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I know she drinks her coffee sweet enough to rot teeth. I know she chews the cap of her Sharpie when she's thinking and she says "okay, okay, okay" under her breath when a plan falls apart and she's building a new one. She ate lunch yesterday for the first time since I got here, because Mabel stood over her at the diner with a plate of chicken fried steak and refused to leave. I know she walks the grounds every night, because I walk them with her now, and she's stopped pretending to be annoyed about it.

I also know she's leaving the Monday after the festival. So am I. So that's that.

She comes back with the rag and the can and drops both in my lap. I spray out the jets and run a thin wire through the main one until it's clear, then set the bowl back on and tighten the screws. It's simple work. My hands know it without me thinking, which leaves my head free to notice that she smells like acrylic paint and nothing else, and that she's crouched down beside me again, watching my fingers.

"Where'd you learn this?" she asks.

"Marines. Then fifteen years in a town where the nearest mechanic is an hour away."

"Is there anything you can't fix?"

"Plenty."

I pour in fresh gas from the can in my truck bed, set the choke, and pull the cord. It catches on the second try and settles into a steady rumble. The stage lights blink on overhead, bright white against the afternoon sun.

Mona lets out a long breath.

"Oh, thank God." She presses both hands over her face and laughs into them. "I was gonna have to rent one from Durango. I don't have the budget to rent one from Durango."

"Now you don't have to."

She drops her hands. She's smiling at me, wide and real, blue paint and all, and I don't think. My thumb comes up on its own and swipes across her forehead, catching the smear of blue and pulling it away.

She goes still.

My hand doesn't move. It stays right there, thumb resting at her temple, fingers curved along her jaw. Her skin is soft and warm under my calluses. Her eyes drop to my mouth and stay there, and her lips part on a breath I can hear.

The generator hums. Somewhere across the field a hammer rings. She sways a little, maybe an inch, toward me.

"Mona! Where do you want the cider barrels?"

Wade Sutton's voice cracks across the lot. She jerks back so fast she sits down in the dirt. I let my hand fall to my knee and stare at the carburetor.

"By the cider stand," she calls without looking. "Obviously, Wade."

"Which side?"

"Left!" She scrambles to her feet, brushing off her jeans, and doesn't look at me. "Thank you for the generator."

"Anytime."

She's gone before I get the word out. Sergeant stands, looks at me with open disappointment, and trots after her.

I sit in the dirt a while longer. Then I pack up my toolbox and get back in my truck, and I don't start the engine.

Forty three years old. Married once, divorced once. Fifteen years of making a life so small and so tidy it didn't have room for anything to break. I told myself that was a choice, and most days I believed it. Then a woman with paint on her face laughed on the edge of a stage and I nearly kissed her in front of a cider vendor.

She's going back to her business in New Mexico. I'm going back over the pass to Edna and Dumpling and three nights a week of Marla's chili. Shayla wanted more than Iron Creek had to give, and she was right to go. Mona's the same breed. Bigger. Brighter. She'd be bored stupid by Christmas.

My phone buzzes.

Lyle:

Sheriff, the Hendersons' goats got into the school playground

Handled it

Just wanted you to know I handled it