Elroy Voss is 61, makes custom fly rods for a living out of his cinder block workshop outside Darby, Montana, shaping each cork handle by hand and wrapping the guides with thread dyed to match the alpine lakes he fishes. He’s lived alone since his wife died eight years back, intentionally gruff to keep the town gossips at bay, hates the way strangers look at him like he’s a half-broken thing waiting to keel over. He only showed up to the annual fall salmon bake because his buddy left a half case of IPA at the beer tent with his name on it, planned to duck out after 20 minutes tops.
He’s leaning against a splintered pine post sipping his second beer when he spots Marnie Hale. She’s the 44-year-old county commissioner who pushed through the public backcountry access rule last month that half the local ranchers are still spitting mad about. She’s standing alone by the trash can, holding a paper plate with half-eaten salmon, scuffed work boots peeking out under a chunky navy knit dress, a smudge of cedar ash streaked across her left cheek. No one’s talked to her all night, he’s noticed. The whole town’s been giving her the cold shoulder like she snuck in and poisoned the well.
Elroy’s got no business walking over. If anyone sees him chatting her up, the church ladies will be spreading wildly exaggerated stories about them by breakfast tomorrow. Plus he hasn’t so much as flirted with a woman since his wife’s funeral, doesn’t remember how to do it right without fumbling or saying something stupid. But he’d spent three days last spring gathering signatures for that access rule, it lets him hike to the high alpine streams he’s fished since he was 12, and it feels wrong to let her stand there like a pariah just for doing something everyone secretly wanted.
He grabs a crumpled napkin off the nearest picnic table, ambles over, taps his own cheek with one calloused finger when she looks up. She blinks, then laughs, swiping at her face with the back of her hand, missing the ash entirely. He hesitates half a second, then brushes it off with the back of his knuckle, his rough skin grazing the soft curve of her cheek for less than a beat. She freezes, then grins, the corners of her hazel eyes crinkling like she’s not used to people being nice to her these days.
The bluegrass band cranks up a fast fiddle tune right then, so she has to lean in to hear him when he says the ranchers yelling at her last week were the same ones begging the county for more fishing access two years prior. Her shoulder presses into his bicep when she laughs, warm even through his thick wool flannel. He can smell pine soap and spiced hard cider on her, the smoke from the alder wood salmon grill curling around them, and for a second he forgets all the reasons he’s supposed to turn and walk away. She says she’s seen his workshop when she walks her golden retriever past his place at sunrise, asks how he carves the curved cork handles he sells at the downtown hardware store.
A cold October rain hits out of nowhere, fat, icy drops soaking through his shirt in 10 seconds flat. Everyone bolts for the overpacked pavilion or their parked trucks, and she grabs his wrist, her fingers warm and firm around the thick, silvery scar he got fighting a 30,000 acre wildfire outside Missoula in 2009. She says she’s got a camper parked two miles up the road, has a case of hazy IPA stashed under the bench and a working wood stove, he can wait out the rain with her. He doesn’t even think about saying no.
Her camper smells like cedar shavings and vanilla candles, she lights the small wood stove while they peel off their wet outer layers. She’s wearing a faded plaid flannel under her dress, he’s in a threadbare smokejumper t-shirt, and when she spots the scar on his forearm, she leans in, runs her fingertips across the raised, pale skin slow, like she’s handling one of his delicate ash rod blanks. He covers her hand with his, and she doesn’t pull away. The rain taps soft on the metal roof, the wood stove pops and crackles, and for the first time in eight years, he doesn’t feel like he’s waiting for something bad to happen. He leans in, kisses her, and she kisses back, tastes like citrus IPA and cinnamon gum.
They stay for two hours, talking about fishing and public land and the way small towns hold grudges like they’re prize hunting trophies. She buys one of his custom 4-weight rods for her dad’s 70th birthday, asks if he’ll teach her to cast when the snow melts next spring. He says yes, no hesitation, no overthinking about what the neighbors might say.
They drive back into town after the rain stops, no one’s left at the festival grounds, and he walks her to her front porch, doesn’t care if any of the neighbors are watching through their curtained windows. When he gets back to his workshop an hour later, he pulls a fresh ash rod blank off the rack, carves a tiny, perfect brook trout into the cork handle before he turns off the lights for the night.
