Rafe Mendez, 52, retired smokejumper turned backcountry firewood delivery owner, had already tucked his keys in his pocket three times in the last 20 minutes, ready to bolt the county end-of-summer barn dance before anyone could corner him into small talk about fire season or his ex-wife. He’d only shown up because his old jump partner Jeb had begged, said the new forest ranger needed intel on the remote drainages west of the valley where cell service died completely, and Rafe was the only person who knew every inch of that land. He leaned against the rough pine barn wall, cold Coors sweating through the paper napkin wrapped around it, watching dust motes dance in the slanted golden hour light filtering through the cracked siding, and was just about to turn for the parking lot when he saw her.
Clara Bennett. His ex-wife’s first cousin, the woman he’d shared exactly three solo conversations with in the 12 years he was married, each one seared into his memory like a brand. She’d moved back to the valley two weeks prior to care for her 82-year-old mom who’d suffered a stroke, he’d heard through the grapevine, but he’d gone out of his way to avoid running into her, convinced the quiet spark he’d always felt around her was some kind of moral failure, even after his ex had left him for a cruise ship magician seven years prior and hadn’t spoken to either of them in five. She spotted him before he could duck behind the stack of hay bales to his left, paused mid-laugh with the woman from the county extension office, and held his eye contact for three full beats too long to be polite, then started walking over.