Elias Voss, 62, spent 38 years perched in fire lookouts across Oregon’s Willamette National Forest, trained to spot the first wisp of smoke before it bloomed into something unmanageable. The skill seeped into his personal life, too; he’d spent the eight years since his wife’s death spotting and dodging any situation that might crack the carefully constructed solitude he’d wrapped around himself. He’d only dragged himself to the town’s annual summer street fair because 12-year-old Mia from next door had fed his ornery tabby for three days while he was hiking the backcountry last month, and she’d begged him to stop by her lemonade stand. He was wearing the faded canvas work shirt he’d had since his first lookout post, scuffed work boots caked with pine sap, and a half-finished charcoal sketch of his old lookout tower tucked in his back pocket.
The first jolt hit when a woman’s shoulder collided with his bicep, hard enough to slosh a little of Mia’s cold, tart lemonade over the rim of his cup onto his wrist. He turned to snap, then froze. Clara Marlow, 58, owned the used bookstore on Main Street he’d snuck into once a month for three years, always timing his visits for when he thought she was out at the farmers market, grabbing western paperbacks he’d hidden in his truck before driving back up to his cabin off the dirt road. She smelled like jasmine lotion and yellowed paper, her short silver hair tucked behind one ear, a tiny tattoo of an open book peeking out from under the rolled cuff of her denim shirt. “Sorry about that,” she laughed, her voice low and rough, like she spent half her days talking to old books and the other half singing off-key to Patsy Cline. “Was staring at that kid’s cotton candy stand, forgot to watch where I was going.”
He mumbled a gruff no problem, already turning to leave, but she reached out and tapped his jaw before he could step away. Her thumb was calloused, warm, brushing the smudge of charcoal he’d gotten from sketching that morning off his skin before he could flinch. “You’ve been hiding up in that cabin so long I thought a bear might’ve eaten you,” she said, her hazel eyes crinkling at the corners, no trace of pity in them, just the kind of teasing that made his ears go red, a sensation he hadn’t felt since he was 16 and asking his first girlfriend to prom. He hated the way his chest felt tight, the way he couldn’t make himself look away from the gold flecks scattered in her irises. He’d spent so long convincing himself wanting anything other than quiet was a betrayal of his wife, the sharp spark of desire in his gut felt like something dirty, something he should stamp out immediately.
She didn’t let him escape, though, nodding toward her booth a few feet away, stacked with dog-eared westerns, first edition Zane Greys, Louis L’Amour paperbacks with cracked, worn spines. “I got that copy of *Riders of the Purple Sage* you’ve been looking for,” she said, and he blinked, shocked she’d even noticed he’d been searching for it. He followed her before he could think better of it, his boots thudding on the warm asphalt, the sound of bluegrass from the stage at the end of the street mixing with the chatter of families chasing their kids around with melting snow cones. They flipped through the stack of books together, their hands brushing every time they both reached for the same volume, her elbow knocking into his ribs when she laughed at a dumb joke about a cowboy and a librarian he’d blurted out before he could stop himself.
The sky opened up without warning, fat, cool raindrops splattering the tops of the book stacks before either of them could react. He moved on instinct, grabbing armfuls of books before they could get waterlogged, shoving them under the small canvas awning over her booth, both of them huddling close to stay out of the downpour, their sides pressed tight together, rain drumming so loud on the awning he could barely hear anything but the sound of her breathing next to him. “You don’t have to keep hiding, you know,” she said, so quiet he almost missed it, lacing her fingers through his where they were resting on the stack of books between them. Her palm was warm, a little sticky from the cotton candy she’d been eating earlier, and he didn’t pull away. For the first time in eight years, the guilt didn’t feel bigger than the quiet, soft thrill of being seen, of wanting to be seen.
The rain stopped as quickly as it started, the sun breaking through the clouds, painting a faint rainbow over the pine treeline at the edge of town. She wiped a drop of rain off her cheek, grinning up at him. “I got a peach pie cooling on my windowsill at home,” she said. “Got fresh whipped cream, too. You wanna come over?” He nodded, no half-assed excuses about feeding the cat, no lies about having work to do up at the cabin. He picked up the heavy box of first editions they’d pulled under the awning, his hand resting light on the small of her back as he followed her to her beat-up pickup truck parked at the curb. The worn spine of the Zane Grey paperback he’d wanted for years pressed against his palm, and he didn’t even hesitate when she held the passenger door of her truck open for him.
