Page 10 of Christmas at the Ranch
Reesa smiles. “Okay, theyarepretty good,” she says.
“I promise,” I tell Sam. “I will not leave until I’ve tried them.”
“Let’s get you checked in, then!” She painstakingly writes up an invoice, but I have nowhere to be so waitpatiently, staring out the window above her head as I do, the rhythm of the snow falling outside becoming mesmeric.
After Sam checks me in, we walk through the main room, with its fireplace and comfy seating, to get to the staircase. As we do, I clock the changes that have taken place in the past decade. The stairs I once used, off to the side of the kitchen—mostly to sneak out and see Tate—are blocked off now, and so is the kitchen. Both doors have signs that readStaff Only.
“There are bedrooms downstairs,” Sam says over her shoulder as we climb. “But the best ones are up here.” We’ve reached the top of the staircase. “There’s the Loon’s Nest, which in my personal opinion is the best one. See, it looks out at the lake from one window, and at the forest, and thisbeautiful, magicalhorse ranch next door from the other—”
“No!” I can tell both Sam and Reesa are surprised by my abrupt tone. “I don’t…like horses,” I improvise. “I’d have nightmares.”
I can’t bring myself to look out that window, but the knowledge that Wilder Ranch is still there flows through me. It’s not gone. The truth of this beats in my heart, in my soul. I want to run outside and see it. But I can’t do that, and I know it.
“Okay, then,” Sam says, now looking at me like I’m the strangest person she has ever met. “Right this way, I guess. We also have the Great Heron Hideaway—”
But that was the room my parents had slept in, a high-ceilinged corner suite overlooking the lake on one side and the woods on the other. It’s a beautifulroom, but I know it will just remind me of them—and I don’t want to think about my parents right now. “Do you have anything maybe a little smaller?”
She looks disappointed. “We have the Loonet’s Lair, but that’s just a kid’s room. It has a bunk bed and only one tiny window, and it looks out into the front yard, which doesn’t really—”
“Perfect,” I say. And it is, I can tell as soon as she opens the door. Small, dim, doesn’t remind me of anything. I can crawl into the bottom bunk later and hopefully fall asleep without also descending into the pit of nostalgia that is threatening to engulf me.
“Weird,” I hear Sam say under her breath as her mother shakes her head at her.
“She’s our guest, let her stay in the room she wants,” Reesa whispers back.
Reesa explains that the Loonet’s Lair has a shared bathroom, but since no one else is on this floor it will be my own private en suite. Then Sam begins to list activities.
“There’s the guided snowshoe tour—”
“Sam,” Reesa whispers, “we don’t have that.”
“Ican be the guide,” Sam shoots back, returning her gaze to me. “And the guided cross-country ski tour. Also, skating on the lake! Bonfire at dusk! We could even go next door and see if the Wilders would let us groom the—”
“I’m okay,” I say quickly. “Really, no need.”
“You don’t want to doanything?”
Except wallow in my own shame, misery, and confusion? Not really, kid.But of course I can’t say such a thing tothis sweet, idealistic little girl—so I tell her I’m just going to go for a walk by myself, and look away from her crestfallen expression.
“Will you eat some dinner when you get back?” Reesa asks me. “I’m baking fresh bread and there’s soup on the stove. Not much open in town on a Sunday, in the way of food.”
My stomach is still in knots and I can’t imagine eating much, but I tell her yes, mostly for Sam’s benefit. She looks relieved that I’ve agreed to do something.
“After you eat, we could play a board game—” Sam begins, but Reesa puts her hand on her daughter’s back, rubs it once, a silent signal that causes Sam to stop her excited stream-of-consciousness babble as she tries to suggest more activities for me to try.Let her be,Reesa is telling her daughter. I feel more grateful than ever, both for Sam’s heartwarming zest—even if I’m not fully up to participating in it—and for her mother’s quiet compassion.
“It gets dark fast this time of year, so I’ll leave a lantern at the door for you to take on your walk,” Reesa says.
Sam clearly wants to stay and keep offering me an itinerary of made-up activities, but Reesa suggests she come to the kitchen and help her with the scones for the next morning, so she follows her mother. Alone now, I send Lani a quick text to let her know I’m safe, then root around in my gym bag for the sweatshirt I know is in there. I don’t have a hat, but I do have the hood of my parka and some thin gloves. This will do.
I pick up the lantern Reesa left for me, step outside,and stand still, listening. The silence feels like a living thing, quiet but not. The snow is softening the sharp edges of the world. It already seems like a lifetime ago that I was on the treadmill, watching my family’s transgressions written across the bottom of a television screen. I breathe in the cold winter air and step down from the stairs to begin my walk, careful to avoid turning toward or looking for any path in the woods leading to Wilder Ranch—intent on avoiding my past, even though I’ve just run blindly toward it.
Four
A sound I remember well pulls me toward the lake. My boots slip and slide on the granite steps that lead from the cottage down to the water, but I don’t fall. The dock is out, pulled ashore to protect it from the ice, so I stand on the rock wall at the edge of the water and listen. There it is again: the noise that woke me in the middle of the night ten years ago and led me to Tate Wilder.
I lean down and pry a rock from the icy ground, practicing the motion of flicking my wrist to see if I still remember how. I do. Like so much about this place, it has left its imprint. I let the rock fly, and the noise it makes as it bounces across the new ice is a lilting, whistling pop that is so deeply satisfying, I do it again.
Eventually, my hands grow too numb to skip rocks anymore, so I turn away from the lake and walk down the lantern-lit driveway. I turn right instead of left, determined to walk away from Wilder Ranch instead of toward it. I have a view through the trees of the lake,silent, cold, and moody in the early evening light. It’s the perfect visual match for my somber emotions.
