Page 4 of Mountain Man's Bonfire Beauty
I couldn’t help but notice I was the only female vendor who had a personal helper right now. That probably would change. He’d move over to help someone else soon enough. I shouldn’t take this personally. It wasn’t that he was interested in me. If anything, he was probably afraid I’d do something dangerous again.
“So you are a vet?” I asked as we worked.
“Navy. My buddy grew up here. When I got out, it just seemed like a good place to settle.” He paused, looking at me expectantly. “How about you? What do you do?”
I hesitated, bundle of twigs in hand. How much did I want to share with this virtual stranger? Even if he was a virtual stranger who made my pulse race every time he looked at me.
“It’s complicated,” I said, handing him the twigs. “I’m kind of between things right now.”
He nodded, accepting my non-answer without pushing. “I get that. Sometimes you need time to figure out what comes next.”
There was something in his tone that made me think he understood more than most people would. “Is that why you moved here? To figure things out?”
“Partly.” He arranged the kindling carefully on top of the pile, his movements precise and methodical. “The transition from military to civilian life isn’t exactly smooth. Everything’s different—the pace, the structure, the…purpose, I guess.”
“How long have you been out?”
“Three years.” He glanced at me. “Three years, and I’m still figuring it out. Some days I miss the clarity of it all—knowingexactly what my job was, what was expected of me. Out here, it’s all gray areas.”
I handed him another bundle, considering his words. “Is that why you’re so focused on safety? Because you miss having clear rules?”
He was quiet for a moment, and I thought maybe I’d pushed too far. But then he nodded slowly. “Maybe. In the Navy, following protocol kept people alive. Out here, people think I’m being paranoid or controlling, but…” He shrugged. “Old habits.”
“For what it’s worth,” I said softly, “I’m glad you were paranoid today. Things could have been a lot worse if you hadn’t been there.”
Our eyes met, and something passed between us—a moment of understanding that made my chest tight. Then he cleared his throat and looked away.
“We should probably start marking the perimeter,” he said. “I brought some stakes and rope, but I could use someone with experience managing crowds to help figure out the best placement.”
I blinked at him in surprise. “You want my help?”
“You handle dozens of kids at your booth every day without anyone getting trampled or lost. That’s not an accident—that’s skill.” He gestured toward the growing pile of wood in the center of the field. “This is going to be a lot bigger crowd in a much less controlled environment.”
Pride warmed my chest at the unexpected compliment. “Okay. What did you have in mind?”
He led me toward his truck, where I could see a coil of bright orange rope and a box of metal stakes in the bed. “I was thinking we’d create zones—close enough for people to feel the warmth and see the fire, but far enough back to be safe if something sparks or shifts.”
“Smart.” I studied the field, mentally calculating distances and crowd flow. “You’ll want to account for kids, though. They’re going to want to get closer, and parents won’t always be watching. Maybe a double perimeter? Inner boundary for adults only, outer boundary for families?”
His eyes lit up. “That’s brilliant. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“And you’ll want to leave clear pathways,” I continued, getting into the planning now. “People need to be able to move around without bottlenecking. Maybe here, here, and here?” I pointed to three different spots around the imaginary circle.
“Exactly.” He grabbed a rope and stakes from the truck. “This is why I needed your help. I was thinking like a soldier—contain and control. You’re thinking like someone who actually understands how people move in groups.”
We walked the perimeter together, him holding one end of the rope while I stayed on the outskirts, calling out adjustments as we went. It felt natural, working together like this. Our styles complemented each other—his methodical precision balancing my intuitive understanding of crowd dynamics.
“Here,” I said when we reached a spot where the ground dipped slightly. “This is going to be a problem. People will naturally gravitate to the low ground because it feels more stable, but if someone trips…”
“They’ll take out everyone behind them.” He was already reaching for a stake. “We’ll mark this as a no-standing zone.”
As we worked, hammering stakes into the ground and stretching rope between them, the conversation flowed easier than it had any right to. He asked about my s’mores business, and I found myself telling him about the farmers’ markets I’d worked in other towns, the trial and error of perfecting recipes, the satisfaction of seeing kids light up when they tasted the perfect marshmallow.
“So this isn’t your first rodeo,” he said, adjusting the tension on a section of rope.
“Definitely not. Though it’s the first place I’ve accidentally set anything on fire.” I made a face. “Not exactly the impression I was hoping to make.”
“Could have happened to anyone,” he said, but there was something in his voice that made me look at him closer.
