Page 2 of Christmas at the Ranch
I’ll admit, I forget most of what he said next. Something about how it was sunny today, so the ice melted a little, and now it was dark, and the ice was refreezing. Expanding and contracting, science, et cetera. As he spoke, all I could think about was how his smile flashed at me like a shooting star I wanted to chase, to coax out again and again, to keep for my own. He stood up from his chair and I realized he was very tall. I’m tall, too, so it’s nice when I’m not looking down at a person. Especially a guy. He was slim, kind of gangly, but his shoulders were broad under his flannel. And his hair, peeking out from beneath that Stetson, was sandy brown with sun-kissed ends, as if he hadn’t had it cut since summer.
He continued with his explanation about why the water made that noise under the ice, but all I could think was how unexpected it was to be standing on the shore of a lake in winter, talking to a handsome guy in front of a bonfire—when moments before I had been stuck in my bedroom, staring down three weeks of misery.
Was I dreaming?
I must have shivered then, and he mistook it for my being cold. He invited me to come sit by his fire and pulled over another Muskoka chair. I explained who I was and apologized for all the noise my family was making, disturbing the peaceful setting. He just shrugged andsaid it was fine, he hadn’t heard anything, really. Then he looked over at me and smiled again. I was mesmerized.
“I mean, hey, who doesn’t love hearing ‘Last Christmas’ by Wham! on repeat something like…eleven times?” he said.
In that moment, I knew I liked him. Already. And I decided I wanted him to like me back so badly. I needed to try to be someone else. Not the shy awkward girl I’m known as at school. The one who had worn bottle-thick glasses until she recently got contacts and would rather stay home with a book than go out on weekends.
“I’m Emory,” I said, hoping the smile on my face was as casual and appealing as his. I nodded at his beer bottle. “You don’t happen to have a drink for me, do you?”
There it was, that smile again—now wider. He was looking at me with the interest I had been seeking, the same delighted surprise I felt the second I saw him. I tossed my hair over my shoulder, glad I’d allowed my mother’s stylist to have her way, pre–family reunion. My normally flat chestnut-brown hair was layered into a long bob that flipped up at the ends.
“So, a city girl just walks onto my beach, asking for a drink?” he said, his eyes dancing in the firelight. “What do you think this is, a bar? Maybe I should be asking for ID.”
I tilted my head, doing my absolute best at insouciance. I pretended I did this sort of thing all the time. “What makes you think I’m a city girl?”
At this, he laughed—and if his voice was maple syrup on snow, his laugh was butterscotch in a double boiler. “The haircut, the outfit…” he began.
I looked down at myself. “I’m wearing flannel pants with snowflakes on them.”
“Hmm, that’s true. And yet there’s just something city-ish about you.”
Now it was my turn to smile. “You’re right. I’m from Toronto.”
“I’ll try to overlook that,” he said as he pulled a half-empty six-pack from under his Muskoka chair. “Here you go, City Girl.”
Crooked smile. (Him.) Heart palpitations. (Me.)
“Help yourself,” he said.
I don’t usually drink beer, or anything at all, but I pretended I did, taking a bottle and twisting off the cap like I had done it tons of times before, then casually sipping while trying not to grimace. He saw it anyway and raised an eyebrow.
“I guess Labatt 50 isn’t exactly your flavor,” he said, and my heart fluttered again because, dear Diary, we were flirting. I’ve never flirted with anyone—unless you count Maxwell Corbett at school, who told his friends last year I’d be “pretty without glasses” and “maybe if she weren’t so tall.” Then, the next time I saw him, I said “hi,” started to blush furiously, and ran away. But you know all that already.
“It’s my favorite,” I replied, taking a longer sip—and then, embarrassingly, gagging and nearly spitting it out. Beer is gross.
“I can get you something else,” he offered.
“Maybe this reallyisa local bar?” I countered.
“Yeah, it’s a real dive,” he said with a laugh. “But actually, there are some nice parts.”
He gestured behind him and I realized that just beyond us, down a snowy hill, were fenced paddocks and stables. The wooden boards of the buildings were hung with red and white Christmas lights. I peered into the moonlit darkness at the magical setting spread out before me, feeling as if I had wished it into existence.
“Wilder Ranch,” he said, and I could hear the pride in his voice. “It’s mine. Well, mine and my dad’s.”
“Ilovehorses,” I breathed, because this is true. It was a relief to drop the pretenses. “Why is it called Wilder?”
“That’s my last name. I’m Tate. Tate Wilder.”
“Nice to meet you, Tate.” I tried one more sip of the beer and sighed. After just five minutes of pretending to be a cool girl from the city, I was tired of it. “I don’t actually drink,” I said, handing him back his beer bottle. “But I would love to see your horses.”
He tilted his head then. “You ride?” he said.
I told him about the stables I used to take lessons at, just outside the city limits. “I joined the show team and practically lived there until I was sixteen. But then I stopped,” I told him.
