Page 24 of Christmas at the Ranch
A feeling of lightness fills my chest—fleeting, almost slipping away as soon as I grasp at its edges, but there. I chase it. It’s a memory.
I turn to him. “Remember on Christmas Eve, when Charlie insisted that if he kept stirring his lumpy fondue with a whisk and adding flour, it was going to work?”
Tate laughs at this recollection, too. A reward. The happiness stays.
“And then he had to start over, and he pretended that had been his plan all along.”
“Do you still do that?” I ask.
“Do what, the Christmas Eve fondue? Yeah.”
“And listen to Bing Crosby’s reading of ‘The Small One’ while you eat?”
Another nod. Then he leans closer. “But now he just buys those premade packs of fondue at the grocery store and pretends to have made it himself. AndIpretend not to see the packages in the garbage when I take it out later.”
I smile down into my coffee mug, suddenly lost innostalgia—and wondering if it’s possible Tate feels the same. Or if he just feels sorry for me. If he’s just following his father’s instructions to be kind to a person in distress at Christmas.
I look back up at him. “Tate?” But any words dry up in my throat. I have so much to say, and nothing to say at all. It’s as if Tate and I exist on two planes: what’s real, and what’s all just memory.
His gaze is like a searchlight across my face. I don’t know what he’s looking for, or if he finds it.
He just says, “Come back to the ranch. It’s not a big deal.”
Which is possibly the understatement of the century. Then, he’s signaling to Gwen for the bill and she’s shaking her head and mouthing, “It’s on the house.” When I stand, Tate puts his hand on the small of my back, guiding me toward the door. There are two layers of clothing between his hand and my skin, yet the heat of his touch feels like it could burn a hole in my coat. My knees go weak and I almost stumble, which makes him loop his arm around my waist to hold me steady. I want to lean into him, but I don’t. I shore myself up and keep walking, gently pulling away from him because in his arms is not, I remind myself, the safe place it used to be.
I glance at him sidelong to see if any of this experience is having the same effect on him, but his expression betrays nothing except perfect calm. Tate is fine. He has no weakness when it comes to me.Come back to the ranch,he said earlier.It’s not a big deal. And I need to stop making it one, because this is all circumstantial.
I get to the door of the bar before Tate does, pushing it open myself and welcoming the feel of the cold winter air on my hot cheeks, surprised to find it’s almost dark out, this strange day nearly over already.
“Not a big deal,” I whisper to myself. Maybe if I keep saying it, it will finally become true.
Eleven
I hop up into the cab of Tate’s truck and try to steel myself against the scent of pine needles and bonfire smoke, leather and saddle soap, but it’s even stronger in here.
He turns on the radio. It’s tuned to Kayak FM; as we drive, a DJ with a breathy voice details all the holiday “goings-on about town.” “There’s the holiday hoedown tomorrow night at Cormac’s Community Garden,” she says. “A special turkey supper at the Rotary Club, and, of course, the Starlight Ride, a week from today. That’s always a local highlight, and this year will be no different…”
I glance at him. “The Starlight Ride still happens?”
He turns up the speed of his windshield wipers against the thickening of the falling snow before he answers. “Evergreen tradition. You remember?”
Stevie Nicks’s version of “Silent Night” begins on the radio. “Of course. How could I forget?”
A long pause. I listen to Stevie’s smoky voice, the rush of the road under the truck tires, the shushing ofthe windshield wipers against the snow. And try to deal with a sudden surge of longing on my part, for starry nights and snowy trails.
For the way we were, once.
Thisnot a big dealmantra is not working at all.
“Yeah. It’s a good time” is all he says.
And we leave it at that.
Tate pulls up in front of his cabin and I thank him. “You’re being really generous with your place.”
He just shrugs. “Of course,” he says. “You need somewhere to stay. And I’m fine bunking with Charlie. There’s stew in the fridge, some salad stuff, fruit and coffee and bread for the morning. Help yourself. You know where everything is?”
“Think so,” I say, trying to mirror his casual tone.
