staring, holds eye contact for three full beats, longer than any polite stranger would, before the corner of her mouth tugs up in a tiny, knowing smirk. Ronan looks away fast, heat crawling up the back of his neck, annoyed at himself for even glancing her way. He knows the rules around here: mess with the mayor’s wife, and you’ll be the talk of every diner and feed store for six months minimum, the kind of gossip that sticks to you like pine sap. He’s already got enough of a reputation as the reclusive divorcee who doesn’t go to church or attend town hall meetings.
The bar gets crowded when the volunteer fire crew carries in a tray of grilled burgers, and Maeve pushes through the throng of people to get a refill, her shoulder bumping hard into Ronan’s bicep when someone shoves past her from behind. “Sorry,” she says, her voice low and warm, and she smells like pine soap and ripe blackberries, like she spent the afternoon picking fruit in the woods before she came. The back of her hand brushes his when she steadies herself, her thumb smudged with purple ink from stamping library checkout cards earlier that day, and Ronan’s breath catches for half a second.
“Not your fault,” he says, and he surprises himself by not stepping away, even when he sees the mayor’s best friend glance their way from across the bar. She stays, leans against the pool table next to him, close enough that her elbow brushes his every time she takes a sip of her seltzer, and they talk about nothing at first: the terrible cover band playing Johnny Cash covers too loud, the weird mold problem the library has in the basement, the stack of old Louis L’Amour paperbacks he dropped off at the front desk two weeks prior, the ones he didn’t think anyone noticed.
He’s torn the whole time, half of him screaming to leave before anyone gets the wrong idea, half of him leaning in closer, drinking in the way she laughs so hard she snorts when he tells her about the time his crew accidentally left a cooler of beer on a fire line and a bear stole it. He hasn’t talked to anyone this easy since his ex-wife moved to Bozeman three years ago, hasn’t felt that low, warm hum of desire in his chest he thought died with his fire crew career. His knee throbs a little where he’s been putting too much weight on it, and he doesn’t even care enough to shift.
She steps closer, her fingers brushing the thick, silvery scar on his forearm, the one he got in the 2019 Lolo Peak fire when he dragged two lost teen hikers out of a burn zone. “I read the news story about that,” she says, quiet, like it’s a secret only they share. No one in town has ever mentioned that fire, no one’s ever asked him about the 22 years he spent risking his life, they only ever ask about his trailers or his ex-wife or why he doesn’t come to the town potlucks.
Ronan doesn’t say anything, just leans down, and she meets him halfway, her lips soft against his, tasting like peach seltzer and mint gum. He can hear people laughing near the back door, can hear the mayor’s voice calling her name from inside the bar, and he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t care who sees, for the first time in three years, he doesn’t care about any of the stupid small town rules he’s been letting dictate his life.
They pull apart after a minute, both grinning like idiots, and she tugs a scrap of paper out of her flannel pocket, scribbles her cell number on it, presses it into his palm. “My husband’s at a county conference all day tomorrow,” she says, her thumb brushing the calloused lines on his palm. “Come by the library after closing. I’ve got a box of old westerns I think you’ll like.”
She slips back inside first, and Ronan waits five minutes, leaning against the firewood, sipping the last of his beer, watching the door swing shut behind her. He notices the small rip in the hem of her sundress, the one she got when she brushed against the edge of the pool table earlier, and he makes a mental note to grab the heavy-duty khaki thread he keeps in his workshop pocket before he meets her tomorrow.
