Page 43 of Christmas at the Ranch
I find myself blushing, thinking of him reading my articles online—but then feel a little disappointed at the idea that he’s never once googled me.
“Why do you say your freelancing was going well?” he asks me. “Past tense?”
I sigh. “With what’s happened with my dad, I’m just not sure about approaching editors. Some of them might want me to give them the inside scoop. Others just might not be interested in my work, given my family name.”
“Do you really think that? That people will judge you by what your dad did?”
With no reins to hold on to, I’ve settled my hands on the saddle pommel, and now I twist them together.
“I do think that,” I find myself saying. “I feel really…well, to be honest, I feel ashamed. Like I shouldhave done something. My dad wanted me to work with him, and I didn’t. Maybe if I had, things would have been different.”
“It isn’t your fault,” Tate says. “I met your dad. He didn’t exactly seem like a guy who was…” He pauses, thinks. “Open to suggestions that weren’t his.”
Despite the fact that this topic makes me feel morose, I find myself laughing quietly. “You nailed it,” I say.
“So, then, why blame yourself when you know you never would have been able to stop him? And, even if you could have, it was his company. His responsibility to do right.”
“You have a point,” I say, and it surprises me how much better this conversation with Tate is making me feel. As if I’m talking to someone who understands me, and my life, deeply. The sun filters through the snow-covered tree branches. There’s the distant call of a crow, the crunch of Star’s hooves and Tate’s feet on the path, the sound of my breathing, and Star’s gentle snorts.
“Thank you,” I finally say. “That really helps.”
“I hope you know I’ll—” Tate clears his throat. “I’ll always be happy to help you, Emory,” he says quietly. “I can imagine this situation is a lot to carry.”
A lump rises to my throat. I don’t want to cry, not here, not now, so I ask him a question instead. “Tell me what you’ve been up to all this time,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “Big question, but we have time, right?”
“You’re looking at it,” he says. “I’ve been here,mostly. I did go to the University of Guelph, for stable management. Two years. Charlie insisted, said it would be good for me to get away, but mostly I just missed it here, and learned stuff I already knew.”
I laugh. “Ever occur to you that you’re just a know-it-all?”
He laughs back. “Well, I come by it honestly, I guess. Pretty sure Charlie knows all there is to know about most things.”
“He’s taught you well.”
Just then, up ahead, a pile of snow falls from a branch. Star freezes, snorts nervously, begins to back away.
“It’s okay, girl,” I say, my fingers tight on the pommel now as I work hard to stay calm, to trust both myself and this horse—and Tate, who is leading us, and promised it would all be okay. He’s got his hand firmly on the lead rope, holds it under Star, speaks soothing words. She balks twice, and I’m afraid she might rear. But he’s got her, I can tell. I can feel the calm flow through both of us. Soon, Star walks forward again, as if nothing happened. Tate looks up at me.
“You’re good?”
“I’m fine,” I say. “Thanks to you.”
“Ah, it wasn’t anything I did. It’s all Star. She’s doing great. She handled that so well. That was a good test for her.”
We walk on for a moment in silence, and then he looks up at me again. “And so are you, by the way. You’re doing great. She would have been able to tell if you were scared. You weren’t.”
“I wasn’t,” I agree. And I don’t add,Because you were here with me.
Star is now walking confidently forward again. We pass the tree that dumped its snow moments before and she hardly reacts, keeps walking ahead as the sunlight starts to fade completely and night begins to approach. Tate is talking to her again, telling her what a good girl she is, and I’m listening to his voice, a little mesmerized. Then I realize he’s asked me a question.
“Do you remember our first trail ride out here? You were on Walt.” There’s a smile in his voice. I can picture that smile in my mind, even though I can’t see his face. “He was the best. Probably our most reliable trail horse. We’d had him from when I was a really little kid, when my parents first bought this place.”
I’m grateful that it seems his question about if I remember our trail ride is rhetorical. Because how would I answer it?Of course I remember. I try to forget, but I can’t. I remember every single moment we spent together. I still feel it in my bones.
“Was?” I find myself saying. “He’s gone?”
“Died last year,” Tate says. “He made it to thirty years old, which is pretty amazing. Most of the horses we have are younger now, not quite as settled into themselves the way he was. Definitely not as reliable for the trails. It’s why I’m trying so hard with Star, even if it could be a mistake.”
“It’s not a mistake,” I say firmly. “She needs this. She’s so happy out here.”
