Marlon Voss, 52, retired forest fire crew supervisor, sits in his usual vinyl booth at the Missoula VFW Friday fish fry, picking fried batter off his cod with calloused fingers. He’s got a scar slashing across his left bicep from a 2019 Bitterroot blaze that took three of his crew, and he rubs the raised, pale skin absentmindedly when he’s tense. Right now he’s tense, because the new county public health nurse is set up at a folding table by the door, running free blood pressure checks for veterans, and he’s spent the last 45 minutes angling his body so she can’t make eye contact. His wife left him seven years ago, sick of him bailing on anniversaries and birthdays to deploy to fire zones, and he’s lived alone in his off-grid cabin 20 miles outside town ever since, sticking to a rigid routine that lets no one in without explicit permission. He doesn’t do unexpected check-ins, especially not from a woman he caught staring at his scar in the grocery store produce aisle three days prior, when he was fumbling with a bag of baby carrots.
The smell of vinegar and cheap Pabst hangs thick in the room, and when his old crew buddy Jerry slaps a hand down on his shoulder, Marlon flinches hard enough to slosh beer down his flannel sleeve. “Quit hidin’,” Jerry says, yanking him up by the elbow before he can protest. “Doc’s checking pressures for free, and your grandkid’s gonna want you around to teach him to cast, you stubborn son of a bitch.” Marlon doesn’t fight it. He’s got a stupid soft spot for Jerry’s 6-year-old grandson, the only kid who’s ever asked to hear all his fire stories without cutting him off to say that job sounds crazy.
He drops into the folding chair across from the nurse, and he immediately notices her knee is less than two inches from his, pressed close between the narrow table legs. Her name tag says Elouise, and she’s wearing a beaded leather belt buckle with a crow stitched into the center, the same one he stared at for 10 full seconds in the grocery store before he looked away like a flustered teen. She smells like pine and peppermint lip balm, no heavy perfume, and she doesn’t bother with small talk, just nods at his left arm. “Roll your sleeve up, tough guy.”
He does, and the scar is on full display, pale and ridged against tanned, freckled skin. She leans forward to wrap the blood pressure cuff around his bicep, and the side of her finger brushes the length of the scar by accident, light as a pine needle. Marlon flinches again, not from pain, but because he hasn’t been touched by anyone who wasn’t a nurse at his annual physical in six years. She smirks, twisting the valve on the cuff until it’s tight enough to make his arm throb. “Fire scar? I’ve patched up three of your old crew this month, all of ‘em bragging about their little trophies like they won a high school football game.”
“Not a trophy,” he says, sharp, before he can stop himself. She pauses, her thumb resting light on the inside of his elbow where she’s taking his pulse, and her dark eyes hold his for three beats, no smirk now. “I know. Most guys who have scars that bad don’t brag about ‘em unless they’re trying to convince everyone they’re not scared.” He can feel his face heat up, and he’s grateful the room is dim enough she probably can’t see it. His pressure comes back high, like he knew it would, and she scribbles a note on a scrap of paper, sliding it across the table so their fingers brush again, intentional this time. “Cut back on the fried cod. Two beers max a night. Go for a walk that doesn’t involve carrying a 50 pound fire pack once a week.”
He snorts, shoving the note in his flannel pocket. “I’ve been taking care of myself for 30 years, I don’t need a stranger telling me what to do.” She leans in, close enough that her breath brushes the edge of his ear, and he can smell the peppermint on her breath sharp and sweet. “You don’t have to do it alone, you know.” The words hang between them, and for half a second Marlon wants to bolt, to grab his coat and drive back to his cabin where no one calls him out for being scared of letting someone get close. He stands, mumbles a thanks, and walks out to his truck without looking back.
He’s halfway down the highway before he pulls over, slamming his palm on the steering wheel. He’s spent his whole career running toward danger to save other people, and he’s too much of a coward to ask a woman out for dinner? He turns the truck around, drives back to the VFW, and finds her loading her kit into the back of a beat-up blue pickup, her hair loose in the wind. She turns when she hears his boots on the asphalt, and she doesn’t look surprised to see him.
He’s rubbing that scar so hard his knuckle is white, and he says, “I got a whole mess of rainbow trout in my freezer I caught last weekend. Grilled, no batter, no grease. Doctor’s orders. You wanna come over tomorrow night?” She tilts her head, smiling slow, and she taps the pocket of his flannel where he stuffed her note. “You gonna let me check your pressure after to make sure you didn’t sneak any batter?” He laughs, loud and real, the first time he’s laughed that hard since he retired two years ago. “I’ll even let you check it before, if you want.”
She shows up the next night with a bottle of huckleberry wine and a Tupperware of wild rice salad, and he grills the trout on the porch with lemon and dill, the mountain air cool enough that they’re both wearing flannels. She doesn’t mention his blood pressure once the whole night, just asks him about the blaze that left the scar, and listens when he talks about the three guys he lost, no pity, no awkward pauses. When she leaves at 10, she reaches up, runs her finger along the scar on his bicep on purpose, slow, and says she’ll be back at the VFW next Friday for checks, so he better not hide in the booth again. He stands on the porch watching her truck pull down the dirt drive, dust catching pink in the sunset, and he already has a note scribbled with lemon, dill, and asparagus taped to his fridge door for next weekend’s dinner.
