Jax Marlow, 52, has called the shots at the Laramie County livestock auction for 19 years, his rapid-fire patter so iconic local ranchers say he could sell a three-legged steer for top dollar if he felt like it. His biggest flaw, the one he never admits out loud, is that he’s hidden from any sort of romantic connection for 8 years, ever since his wife Elara died in her sleep mid-chemotherapy round. He’d shown up to the annual fire department cook-off only because his 16-year-old nephew was marching with the junior firefighter corps, and he’d promised the kid he’d be there, even if it meant fending off half a dozen well-meaning church ladies trying to set him up with their divorced daughters.
The July air hangs thick as molasses, 92 degrees with a wind that carries hickory smoke from the brisket pits and the sharp, sweet fizz of cheap canned beer. He’s leaning against the tailgate of his dented 2017 F-150, sipping a root beer (he quit drinking three years back after a bad week where he’d gone through a fifth of bourbon alone in his living room) when a woman slams into his elbow hard enough to make his soda slosh over the rim. Her iced tea, heavy on lemon, dribbles down the front of his worn Wrangler jeans.
She’s wearing faded Carhartt overalls over a threadbare Johnny Cash tee, steel-toe boots caked in mud, a thin pale scar slicing across her left cheekbone. “Shit, I’m so sorry,” she says, grabbing a crumpled napkin from her pocket and dabbing at the wet spot on his thigh before she seems to think better of it. Her hand is warm even through the denim, calloused at the knuckles, and Jax freezes, because no one has touched him that casually, that unthinkingly intimate, in longer than he can remember. He meets her eyes, hazel flecked with bright green, and she doesn’t look away like most people do when they realize he’s the quiet widower everyone whispers about. She smirks instead, like she can tell he’s flustered. “I’m Lena, new animal control officer. Moved here from Denver three weeks ago. Currently dodging the pastor who keeps asking me to Bible study.”
Jax snorts, a real laugh that catches him off guard. “Jax. Local auctioneer. Currently dodging Mabel Henderson, who’s been trying to set me up with her 46-year-old daughter who collects porcelain cats.” They end up leaning against the truck together, their shoulders brushing every time someone passes by, and he learns she got the scar from a pit bull rescue her first year on the job, that she’s been single since her partner died in a backcountry skiing accident six years prior, that she hates country music except for Johnny Cash and Dolly Parton. He tells her about Elara, about the guilt that sits heavy in his chest every time he even thinks about going on a date, about how he’s spent the last three years teaching himself to bake pie because it was Elara’s favorite thing to do on rainy weekends. The coconut sunscreen she wears mixes with the smoke from the pits and the faint smell of alfalfa blowing over from the nearby fields, and Jax can’t remember the last time he felt this light, this seen, without having to perform the stoic widower role everyone expects.
A group of kids dart between them mid-conversation, one slamming into Lena’s back, and she stumbles forward into his chest. He wraps his arm around her waist automatically to steady her, the rough fabric of her overalls soft under his palm, and he doesn’t let go when she steadies herself. She leans into his side instead, her hand resting on his forearm, her thumb brushing the faint scar he has there from a bull that gored him back in 2019. The fireworks start right then, bursts of red and blue painting the darkening sky, the booms rattling in his chest, and for the first time in 8 years, he doesn’t feel guilty for wanting something for himself.
When the last firework fades, the crowd cheers, and he turns to her, his arm still around her waist. “I got a peach pie I baked this morning sitting on my kitchen counter. Still warm, I think. Got vanilla ice cream in the freezer too. Wanna come over?” She grins, squeezing his forearm, and nods. He opens the passenger door of his truck for her, and she slips her hand into his to haul herself up, her fingers lacing through his for half a second before she lets go. He closes the door behind her, walks around to the driver’s side, and for the first time in years, he’s not dreading going home to an empty house.
