Page 9 of Christmas at the Ranch
“Please tell me you didn’t just take a wrong turn down this driveway,” she says when I open the window. “You’re an actual guest, right?” She clasps her woolen-mittened hands together in front of her heart, and I think that even if I had taken a wrong turn I would probably ask for a room at the inn just to make her happy.
“I’m definitely in need of a place to stay,” I say, and her eyes light up like Rudolph’s nose. “Just for one night, but—”
“Yessss. We only have two other guests staying here right now, so you get your pick of the best rooms!” She pulls my door open and yanks me out of the car by both hands while I laugh in surprise.
“I’m Samantha,” she says when we’re both standing in the snow. “But everyone calls me Sam.”
“I’m Emory,” I say.
“Nice to meet you, Emory. I assume you came from”—she looks me up and down—“Toronto? You look city-ish.”
My already wounded-feeling heart seizes.Hey, City Girl…It’s as if I can hear his voice on the wind through the trees. I shake my head to make it stop.
Sam looks perplexed by my expression, my head-shaking. “You’renotfrom Toronto?”
“Oh, no, sorry, you got it right. I am.”
“Knew it!” She grins again. “And your luggage?” She’s peering into my back seat, then at me. “Is it in the trunk?”
“Oh. I don’t really have any,” I say. “Just that gym bag…” I nod my head toward it.
“That’s all you brought?” Sam asks. I just shrug, not sure how to explain.
Now she’s enthusiastically wrenching open the back door of my car and lifting my gym bag. When I insist on carrying it, she says, “Suit yourself. Follow me!”
I follow her little boot prints toward the house. The front door is different now: It was dark-stained wood when I stayed here; now it’s painted a festive green. A large cedar wreath, festooned with red ribbon and studded with berries and dried flowers, hangs from the door knocker—which, I notice with yet another twinge, is in the shape of a horse’s head.
Sam pops open the door and we step inside. Back then, the entrance transitioned into a large main living area, but now that’s hidden behind a wall and the front of the house is a cozy little lobby. There’s a knotty pine desk. Overstuffed chairs covered in red-and-black-checked upholstery. Through an open door, I hear logs crackling, see a welcoming fire, couches and love seats that match the chairs facing the fireplace orturned toward a picture window that looks out at the woods.
“So. What brings you here? Business or pleasure?” Sam asks as she steps behind the desk, clearly trying to sound as grown-up as possible. It’s adorable. But I don’t know how to answer this question and so, guiltily, I lie.
“Business,” I say. “I’m a journalist.”
At my words, her eyes become fully-decorated-Christmas-tree level bright. Then, she squeezes them shut, as if she has just gotten exactly what she wished for under that tree. What have I done?
“Are you a reviewer?” she asks in a reverent whisper. Then she opens her eyes, takes a step back, and says, “Never mind! Forget I said that! You don’t have to tell me. Pretend I didn’t ask.” But under her breath I hear her whisper,“Now Mom is definitely going to be able to afford horseback-riding lessons for me!”
“Sam—”
“Really, it’sfine,say no more!”
“It’s just, I’m not exactly—”
We’re interrupted by a woman with Sam’s same lively dark eyes stepping into the room, a flour-dusted apron covering her jeans and red-and-white-striped button-up top. “Sam, what are you up to in here— Oh.” She spots me. “Hello!”
“Mama, we have a guest,” Sam says with a flourish. Then she gives her mother a meaningful look and I feel my cheeks flush as red as the ribbon on the wreath at the door. “We need to give her our best room. It isvery, veryimportant.”
“I’m Reesa,” the woman says, shooting a bemused glance at her daughter as I open my mouth to try to explain that I’m not really here on assignment. But then I pause. I could be, couldn’t I? After I got laid off from theGlobe,in order to pay my bills, and while waiting to find a new job in journalism that has yet to materialize, I started to freelance. News reporting is almost never done by freelancers and I miss the newsroom, but I also enjoy the lifestyle pieces I’m assigned at various newspapers and magazines. I throw myself into the research; I’m always trying and learning new things. Maybe I could pitch a review of Reesa and Sam’s hotel. If any of my editors still want to hear from me, that is.
“How long will you be staying?” Reesa asks.
“Just one night. I need to leave first thing in the morning.”
“You won’t leave until you’ve had your breakfast, though, right?” says Sam. “You have to try our award-winning scones.”
“Sam,” Reesa murmurs. “My scones haven’t won any awards…”
“They’re the best scones in the world as declared by me,” Sam says, and I can’t help but laugh again at her infectious enthusiasm.
