Page 12 of Christmas at the Ranch
The forest path we were on meandered up a few rolling hills and eventually we reached a clearing with a breathtaking view of the valley below. You could see everything from there: the forest, the lake, the stables, the town. It was perfect, and I told him that. He smiled and said this was the spot he wanted to build his house on one day. It felt like he was telling me a secret. He said he had been dragging granite rocks out of the lake foryears—and someday, he was going to use them to build a fireplace that would have two sides, one in the living room, one in the bedroom. When he said the word “bedroom” I think I probably blushed, but if he noticed, he didn’t let on. He talked about it being a log A-frame, with a big wall of windows facing the valley, looking down at the ranch. It sounded so perfect.
I asked him if that was what he did for fun: drag granite rocks out of the lake. Then I almost wished I hadn’t. I think I was asking about friends, about girls. Maybe in that moment I was worried about there being someone else in his life. He just shrugged and said, “At my high school, you’re either a football jock—and I’m not really aFriday Night Lightskind of guy—or a burnout—and I don’t smoke weed. I have a few buddies and we hang out sometimes, but this”—and he looked out at the valley spread before us, the stables, the paddocks—“is where I’m happiest.”
I almost said it was where I was happiest, too. But I stopped myself.
Instead, I asked him what he wanted to do after building that house—who he wanted to be. He told me he wanted to be here, running the ranch with his dad, that he hoped to eventually develop a riding school and train show teams. That maybe Wilder Ranch would one day be well-known for producing quality riders. Even Olympians. I told him I admired someone who had dreams like that—who knew exactly who they wanted to be. He asked me about what I wanted for my future, and I told him about my journalism school plans. He said, “Well, itsounds like you’re sure about your future, too. You just won’t be staying in one place, like I will.”
We were side by side on our horses, looking down at the spot where he wanted to build his house—and I just felt so sad all of a sudden. Like despite all these intense feelings, I could see his future…and I wasn’t in it.
Then he looked over at me and said, “What are you thinking?” I shook my head and told him it was nothing important. He said, “Well,Iwas just thinking that I hope we’ll still know each other when I build that house. I hope you see it someday.” Then he bit his lip (Diary, I can’t express how it makes me feel when he does this) and his expression became searching. He wanted something, and I wanted to give it to him. To give him everything. But I settled for leaning over and giving him a kiss.
Have you ever kissed someone while sitting on a horse? It’s not easy, but it’s also magic.
I keep reminding myself I haven’t known him long enough to be feeling this way. But my heart just won’t listen to reason. I know he feels the same, and that makes it even more special, more intense. We’re falling fast, and I’m not going to do anything to stop it…
Five
I wake up disoriented in a dark room. It feels like the middle of the night, but it’s nearly nine. I slept in. I sit up, hitting my head on the bunk above—and it all comes rushing back. My dad. The arrest. My mother’s phone call. Handing over my trust fund and just…driving. To Evergreen. Of all places. Whatever peace and certainty I experienced last night is gone. I only feel panic.I have to get out of this townis my first thought. I had an unsettling dream about dark woods and burned-out lanterns. Being utterly lost. Hearing a wolf’s howl and feeling afraid.
What am I doing here? Why would I do this to myself?
I turn on the lamp on the little desk and pull on my gym clothes from the day before. Downstairs, I’m expecting the homemade scones Sam raved about, and for my mood to be brightened by her enthusiasm for absolutely everything—but all is just as silent as it was the night before. I don’t even smell any coffee brewing; in fact, I don’t hear any noise in the kitchen at all. That’s strange. Sam made such a big deal out of theinn’s early morning breakfast, but the kitchen door is closed tight. Am I late?
Out the window, I can see the snow falling in thick, white clumps, and when I step closer and peer out, I realize my car is half buried in snow. Sam and Reesa are outside, shoveling the walkway, silent and determined. I see a plow has already been in to clear the driveway, but my car has now been swamped. I pull on my snow boots and parka and open the front door.
“Good morning!” I call out. “Wow, what a blizzard! Do you have an extra shovel? Let me help.”
Sam looks up at me, then away, back to her shoveling. Even from here, and through the snow, I can see the disappointment in her eyes. Did she already find out I’m not actually a hotel reviewer? I step gingerly down the front stairs and head toward them. But as I approach, instead of sayinggood morning,Reesa turns to her daughter and says, “Go inside, Sam,” her voice tight. Sam scampers away without looking at me.
“Listen, I’m sorry if I gave her the idea I’m a hotel reviewer,” I begin—but Reesa cuts me off.
“You need to leave, please,” she says firmly. “I’ll refund you for the portion that would have been for your breakfast. And then you can go.”
I blink in surprise. This seems like an extreme reaction for giving her daughter the wrong impression about who I was. “I actuallyama freelance journalist, I just don’t write about hotels,” I say. “But I was planning to pitch something to one of my editors.”
“No, thank you,” she says. “I don’t think an article with your name on it would do us any good.”
“I don’t understand,” I begin, but as I say the words, I realize I do. I’m a member of the Oakes family, and she somehow knows. But how? I realize I’ve said this out loud when she answers the question.
“It’s all over the Evergreen Business Owners’ group chat.” Then she shakes her head and says, “Poor Gill.”
It was one thing when I could think about the people my father hurt with his scheme as nameless, unknown to me. But my heart is aching already for whatever has been lost here.
“Gill—who is that?”
“He runs the fish and chips and bait and tackle place in town. Years ago, when apparently your family was staying right here over Christmas—an interesting fact you did not mention last night—your father and his cousin canvassed the town for investors. Luckily, most people didn’t trust them, or didn’t have enough money to get into TurbOakes at ground level. But Gill invested everything he had just received from his beloved late father’s estate.”
I feel like I’m on a fishing boat, lost in a storm, seasick. I can’t believe my father and Reuben went after people in town. Did they even need the seed money? Was it just for sport?
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I had no idea.”
“I saw the name Oakes on the article that was sent around in the chat. And then, there was a picture on the internet, at some gala.”
Reesa takes her phone out of her pocket and turns it toward me. And there’s the full image of me and my parents at the AGO gala last year. I’m no longerjust cut off at the hem of my sparkling green skirt. I’m beside my parents, smiling, looking like one of them. Their darling daughter.
“I only went because my parents said I had to,” I say, but this feels so disloyal. I love the AGO. I wanted to go. And I’m not a child. I don’t have to do what my parents say.
“Then I realized it was you,” Reesa continues, ignoring me. “I don’t know what you’re doing here in Evergreen, and frankly, I don’t care. I just want you to leave.”
