Page 4 of Christmas at the Ranch
“Maybe I shouldn’t have given it up so easily,” I said.
“It’s never too late to start again,” he replied.
The last stall at the end of the final row contained a donkey named Kevin. “He’s a rescue,” said Tate.
Arescue donkey, dear Diary. He’s a stout little character with a spiky gray mane who, apparently, prefers carrots to mints—so we gave him a few of those from a bucket near his stall while Kevin hee-hawed happily.
Eventually, we climbed up into the hayloft to sit sideby side on a tall stack of bales, talking some more as the moonlight flowed in through a hole in the roof covered in waterproof clear plastic, which Tate said was on his and his dad’s endless list of things to fix at the ranch.
We passed one of his beers back and forth and I got used to the taste. He asked me about my school, where I lived in Toronto, how I had ended up at the huge rental house next to his property for the holidays, how long I was staying. I asked him more questions about life at the ranch, who else besides his dad was around to help with that long to-do list. He said it was just the two of them; he didn’t have any siblings. And his mom was gone, she had died. In the silence after he said that, the words “I’m so sorry” faded on my lips. I wasn’t sure what to say at all. But then, he turned and stared into my eyes so intently I couldn’t speak or move. He took a deep breath, then held it—as if weighing whether to speak again or not.
“It was one year ago tonight, actually,” he finally said. “That my mom died. I never talk about her, but…” He let that sentence wander off, unfinished, then began again. “I was feeling pretty bad tonight, just wanted to be on my own, to light a fire and look at the stars, hoping that might”—he paused again, swallowed, looked away from me for a moment—“make me feel better, I guess. And then…” Our gazes connected once more. Those eyes, like the embers from his bonfire. I couldn’t get enough of his gaze. His smile was slow, transforming his face from sad to sweet to everything I had ever dreamed of in a person. His voice was husky when he said, “And then, City Girl, you walked onto my beach, and I forgot my problems altogether.”
Kissing him was, all at once, the only thing I could think about. I had to take this chance or I’d regret it forever. I leaned toward him, tilted my head, and his lips met mine.
So, what exactly was my first kiss like? Maybe the first few seconds were awkward, sort of like riding a bike until you figure it out. Scary, a little wobbly—and then, all at once, you’re balanced, you’re rolling, you feel like you’re flying, wind in your hair, beautiful confidence filling you up. That’s how it felt to kiss Tate Wilder. Like I could fly away, go anywhere, be anyone. Like being too smart or too tall or too weird didn’t matter anymore.
His hands were in my hair, and then he was pulling back and stroking my cheek, telling me softly that he thought I was so beautiful, so unexpected. “Where did you come from?” he said. “Did I dream you?”
“I’ve been wondering the same,” I replied.
His hair and skin smelled like woodsmoke combined with the clean, cool tang of winter air. I remember my hand on the back of his neck, the warmth of his skin under my fingers, the softness of his hair with its leftover sun-kisses at the ends. His Stetson had fallen onto one of the hay bales.
He tasted a little bit like beer, and those scotch mints he kept in his pocket for his horse, and something else spicy, like cloves or cinnamon. He tasted like the best parts of Christmas.
I will remember my first kiss until the end of time, I swear.
Hours must have passed, because when we finally stopped kissing, I pulled away from him and opened myeyes to see the first streaks of dawn in the slip of sky visible through the barn roof.
“I’d better get you back to that big old house before anyone in your family notices you’re gone,” he said.
I didn’t want to go, but I suppose all kisses must end—even absolutely epic ones that last for hours. I felt sad about it being over, but then he looked at me like I was a treasure he’d just found and didn’t want to lose. It made the fact that we weren’t kissing anymore a little easier to bear.
We held hands as we picked our way along the snowy shore. When we got to the back door of the rental house, he said, “Can I see you again?” Which was precisely what I’d been wishing on the very last star flickering out in the sky that he’d say.
Before I could even think about it, the words “I’m yours for the next three weeks” flew out of my mouth.
Instead of making him appalled at my forwardness, they caused him to pull me close and kiss me again. “Don’t tease me, City Girl,” he murmured. Then, “Come by the ranch later today, mid-afternoon? I’ll be done with all my chores by then, and we can go for a trail ride if you want. Get you back on a horse, since you said you miss it so much.”
I told him that sounded perfect, because it did. Then, I opened the back door and stepped inside, already filled with longing for him. I watched him through the little window at the top of the door as he made his way down the snowy forest path, back toward the magical place where he lived.
When he looked back, I didn’t duck away inembarrassment: I waved, and he waved back—and then, dear Diary, I melted. I drizzled down the door, landed on the welcome mat, and lay there, an Emory-shaped puddle, daydreaming about him until who knows how long later, when I heard my mother in the kitchen and had to reassemble my atoms and sneak upstairs to bed.
It was the most perfect night of my life—one that feels like it could be the beginning ofeverything.
One
Ten Years Later…
“Good morning! Can I interest you in an ornament from our Fit-mas Tree?”
The woman at my gym’s reception desk has been asking me this for weeks. The tree is one of those fake glittery ones, heavily decorated with multicolored Christmas balls—all of which, according to a chart on the wall beside it, have a corresponding exercise to go with their color. A two-minute plank, twenty push-ups, something called a reverse sit-up, which I’m unclear on the mechanics of.
My gym routine these days consists of running slowly on the treadmill while watching news headlines scroll past on the televisions above the machines. Then I tick “went to gym” off my mental list of “Ways Not to Turn into a Complete Sloth While Working from Home.” This is a list I started six months ago, when I was laid off from my news reporter job atTheGlobe and Mailand went freelance.
“No, thanks,” I tell the receptionist as I scuttle past on my way toward the stairs that lead to the basement changeroom. But today, she gives chase, waving a white T-shirt in her hand like a race flag.
“Maybe this will provide some incentive,” she says, handing me the shirt. It’s emblazoned with the words “Do you have the balls to try the Fit-mas Tree?” I cringe but still take the shirt; I don’t want to cause a scene. I shove it into my gym bag and flee, resolving to find a different gym in the new year.
