Gus Voss, 61, custom leatherworker specializing in hand-tooled rodeo saddles and work boot repairs, had only agreed to show up to the eastern Oregon town’s annual harvest festival to pay off a debt. His 22-year-old niece had run his shop for three weeks straight the previous spring when he’d torn his meniscus clearing brush from his property, and she’d threatened to hide all his favorite leather edging tools if he didn’t make an appearance at her pie contest booth for at least an hour. He’d lasted 45 minutes already, sipping a cold IPA from the beer tent, leaning against a splintered wooden post, avoiding the eyes of every neighbor who’d tried to corner him to ask if he was “finally seeing anyone” since his wife Elara passed eight years prior.
The air reeked of roasted green chiles, cotton candy, and burnt hay from the hayride out back, and a cover band at the far end of the fairground was grinding through a rough, twangy version of *Folsom Prison Blues* that made his boot tap against the dirt against his will. He was just weighing if he could sneak out early without his niece noticing when a woman stumbled into him, warm spiced cider sloshing over the rim of her paper cup and soaking the left sleeve of his faded Carhartt jacket.
She grabbed his forearm first to steady herself, her fingers pressing into the thick canvas, and he flinched not from the wet, but from the unexpected warmth of her touch through the fabric. He’d forgotten what it felt like to have a stranger’s hand on him that wasn’t a customer handing over a worn boot or a saddle to repair. “Holy shit, I am so sorry,” she said, laughing so hard her hazel eyes crinkled at the corners, dabbing at his sleeve with a crumpled paper napkin. Her wrist brushed his bare forearm when she leaned in, and he caught the scent of cinnamon gum and old paper, sharp and sweet and nothing he’d smelled in town before. He recognized her then: Clara, the woman who’d opened the used bookstore on Main Street three months prior, the one he’d seen carrying stacks of hardcovers into the shop at 7 a.m. most mornings when he opened his own storefront across the street. He’d never spoken to her, had actively avoided crossing the street to say hi, convinced any attempt at small talk would just end with him fumbling over his words like a teenager.
“Nah, it’s fine,” he said, shrugging off the jacket to reveal a faded Wrangler button-down underneath, rolling the wet sleeve of the Carhartt over his arm. “This thing’s had oil, horse manure, and saddle soap spilled on it worse than cider. No harm done.”
She held out a hand to shake, her palm soft but with a raised callus on her index finger from turning thousands of book pages, he guessed. “Clara. I swear I’m not usually a walking disaster, I tripped over a kid’s neon cowboy boot back there. Dude’s got feet bigger than mine.”
He took her hand, his own calloused from 30 years of holding leather tools, and her grip was firmer than he expected. “Gus. I run the leather shop across from your store.”
“I know,” she said, grinning, and he felt his ears go hot, like he’d been caught staring. “I’ve been meaning to come by, actually. I’ve got a stack of first edition poetry books I want custom leather covers for, but I was convinced you’d charge me an arm and a leg and tell me poetry’s a waste of good cowhide.”
He laughed, a rough, rusty sound he didn’t make often outside of talking to his dog at home. “Poetry’s fine by me. I charge the same for book covers as I do for saddle bags. As long as you don’t ask me to tool sparkles on them, we’re good.”
They talked for 20 minutes, leaning against that same splintered post, the band shifting to slower, softer country deep cuts as the sun dipped below the pine trees lining the fairground. He told her about riding bareback broncs in his 20s, about meeting Elara at a rodeo in Idaho, about closing himself off from most people after she died, like he was afraid if he let anyone new in he’d forget the sound of her laugh. He didn’t know why he told her all that, he never told anyone that stuff. She told him about leaving her corporate job in Portland after her divorce, about moving to the small town because she’d always wanted to run a bookstore, about how she’d been scared half the town thought she was a big city snob who wouldn’t last a winter.
When the band started playing a slow, swaying version of *I Walk the Line*, she tilted her head to the side, her eyebrow raised, and nodded at the makeshift dance floor where a handful of older couples were slow dancing, their boots scuffing the dirt. “You dance, leather man?”
He almost said no. Almost made an excuse about his bad knee, about how he hadn’t danced since his wedding day. But then he looked at her, at the way the string lights strung above the beer tent gilded the edges of her dark hair, at the way she was biting her lower lip like she was half-expecting him to turn her down, and he held out his hand.
She took it immediately, letting him pull her close enough that her hip brushed his when they swayed, not close enough to be rude, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her through her flannel shirt. She leaned in to talk over the music, her breath warm against the shell of his ear, and he shivered a little. “I’ve been wanting to ask you to get coffee for three weeks. Was scared you’d tell me you only drink black coffee out of a thermos and hate book people.”
He laughed, spinning her slow, careful not to jostle his bad knee, and she smiled so wide her cheeks dimpled. “I do drink black coffee out of a thermos. But I don’t hate book people. Not even a little.”
When the song ended, they didn’t let go of each other’s hands. He asked her if she wanted to get a slice of peach pie from his niece’s booth, said it was the best in the county, and she said yes, as long as she got to pay for it to make up for the cider incident. He agreed, and they walked across the fairground together, their fingers laced loosely between them, their shoulders bumping every few steps. A kid on a skateboard zoomed past them, yelling an apology, and Gus pulled her a little closer to his side to keep her out of the way.
