He drove the rusty pickup west, cooler on the passenger seat and spit can between his knees, past all the towns that start with B, to her cabin on that little trout stream west of Missoula. The had met last summer on a fire crew. She could swing a Pulaski like nobody’s business. She went maybe a buck-ten soaking wet, but she had the timing, knees and wrists like cracking a whip. This would be their first time since.
The dry snow crunched underfoot like fresh celery. Inside, his glasses fogged up, but he heard her voice, sweet as sorgo, and felt her hands on his shoulders and chest as she helped him out of his coat. They sat by the wood stove, reacquainting. She pulled her sweater over her head in one neat motion. He saw the fine hair in her arm pits, golden like prairie grass after the first hard frost.