Page 14 of Christmas at the Ranch
He’s just as I remember him: tall, wearing a Stetson even in winter—just like his son—and with amber-brown eyes that match his son’s, too, but on a more weathered face.
I can’t speak. I find myself peering behind him, out the window, at the white pickup truck with the WilderRanch logo—a red line drawing of a horse’s head swooping into a curvaceousW—parked there. I can’t help but look for him—but Tate’s not in the passenger seat.
“It’s been a while,” he says, filling my silence.
“Sure has,” I finally manage. “Ten years.”
Then his smile fades as he seems to remember something. He leans around me, toward Meredith behind the counter.
“I don’t care what the overactive rumor mill in this town is spewing out. Emory herself has done nothing wrong, and you can’t be going and lying to her, overcharging her for something you know you and your brother can have done in an hour.”
Meredith seems even more flustered than I am. Her cheeks turn as red as her coveralls as she apologizes. “I’ll see what I can do,” she says.
Charlie shakes his head. “Damn group chat. Now, I need a new winch. Mine’s busted. Got any of those in stock for me?”
As she goes to fetch it, I turn toward the door, but Charlie calls out to me.
“You want to wait a minute there, Emory, so you and I can have a little catch-up?”
I nod and mumble that I’ll see him outside. In the parking lot, the snow is still falling in feathery little bundles, and I let it land on me, in the hopes it’ll cool me down after the emotional roller-coaster ride I’ve just been on.
Soon, Charlie is outside, too. He looks at me for a moment, then says, “You have an hour to kill whilethey get those tires on for you. I can’t let you be standing out here in this snowstorm, waiting.”
“I’ll be okay,” I try to insist. “I’ll go to Carrie’s Café or something.”
He ignores this. “Why don’t I take you back to the ranch for a nice warm mug of something, and by the time we’re done getting caught up, Meredith should be done with your tires, too.”
Now I’m as frozen as a snow sculpture. But not because of the cold. Is this really going to happen?
He shoots me a look, reading my hesitation. “He’s not around,” he answers my unvoiced question. “Went to a trade show in Barrie for a few days. Not back till Wednesday.”
Something swirls around me along with the snow. I can’t quite grasp it. Disappointment, I think. He’s not here at all. So there’s no chance of my running into him. But then a new emotion arrives: relief. I can relax now. Tate Wilder isn’t in town. He’s not going to see me, or know I was here.
Somewhat more at ease, I follow Charlie to his truck and climb up into the cab. Soon the heat is blasting, and he’s driving down the familiar winding road toward Wilder Ranch. His radio is tuned to Kayak, the quirky local station I was listening to earlier; Céline Dion is singing “The Christmas Song,” soulfully crooning about chestnuts roasting on an open fire and Jack Frost nipping at her nose.This is nice,I tell myself.I’m going to have a pleasant visit with Charlie, and then, once the hour is over, I will be able to drive away and put this town behind me.
“Charlie, Wilder Ranch looks just the same!” And it does. Exactly like my dreams of the place—because I have dreamed of it, over and over as the years have passed. The paddocks are still fenced by sun-bleached wood, now iced with snow, hung with dangling icicles. Horses either stand still, covered in those same red-and-green-plaid Wilder Ranch blankets I remember, or prance and gallop, snorting plumes of frosty air.
“Well, now, you haven’t been inside yet,” Charlie says, turning off the truck. “We’ve made some modernizations—Tate’s seen to that. But you’re right. Wilder Ranch is still very much the same place you knew.”
The snow slows enough that everything comes into focus. I can see the main house, which is made of logs like the one Tate built in the woods—except much larger, with a wraparound veranda in the same sun-bleached wood as the paddocks. I see a construction dumpster out front; Charlie must be doing some renovations. I look away from the gable I know used to be Tate’s bedroom window and try not to think about the night I threw pebbles at it, trying to get him to come out and talk to me. He never did.
I turn instead toward the stable buildings. There’s a covered arena, separate from the stables. Charlie explains that this is one of the modernizations he mentioned. And that the space that used to be a stall-lined riding ring is now a ranch office, with more stalls anda larger tack room. “For Tate’s riding school,” he says. Another one of his dreams come true.
I recognize the snow-covered outdoor sand ring, the paths leading to the fields and forest, the woods I know are filled with peaceful, snowy trails and Tate’s house of dreams. I find myself wondering,Does he live there with a wife? A family?I want to ask Charlie questions about him, but I can’t. I just stand still, taking it all in.
“Let’s walk,” Charlie says, and we do, heading toward the paddocks. “So,” he says as we crunch through the snow. “Tell me what you’ve been up to all these years. What great things have you done?”
I feel embarrassed. What have I done that’s great? “I worked as a local news reporter forTheGlobe and Mailafter journalism school,” I say, and he lets out a low whistle.
“Impressive! That’s our national paper!”
“Not so fast. I got laid off last year, and now I’m a freelancer.”
“Who do you freelance for?”
“TheGlobe,still. Sometimes theToronto Starnow, too. Just about any Canadian magazine you can think of.Chatelaine. House & Home. Food & Drink. Some websites.”
He glances at me like he wants to ask me something. Instead he says, “Well, I’ve heard of all those publications, so I still find it impressive. You were always going places, Emory Oakes.” I feel a twinge as he says this—because he sounds just like Tate.
