Page 41 of Christmas at the Ranch
Gill comes out of the kitchen at the sound of the tinkling fishing lure mobile that hangs above the door. He’s wearing a starched white apron, and his blue eyes crinkle up with a welcoming smile.
“How may I help you?” he asks me.
My heart feels like it’s breaking already. How could my father and Reuben take money from this man? This is his family business, his heart and soul. I can tell. And it’s all just so unfair.
“I’m, uh, from the newspaper,” I say. I shouldn’t. But Iwanthim to know we’re writing a review. He deserves every advantage he can get. Plus, maybe he’ll figure out who I am and I won’t have to come out and say it—which I’m finding myself far too nervous to do. “I’m picking up lunch for Bruce and me—andwe’llbe sure to give it a glowing write-up in our special holiday restaurant review section.”
This isn’t how it’s supposed to work, and I know it. And it also wasn’t my intent when I came here. My plan was to tell him who I am and apologize on behalf of my family. But being here, seeing him in person, is making me realize it isn’t that simple. Meanwhile, Gillkeeps smiling, but there’s a weariness behind his eyes that makes me feel even worse about everything.
Still, “Oh, that would be nice,” he says. “A boost would be good. So, lunch for the two of you? We do have our regular pickerel and chips, but I’ve also got something special I’ve been offering lately.”
My heart sinks at the “something special”; I’m still traumatized by Carrie’s. But he’s gone back into the kitchen before I can ask for the regular fish-n-chips meal his place is so famous for.
In a little while, he emerges with two take-out containers in hand. “This is my pan-fried Haliburton Gold,” he says. “And parsnip frites. I’ll be really interested to hear what you think.”
“What is Haliburton Gold?” I ask him.
“A special kind of trout you can only get in this lake region,” he says. “It’s especially good this time of year, when the ice is new and the trout are up in the shallows. Like bobbing for apples with shark teeth.”
He winks at me and I want to finally blurt out my apology, but I find myself unable to say anything except to thank him for the food. He doesn’t want me to pay for it, but I insist. I thank him again, then leave, determined that of all the reviews I write for Bruce’s special holiday restaurant section, this will be the best one. Even better than the one I wrote for Young’s. But I still wish there was more I could do for Gill—and wonder if I’ll ever stop feeling this way, or if I’m destined to carry the burden of my father’s crimes wherever I go from nowon.
Nineteen
Frank, the Evergreen taxi driver, drops me off at Wilder Ranch and tells me he’ll be back to get me later.
“This is better than Uber!” I tell him as I get out of the car, but he shoots me a confused look. “Never mind,” I say, paying him through the window before walking toward the ranch buildings.
Just then my phone chimes. It’s Lani: She’s sent a photo of the babies snuggled up together sleeping, little half smiles on their angelic faces. Then another image of her mother and aunts, still hard at work cooking for the holidays—today, it’s caldereta, a slow-cooked beef stew with peppers and onions, and ube halaya, which is a purple yam jam, plus stacks and stacks of pandesal, fluffy, soft bread rolls. We’ve talked and texted a few times over the past few days—but she keeps insisting I need to open up more to Tate about how I’ve felt all these years, the existence of Mariella be damned. And I just can’t do that. I “heart” both images, thenlift my phone to take a picture of the setting I’m in: the snow, the red stables, the herds of horses in the distant paddocks, in their red-and-green-plaid Wilder Ranch blankets.
I lower my phone and see that Tate is in the shot, in the distance, bringing some horses inside, holding two lead ropes in each hand, like he’s a dog walker, not a horse wrangler. He doesn’t see me. He walks toward the back of the south barn’s doors while I watch him go. Then I look down at my phone again, at the photo I didn’t know I was taking of him. I keep it, but I don’t send it to Lani. I don’t know why.
I walk toward the north barn, the closer one. Inside, it’s warm, the air heavy with the smell of horses, their hay and grain, the leather of their saddles. Star is already in her stall, back in from the paddock and ready to be groomed. I don’t wait for Tate; I know what I’m doing. I lead her from the stall into the aisle and set her up in crossties. There’s a box of brushes and other grooming tools on the floor outside her stall. I take out a currycomb and loosen the dirt in her coat, flick it off with the dandy brush, then set about smoothing her golden coat to a sheen with the body brush. She seems happy to see me, but that could just be because she smells the mints in my pocket, I tell myself, smiling as she nickers and snorts gently, taps one hoof then the other on the interlocking brick of the aisle floor, wanting her treat early.
I speak to her softly, telling her what a good girl she is, asking about her day. I feel like she understands me. And I’m just so happy to be near her. I bury myface in her neck for a moment, wrap my fingers in her mane.
A throat clears, and I pull away, embarrassed to see Tate approaching down the aisle.
“I see you two are getting reacquainted,” he says with a gentle smile as I blush. But he’s all business and moves right on. “You good getting her tacked up?”
I nod. “I know where her tack is from last time.”
“Okay. Meet you in the arena in five minutes,” he says, as if he really is just my riding instructor and I’m just a student. As if my palms haven’t started to sweat and my heart hasn’t started to race. As if, as he walks away, I don’t find myself staring at the way he looks in his plaid jacket and dark Levi’s, the way his muscled thighs fill out the well-worn denim.
I thought after our conversation last night I might have successfully exorcised any feelings I still seem to have for him. We both said it: We’re adults now, not teenagers. We’re trying, for the brief time I’m here in Evergreen, to be friends—or at least, friendly. And, of course, there’s the fact that he has a pretty girlfriend, with her long blond braid and preppy riding clothes—meanwhile, I’m wearing clothes I hand-washed and hung to dry in the bathroom of my temporary apartment, and they still feel slightly damp. Glamorous city girl, I am not.
I couldn’t have turned out the way he imagined I might—if he ever thought of me at all over the years. And I have to allow that not to matter. I’m here for a different purpose. For Star.
Soon, I have her saddled up and am leading her tothe arena. Tate is waiting, as promised. He shoots me a smile from the center of the ring. “Hey, City Girl,” he says, and I can’t help it; despite my resolve, my heart flutters at his use of that old nickname. For just a moment, my knees are weak, but then I remember what I’m here to do. This is about Star. Helping her, that’s all. I lead her to the mounting block and hoist myself into her saddle. I look over at Tate, who is leaning against a jump standard, his Stetson low, his hair peeking out from beneath it. I tell myself he’s just a riding instructor. He isn’t the first person I ever kissed. He isn’t someone who, without even trying, I can still remember the exact taste of. Mints and lemon. I swear I can feel a tingle on my lips, like the ghost of his kiss. I drag my thoughts back to the present as he calls out to me again.
“Okay, just a walk for now. Let’s take it nice and slow.”
I do as he suggests, and then, after two laps of the ring, he instructs me to ask her for a trot. I find I’m nervous, still, and it’s not because of any doubts I have about my riding skills. With Charlie, it was easier to just focus on riding Star. Now my mind is also on Tate.
“Wrong diagonal,” he says with a raised eyebrow and a half smile—referring to the fact that I’m supposed to lift my body out of the saddle in time with Star’s inside, not outside, leg. “Do I need to teach you the same phrase my beginners have to learn?”
“Oh, yeah?” I call out. “What’s that?”
He says it in a singsong voice.“Rise-and-fall-with-the-leg-on-the-wall. We make a little poem out of it. They never forget.”
