Page 22 of Christmas at the Ranch
I back my car out of the parking lot and turn right. Out of Evergreen. In the opposite direction of my past.
The snow tires make all the difference. Soon, I’m driving easily along the rural roads that will lead to the highway, past the frozen lakes and rivers whose pristine beauty struck me on my way here. I force myself to ignore the scenery, just focus on the road, on my journey out. I know I’m speeding a little, but I don’t slow down. My need to flee is as strong as the impulse that brought me north to Evergreen in the first place. I turn on the radio and am rewarded with Kayak FM’s quirky holiday playlist—first “Dominick the Donkey” by Lou Monte, then “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” performed by Destiny’s Child.
I’m belting it out along with Beyoncé when theradio station fizzles. I’ve lost the signal as I approach the border of the Haliburton region. I don’t want silence because then I’ll be alone with my thoughts, so I fiddle with the radio, in search of another festive song.
I’ve only taken my eyes from the road for a second. But when I look back up again, I’m in trouble.
Up ahead: spindly legs, dark fur, massive antlers, unwieldy body.
A moose has leapt in front of my car. It’s the biggest animal I’ve ever seen in my life, larger than any of the horses at Wilder’s. I swerve, squeezing my eyes shut as my car slides off the road and tumbles down a ditch. I open my eyes just in time to spin my steering wheel and narrowly avoid a tree. There’s a cracking sound before my car staggers to a stop.
I gasp as the moose crashes through the trees in front of my windshield, disappearing, unscathed, into the forest. I’m shaking. I think I’m in shock. I reach for my cell phone to call for help, but there’s no cell signal out here. So I open my car door and get out, testing my legs, making sure I’m not hurt. I seem to be fine, except for the shaking, which gets worse when I turn to my car and see the damage.
One wheel is gone, rolled away into the woods, and the vehicle sits at a strange angle against a fallen log. I won’t be driving out of these woods. I’m stuck. I walk up to the road and stand still, my head turned north. Back toward Evergreen.
“I give up!” I shout, my voice a strange comfort in the vast silence, proof that I’m alive, at least, even if I’m alone. “Fine, I’llstay!”
Ten
“Can I offer you a hot buttered rum?” The bartender’s eyes are filled with kind concern. “I just saw your car get towed into M&M’s Autobody. Heard you hit a moose out on the 118. Must have been terrifying, hey? I’ve lived here all my life and only ever seen one moose on the road.”
“Wow, the grapevine in this town…” I mutter.
Her empathetic smile deepens. She’s mid-forties with long dark hair, straight as sudden rain, falling almost to her waist. Her nametag readsGwen. “It’sveryrobust. Anyway, you’re lucky to be alive, and probably pretty shaken up. I’ll get you that rum. First one’s on me, after what you’ve been through.”
“That does sound nice,” I say.
And it is. The red pottery mug she hands me is warm against my still-shivering hands. The liquid inside is sweet with hints of vanilla and a little kick of festive spice. Comforting. After a few more bracing sips, I open my phone to look for a car rental agency. There’s one in Minden, about forty minutes away. Icould get Frank, the taxi driver who picked me up this morning, to drive me there. Except after what happened with the moose, the idea of getting in a car and going back out on those roads turns my bones to jelly. I take another sip of the rum drink instead. And any fight I had left retreats. I accept it. I’m stuck in Evergreen, again.
I look around. The Watering Hole pub is quiet at this time on a weekday afternoon. There are a few patrons finishing their lunches at the homey wooden tables, mostly centered around a large fireplace with cheerful red and green stockings hung across its mantel. The pub’s walls are covered in vintage framed posters—ads for baking powder, bread yeast, shampoo—that look like they’ve been collected from thrift stores and yard sales over the years. Christmas garlands are wound around the wooden beams and rafters above. Over the speakers, Bruce Springsteen is wishing his baby a Merry Christmas.
Gwen has appeared again, holding a bowl of soup. “This will help, too,” she says with her gentle smile. I’m touched by the gesture. I stir it. Minestrone, topped with a cloud of freshly grated parmesan and flecks of parsley. It’s delicious. For some reason, the taste of it, the way it warms my chest, the kindness of Gwen feeding me a steady stream of warm liquids to help me recover from the shock I just had, makes me want to cry. Or maybe the feeling welling up inside me right now is something else. Maybe it’s not sadness at all. I eat slowly, trying to process my emotions.
“So,” Gwen says later, wiping the bar top in front of me with a cloth embroidered with little snowmen. “Your car’s pretty wrecked, huh?”
“You tell me,” I say. “What did Meredith write in the group chat?”
Gwen laughs. “It’s a broken axle,” she says, shooting me a rueful look. “Possibly unfixable, but they’ll know more tomorrow.”
“That sounds expensive,” I say, morose.
“Since I know you’re not driving, how about another one?” She doesn’t even wait for my response before taking my mug away for a refill. I thank her before she goes off to serve more bar patrons. When she’s gone, I open my phone again. I text Lani, deciding to leave out the worrying details and just tell her I’m having car trouble and will be delayed in my return to the city. Then I scroll to my bank account, which does not have good news for me. Next, I check my emails, which are even worse. It’s clear I can’t just casually email a pitch to an editor without addressing the huge red flag: that I’m the daughter of a hot item in the current news cycle. An Emory Oakes byline is likely not the most appealing thing in the world right now. An interview might be, but there’s no way I’m giving one.
As the afternoon sun sinks low in the sky, I sip my drink and think about calling my mother, the way I had resolved to last night. But after the near-death experience of almost hitting the moose, I feel even more fragile than before. I know I need to talk to her—but not yet.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” I ask Gwen when she returns to clear my empty soup bowl away. “Even though you know who I am?”
“Because I’m not the kind of person who judges people by their family,” she says simply. “And because you were so shaken up when you came in here.” Then she looks away, addresses someone behind me. I think it’s another customer until she says, “Oh, hello, Tate.”
She’s so casual, I almost don’t process it—because Tate is not a name I use casually at all. But then, I smell him. Pine needles, bonfire smoke. A voice like maple syrup on snow, saying, “I’ve been looking for you.”
I turn, and there he is. Amber eyes, that full bottom lip, pulled tight in a slight grimace of concern. Plaid flannel jacket, Stetson, too-long dark blond hair peeking out from beneath it. His new beard. Or not new, but new to me. I realize this moment of me staring at him, taking him in, has lasted too long when his frown deepens and he glances at Gwen. “Is she okay?”
“I think she’s still in shock,” Gwen says, and I feel embarrassed that I seem so feeble they have to talk about me as if I’m not even there.
“I’m fine, really,” I say, but my voice wobbles as I say it, revealing the truth.I am not at all fine.From the looks now on Tate’s and Gwen’s faces, I realize I’ve said those last words aloud, too. I push the mug of rum away and Gwen, my guardian angel, quickly replaces it with a glass of water, then leaves us to talk. “I heard about the accident,” Tate says. “It makes sense you’d be shaken up. Almost hitting a moose—that’s a bigdeal. You could’ve been…” But he doesn’t finish his sentence.
“But I wasn’t,” I say—except, in an effort to keep my voice steady, the words come out belligerent. “I’m fine.”
