Clay Bennett drags himself to the Ashland Fire Department’s annual summer fundraiser only because his old hotshot crew threatened to show up at his cabin and drag his 58-year-old self out by the ear if he bailed again. He’s spent the four years since his wife Linda died hiding out on his 12 acres, fixing up a dented 1978 Ford F-150 and planting native ponderosa pines to replace the ones lost in last month’s rogue wildfire, and the idea of making small talk with half the town makes his jaw ache. He grabs a cold IPA from the tented bar, nods at a few familiar faces, and retreats to the edge of the beer garden by the cornhole boards, where he can lean against a split-rail fence and blend into the shadow of a Douglas fir. The air smells like charred pine, grilled bratwurst, and lemon cut with the hoppy tang of beer, and for the first time all summer, there’s no thick smoke stinging the back of his throat.
He spots her ten minutes later. Mara Hale is 49, runs the native plant nursery on the other side of town, and was married to his crew captain John for 12 years before John died in a 2013 flashover outside Bend. Clay was the last man with John before the wind shifted, and he’s avoided her entirely for a decade, convinced he has no right to look her in the eye, let alone speak to her. Today she’s wearing cut-off denim shorts, a faded 2010 fire department crew tee that’s definitely John’s, and white canvas sneakers caked with dark potting soil. She tosses her head back laughing at something the bartender says, and the sun catches the thick silver streaks running through her auburn hair, making them glow like wire. Clay’s chest goes tight, half guilt, half something sharper, warmer, that he’s spent four years shoving down as hard as he can. He thinks about ducking behind the fir, but she sees him before he can move, waves, and starts walking over.