Page 17 of Christmas at the Ranch
“Not going to say no to that,” he says, his eyes now cleared of whatever was bothering him. “Thank you, Emory.”
Charlie and I pass a few pleasant hours bringing horses in from their various paddocks, feeding them, cleaning stalls. It’s straightforward, satisfying work, and I forget my worries in the steady process of measuring grain, pitchforking sweet hay into feed bins, sweeping aisles.
When we’re done, Charlie tells me he’s microwaved us some potpies for dinner, and we can eat them in the office.
“That sounds perfect,” I tell him—and I mean it. I haven’t eaten since dinner last night and I’m starving.
In the small, dim bathroom I wash the barn from my hands with the herbaceous soap that causes my heart to thump with painful nostalgia as its spicy scent hits my nostrils.Tate.I wrote a magazine article on scent and memory, so I know exactly what’s happening to my brain right now, which centers are being lit up by the smell of this soap. But just because there’s a scientific explanation for the way I’m feeling doesn’t make the ache any less intense. I stand still for a moment and let it wash over me, hoping the feelings might run their course. It won’t be long now, I tell myself. One more night and I’ll be gone again.
I look away from my pale, tired reflection in the mirror and head down a narrow hallway back to the ranch’s office. Charlie passes me a paper plate, then a mug filled with steaming-hot tea.
As we eat and chat about the stables, the horses, life on the ranch, I am careful not to ask directly about Tate. I’m not sure my ravaged heart can take it, as calming as I found the barn work. But still, my eyes drift around the room. Eventually, they land on a photograph tacked to a bulletin board behind the desk. It’s of Tate standing with a teenage boy and a horse. The horse’s bridle is bedecked with blue ribbons. The boy is smiling proudly, and so is Tate.
“That’s Tate and his star pupil at the riding school,” Charlie says. Then he puts down his fork. “It was going real well. But there have been some challenges.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say. I want to ask what the challenges are, but Charlie hasn’t offered any more information, and I’m hesitant to pry.
Charlie sighs, but then shrugs. “That’s life when you’re running a business. Now, you must be exhausted. I’ll walk you out to the cabin.”
My last bite of dinner sticks in my throat.I’m not ready,I want to say.I need more time. Everything around here already reminds me of him. How am I going to feel actually stepping into his place?
I can’t voice any of these thoughts or feelings. Instead, I swallow hard, then throw away my paper plate and follow Charlie.
By the time we’ve passed all the stables and followed the path through the trees to Tate’s cabin, my apprehension has made my chest feel so tight it’s hard to breathe.
When Charlie unlocks the cabin door, opens it, steps aside, and invites me in, my voice is a sudden yelp. “I just need a minute!” I move away, farther into the night instead of the warmth of the cabin. I can’t go in there. I can’t even look.
Charlie backtracks, peers out at me in surprise before stepping back onto the porch.
“I’d like to…look at the stars,” I say. “Get some fresh air. Then I’ll go in.” There’s a Muskoka chair on the deck beside the door. I brush it off and sit, thenlook levelly at Charlie. “I’ll be a few minutes, you go on home.”
“Still snowing,” Charlie remarks, putting his hands in his pockets and looking up at the sky. “Aren’t really any stars out tonight. Sure you want to be staying outside?”
“Absolutely,” I say. “I don’t get a lot of fresh air, living in the city and all.”
He raises an eyebrow but lets me be. “All right. Just as long as you promise me you will go inside eventually, not sit out here all night and freeze.”
“Promise.”
“I’ll let you be with your thoughts, then.”
He nods, then disappears into the night. When he’s gone, I lean back in the chair and stare upward.
Charlie’s right: There are no stars, just a blanket of clouds, heavy with snow. The flakes swirl down, reminding me of ash from a bonfire. They hit my face, melt on my skin. I sigh. It’s still hard to admit, even to myself, how many times I’ve fantasized about seeing Tate again. And now he’s not here and I’m about to sleep in his cabin. Alone. Frankly, I’d rather do anything else. I have a sinking feeling this is not going to give me closure. Instead, it’s going to open wounds.
But what choice do I have? I stand, take a deep, agonized breath, turn toward the door, and stare it down like we’re in a ring and it’s my opponent. All at once, words are flowing into my mind—ones I wrote, a decade ago. I kept a moment-by-moment account of our time together in my diary, then threw the entirenotebook in the trash at the rental cabin before leaving Evergreen for what I thought was going to be forever. And yet, I can still remember every sentence, every memory that flowed from my pen.
Which is how I know that this place is exactly how he said it wouldbe.
Eight
I push open the door. And he’s there, even though he’s not. Tate Wilder. Everywhere.
Woodsmoke, leather, saddle soap, pine needles. His cabin is made entirely of logs, in wood stained the softest, warmest brown. There are beams overhead with the same patina. I turn on a lamp, and the living room and open-concept kitchen are bathed in a gentle glow. It’s like stepping into a magazine spread. There’s a stone fireplace, a Navajo rug, a salvaged wood coffee table, books stacked on top. I walk over and pick them up, one by one. A copy of Bob Dylan’sChronicles;Moneyballby Michael Lewis; bell hooks. I pick upAll About Loveand stare down at the red cover. It’s one of my all-time favorites, and I often give it to friends as a holiday gift.
Which gives me pause. I flip open the cover. And there it is: my name, Emory Oakes, written on the inside flap. I gave Tate my own copy of the book when I was here that Christmas. Does the fact that he kept it, leaves it sitting on his coffee table, mean something?
I sit down on the couch—which is caramel leather,cozy and deep, loaded with pillows and blankets. Still holding the book, I stare ahead into the cold, empty maw of Tate’s fireplace. The tears that have dogged me all day are on my cheeks now, nothing I can do. I sniffle, sit still, let the pain and loneliness wash over me.
