Dale Riggs, 58, retired forest ranger with 32 years patrolling the steep, rhododendron-choked trails of Pisgah National Forest, hadn’t wanted to come to the fire department beer garden. He’d avoided the annual fundraiser for six years straight, ever since his wife Linda passed, claiming the crowd of chattering locals and loud bluegrass set gave him a headache. His old patrol partner Tommy had badgered him into it this year, though, saying the department needed all the cash they could get to replace their 1998 fire truck, so Dale had showed up in his faded gray flannel, work boots caked in mud from splitting firewood that morning, and planted himself against the farthest picnic table to nurse a hazy IPA and grumble about the influx of remote work transplants that had doubled the town’s population since 2020.
The first time she bumped into him, he was mid-rant about the new transplants who hiked the backcountry trails without bear spray and left granola bar wrappers tucked under rock outcroppings. Her seltzer sloshed over the rim of her can, splattering cold, citrus-scented liquid on his flannel sleeve. She apologized immediately, her hand brushing his forearm to wipe a stray drop off, and Dale froze. He noticed the chipped mint green polish on her nails, the faint calluses on her fingertips, the jasmine lotion she wore tangled with the sharp, familiar smell of pine from her hiking boots. She was Clara Bennett, 49, the new town librarian who’d moved in from Chicago the year before, the one he’d dodged three separate times when she’d left notes at the hardware store asking for trail recommendations. He’d written her off as another city transplant who’d leave as soon as the first winter snow blocked the mountain roads.