Page 11 of Christmas at the Ranch
I hear a car coming up the hill behind me and my heart seizes momentarily—What if it’s him?But it isn’t. It’s a man and woman in a pearl-white SUV, and they wave at me as they pass—which I remember is the rule here in cottage country. I wave back and continue on my way, down the hill and around another corner. Most of the cottages are closed up for winter, and I’m completely alone—until a little red fox trots out of the trees, keeping to the opposite side of the road, glancing at me with cautious disinterest as he hurries on his way.
Next, I see two deer leaping up the snowbanks on the road’s shoulder, then stepping gingerly onto the icy gravel. One glance at me and they’re off, bounding into the woods. I stand still, feeling a sense of wonder that I let wash over me: a deep sensation of luck at spotting the fox and the deer. My heart has been racing on and off since I left the city, but now I feel it slowing. I’ve read and written articles about the health benefits of “forest-bathing.” It’s amazing that even in my agitated state, being so close to the woods makes me feel like I can really breathe, finally.
I walk again, my pace more relaxed, the lake at my side, until I realize the sun is about to set and I should get back to the inn. My stomach grumbles. It has unknotted itself, and I’m grateful that Reesa will have left me bread and soup. I think of all the elaborate food my mother had the chef cook that Christmas, when what I really wanted was a simple, comforting meal. I wanted a life that didn’t consist of constant striving forthe next level of status, to unlock a level of wealth that seemed pointless, like pouring more water into an already overflowing bucket.
I turn and walk back the way I came. Near the deer tracks at the side of the road, I spot other animal tracks. I lean down to take a look: They’re large, paw-shaped, and there are no human footprints beside them to indicate these are from a dog. I feel a prickle at the back of my neck. Is there a wolf nearby? I remember listening to a pack of them howl one night with Tate, feeling thrilled at the sound—slightly scared, too, but sure I was safe in his arms. Now I think of the two deer I saw earlier and feel a sinking sense of doom for them.
The world’s not a fair place, Emory. My father’s voice is so real I look over my shoulder to see if he’s there—and then remember where he is. In a jail cell, in the city. I wonder how he is, if he’s feeling as adrift as I am, as my mother must be, too. If he’s scared. I’ve never seen him scared. I look up at the darkening sky and keep remembering him, the father from my childhood. The idea that the world isn’t fair is one of the bits of wisdom he sought to dispense as I was growing up, during our early morning bonding breakfasts on Bay Street, before our driver would arrive to take me to school. That was back when he believed that one day I would work alongside him. I’m seized with the urge to try to reach him, somehow. I want to hear his voice, hear him say to me, like he did when I was younger,One foot in front of the other, Emory. It will all be fine.
Now I’m swamped with more sadness.One foot in front of the other.He just kept doing that, but I think hestarted to forget why. And it hardened him. As his business grew, he never stopped pressing forward, didn’t take a moment to look around and see what we already had. If he had done that, he might have, in the pause, seen who he was and who I really was, too. As opposed to who he had hoped I was going to become: someone just like him.
During one of our last conversations, he snapped at me that maybe the world didn’t deserve his benevolence—and in his voice, I heard his father, my grandfather. I didn’t know my grandfather well; he died when I was ten, but I remember him as stingy and mean, abrupt and judgmental. When did my father turn into him?
I’ve become lost in the wolf tracks, staring down at them and imagining different paths. I’m upset with my father for not really seeing me—but I let my thoughts of him get lost in the woods, too.
It’s cold. My feet in my boots are growing numb. I walk again, until I can see the glowing lanterns on the inn’s driveway. Once inside, I smell Reesa’s fresh bread. It’s comforting and welcoming. In the living room, I see that she’s left the fire on for me, a note on the coffee table.The soup is on the stove. It’s called Saturday Soup; we make it every week. A little spicy, lots of vegetables. Bread on the counter beside it.
I step into the kitchen, where I see the large pot of soup simmering on the stove. I ladle some into a blue pottery bowl, cut a slice of bread, spread it thick with the soft butter, then take my meal back out to the living room.
The soup is just as delicious as it smells, the peppery flavor heating me all the way down to my cold toes. The butter melts across the still-warm surface of the bread like the setting sun’s reflection on a lake. I grow thoughtful as I eat this wonderful food in this cozy setting, more intent than ever on the idea of pitching an article or review of this place. Something about finding comfort and winter joy in the most unexpected hidden gem towns. I find myself smiling as I imagine how delighted Sam would be. Looking around at this silent, empty room, I also think they could really use the business an article could bring in. It would be doing a good deed—and I’ll need to focus on good deeds going forward to make up for the havoc my father has wreaked in the world with his dishonest ways.
Once I’m finished with my dinner, I clean up, then find myself staring back out the window into the night. I feel a tug of curiosity, and of longing, too. My head tells me to go upstairs to bed—but my heart is getting away from me, and perhaps it was just a matter of time before it completely loosened itself from the ties I keep trying to bind it with. Fortified now by the soup and bread, I put my coat back on, pick up Reesa’s lantern, and step outside, closing the door quietly behind me the way I used to when I was a teenager in love. I swing the light toward Wilder Ranch.
Slowly, I walk forward. I see a break in the trees, and what could be a path. I push aside snowy branches; the path gets wider. All at once, I can almost see the ghosts of us, two teenagers, kissing in the moonlight, our arms wrapped around each other, never wanting to let go.
They say the first cut is the deepest, but I’ve often wondered if there’s something wrong with me. I’ve dated, but I’ve never allowed anyone else into my heart in the same way, not since Tate. Not for a decade. After getting hurt the way I did, I’ve been so afraid to let myself be seen the way Tate saw me back then.
I keep walking, keep shining my light around. It lands on tree trunks, snowy branches—and then, a log cabin I didn’t expect. Startled, I pull back into the shadows. But I already know what this cabin is. I cast the light on it again.
Tate’s house. I feel as certain of this as I am of my own name. It’s just how he described it to me, plucking it out of his dream life and painting it with words.I’ve been dragging granite rocks out of the lake for years, and someday, I’m going to use them to build a fireplace with two sides, one in the living room, one in the bedroom. It’ll be a log A-frame, with a great big wall of windows facing the valley, looking down at the ranch. I think you’ll love it, too, Emory.
The trunk of the tree I’m pressing my body against feels solid and reassuring on my back. I focus on it rather than letting my thoughts spin even further into the past, snake my hands around behind me and touch the bark, richly textured beneath my thin gloves.
You have to walk away. What if he sees you out here?
I turn away from Tate’s cabin, from the stables and horses I know are there in the dark. Once I’m a safe distance away, I click my lantern back on and shine it on the path ahead. Soon, I spot the lanterns on the inn’s driveway. I just have to walk toward them,one foot in front of the other,and I’ll be okay.
As I get closer to the inn, I feel a bone-deep tiredness settling over me. It’s still silent when I get inside. I hear some voices in the downstairs bedrooms, but no one is about. Upstairs, I wash up, pull out the Fit-mas Tree shirt to wear to bed, change, and head for my cozy little room.
In the bottom bunk, I close my eyes. Behind my eyelids, lights glimmer as if strung across the eaves of stable buildings painted red, weathered to a shade as soft as a beloved old sweater. And I can see his cabin in the woods. I open my eyes again and stare into the darkness, but the vision of his home is still there. It’s with me in this room, and it’s out there, too. Just beyond these walls, only a few hundred feet away from where I’m tossing and turning, trying to sleep.
I need to talk to him.How could I not if I came all this way? I need to finally get the closure I never had, and then I need to move on with this life.
As terrifying as I find this idea, there’s also a strange sort of peace in it. I close my eyes, and a calm settles over me. And finally, I sleep.
Dear Diary,
I’m sorry about the messy handwriting. I have to write fast because I’m on my way to the ranch soon to help Tate get the place prepared for the Starlight Ride. It’s a week from today, sounds like the most festive (and frankly, romantic) thing in the world, and I can’t believe Iget to be a part of it. Everyone in the town comes. Some choose to ride horses, others to walk. They carry lanterns and sing carols and do a loop through the woods before ending up back at the Wilders’ for hot chocolate, mulled wine, a bonfire, and more carol singing.
I’m telling my parents that I’m taking lessons over at the stable next door, and they’re happy I’m having fun and keeping busy. I haven’t mentioned Tate. Or the Starlight Ride. I just don’t want them involved. I want this to be mine. So I’m keeping it to myself.
Anyway, my not being around leaves them free to stay up late smoking cigars, drinking martinis, and talking about politics (i.e., why late-stage capitalism should never end, ugh) and whatever business it is my dad and Cousin Reuben are cooking up. I don’t know how I’d be surviving this holiday without Tate—and I don’t know how, in a few weeks’ time, I’m going to live without him. But I don’t want to think about that right now. Not yet, dear Diary, not yet.
The day after we first met, I walked around like I was in a dream. I actually started to worry it really WAS a dream. Could the night before have actually been possible? I waited and waited, and finally at three (I had a hard time deciding what was “mid-afternoon”—two seemed too eager, four seemed too late, and at this time of year, it would almost be dark out), I told my mother the half-lie about riding lessons—and my mother ALMOST said she wanted to come with me. But then Aunt Bitsy started whining about how she had promised they’d go skiing, so off they went. Phew. I felt a little guilty; my mom likes riding, too. But Bitsy has zero filter and would justembarrass me. And my mom…well, she’s a snob. There’s no other way to put it. She likes upscale equestrian facilities, not cozy country ranch properties. Wilder Ranch would not be her thing.
I was so nervous about what it would be like to see Tate again. Would I feel the same? Would he? I was nervous, but as soon as I saw him outside one of the stable buildings, standing there in the snowfall as if he had been waiting for me, I could tell. What had happened between us was real. When our gazes locked, it felt like we were connected by a cord. He smiled that slow-burn smile of his, and I started to feel like I was melting again.
We went to see his horse, Mistletoe. She is so beautiful. I can only imagine how lovely her foal will be when she’s born. We gave her some mints, and then walked farther out into the paddock to bring in the horses we would ride: Jax for him; Walt for me. Once we got them tacked up, we headed out. I’ve never been on a trail ride in winter—and wow, have I been missing out. The forest was blanketed in snow, the trees looked like they had been hung with lace. It was a sunny afternoon, so warm we both tied our jackets to our saddles, and our horses walked side by side as we talked.
