Page 52 of Christmas at the Ranch
Alone, I head over to the wall of filing cabinets, open the one that’s labeledW,and flip through the drawer until I find the “Wilder Ranch” folder.
I bring it to my desk and pick up the first article. It’s dated for a week in October 1998, and the headline announces the ranch has just opened. There’s a picture of a much younger Charlie, beside a woman who, I see, has Tate’s same full lips and welcoming smile. Her eyes are warm, her expression one of joy. She’s holding the hand of a little boy of about two or three. A young Tate. I’m unable to resist picking up one of the reading magnifiers Bruce keeps at the office and holding it to the page to get a closer look. Little Tate is adorable, of course, a miniature version of who he is now, staring intently at the camera, a half smile on his face that is somehow both playful and serious.
The article tells the story of how Charlie and Elaine Wilder bought the ranch the year before, fixed up the buildings, and are slowly assembling a herd of horses to use for trail rides. They’ll also be doing some horsebreeding and are looking forward to joining the Evergreen community.
A few years later, there’s a December article about the first ever Starlight Ride. I see a slightly older Tate, maybe five or six now, on a horse I recognize as Walt. He’s tucked into the front of the saddle, and his mother is behind him. She’s looking down at him, and his head is tilted up toward her. He’s gazing at her adoringly.
As hurt as I am by him right now, my heart still aches for him. I think of the first night we met, when he was out by the lake, having a bonfire alone, and he told me it had been a year without his mother. How deeply he missed her.
But he never told me what happened to her. It was the one thing we never talked about. I didn’t want to press him on it; I could tell how painful it was. I just assumed she had gotten ill—but my heart seizes when I see an article dated in mid-December of 2013, the year before we met, with a shattering headline.
Beloved Local Horsewoman Dies in Tragic Accident
“What?” I whisper. “No.”
I read the article with dread in my heart now, not wanting to know what horrible thing happened and yet needing to know. There are paragraphs about the loss to the community, quotes from local residents about who she was to them and how much she would be missed—and then, just a simple paragraph at theend saying she was doing what she loved best when she died: working with horses alongside her family.
I feel tears prickling at my eyelids. I can see that in this article, Bruce decided to respect the family’s privacy and Elaine’s memory. No details are needed. It was a riding accident, that much is clear. Tate lost his beloved mother in a riding accident at the ranch.
Dear Diary,
It was the most magical Christmas Eve of my life. The Starlight Ride was everything I imagined it would be and more. I spent the day with Tate, helping him get ready. We had lunch up at the main house, and I saw some pictures of his mom on the mantel. I told him she was beautiful and asked him to tell me a story about her. A memory. He got really quiet, and I thought maybe he didn’t want to, that I’d gone too far on a painful topic. But then he started speaking, telling me about a time when he was little. It was late fall, he said, and he could hear the coyotes in the woods, a pack on the prowl, louder than usual.
“I was worried the horses were going to get scared, and no matter how many times my parents told me they were used to those sounds, and that the coyotes would never come near the paddocks and the horses, because the horses were too big, I just couldn’t wrap my head around it. I couldn’t sleep. And when my mom came to tuck me in, she could tell I was upset. So she lifted me upout of my bed, wrapped me in a blanket, grabbed a lantern, and took me down to the stables to check on the horses.”
He told me that as they walked through the darkness, the coyotes howling and yipping was the most terrifying sound—except that all at once, in his mother’s arms, he didn’t feel afraid.
“Because she was so brave,” he said, “I knew I could be, too.” They went stall to stall, checking on all the horses, giving them a nighttime treat. “They weren’t at all bothered by the howls of the coyotes, of course. Except maybe Kevin—but he was safe inside. And then we checked on the herd out in the paddock, too. My mom held up the lantern and we watched the horses in the dark. They were just shadows. I could tell they were perfectly safe. And she said to me, ‘Just because something seems scary doesn’t make it so. It’s amazing what people, what animals, can get through.’ ”
He looked so sad, but then he surprised me with a smile. He told me it meant the world to him to get to talk about her. That I was the only person, other than his dad, he had ever really talked about her with…
For the Starlight Ride, I got to be up near the front, with Charlie and Tate. This felt like such a special honor. I’ll never forget it. There were forty riders in total, some people on their own horses and some on horses from the Wilder Ranch herd. And then, dozens and dozens of townspeople walking through the woods, holding lanterns, singing Christmas carols. Felix, the horse Charlie was on, was a bit spirited, but he kept him under control.Walt, of course, was perfectly behaved. And Tate rode Angel, who is Mistletoe’s mother. She, too, is slightly more skittish than some of the other horses, but he handled it. He’s such a good rider.
It was a perfect night…
Our horses stayed close—Walt and Angel are good friends and get turned out in the paddock together daily. They kept nudging each other and got so close at one point that Tate was able to reach for my hand. I’m sure I’ve never been so happy.
After, Charlie lit a bonfire at the spot where I first met Tate, and the group of Starlight riders and walkers had hot chocolate and mulled wine under the stars. There was more carol singing around the fire. It was so festive, so heartwarming. The idea of going back to the rental, even though it was Christmas Eve and I know you’re supposed to be with your family, filled me with sadness. So, when Charlie asked if I wanted to stay for his traditional Christmas Eve fondue dinner after we put all the horses away, I accepted without thinking twice.
I used the phone in the ranch office to call my mom and let her know my plan. She sounded disappointed, but said it was fine. I heard Bitsy whispering in the background and tried not to think about what she would say, all the things she was going to tell my mother about how I was just going to forget Tate anyway.
I was hanging up the phone when I heard Charlie, outside the office, talking to someone. “I know,” he said. “We’ll take care of it.”
“There’s only so much more we at the bank can loanyou, Charlie. I hate to be saying this on Christmas Eve, but it’s getting urgent and needs to be fully dealt with before the year ends, or it will be out of my hands.”
I hung back, not wanting Charlie to know I had overheard. Luckily, he and the person he was talking to kept walking and moved farther into the barn so I didn’t hear anything more. But it bothered me, and it still does. I know it’s expensive to keep this place going. Tate talks a lot about how there always seems to be something that needs fixing, or a horse that needs veterinary care. And I worry.
Sometimes—most of the time—it’s mortifying to me to have parents as privileged as mine are, to live in a family with the means we have. It feels so unfair. They act like money is nothing. But maybe…that could be a good thing. What if my dad could help Tate and Charlie? I’m going to think about it some more tonight and maybe talk to my dad tomorrow.
Meanwhile, it’s midnight, which means it’s officially Christmas.
Maybe I’ll have the perfect Christmas surprise for Tate—a solution to all his and his dad’s problems. Maybe, for once, my family’s money can be a good thing.
Twenty-Five
I put down the article about Tate’s mother. My heart aches for what happened to Elaine. I think it was brave of him and Charlie to carry on, even though they suffered because of the risks that come along with their passion, their livelihood, in the most painful way possible.
A tapping at the front door of the newspaper office interrupts my thoughts. I go to answer it—and find Mya outside on the porch, holding a gift basket wrapped in cellophane and tied with a red ribbon.
