Page 47 of Christmas at the Ranch
“You’d be helping me,” Tate says. “IneedSam.”
I can feel Sam practically vibrating with excitement beside me, and when her mother says yes, she starts jumping up and down. “Calm down, you’ll scare the guests upstairs,” her mother says, but she’s happy, too, I can tell.
“Speaking of helping me,” Tate says, and now he’s looking at me again. “A new riding instructor, expanding Wilder Ranch, and going into horse training is probably newsworthy, right?”
“I think so, and I’m sure Bruce would agree,” I say.
“Why don’t you come over for a bit when you’re done here? Have a coffee with me, get the scoop on what I’m up to?”
“Sure,” I say, keeping my voice casual, even though the idea of spending time with him makes me feel anything but—no matter what I keep telling myself. “I’ll come over when I’m done here.”
“I’ll see you soon, then,” he says. “Mariella’s waiting with the horses outside. We rode over here. I should go.”
And as quickly as my spirits lifted, they’re down again.He is not yours, and he never will be,I tell myself sternly.
Sam is observing my expression, looking confused. “You okay?” she mouths. I nod and look away, embarrassed that my emotions are so obvious even a nine-year-old can clock them.
When Tate is gone, Reesa sets out the soup and scones—still, I can’t help but be drawn to the window,where Sam is standing, too. She sighs and clasps her hands together. I follow her gaze out to the woods, where Tate and Mariella are riding on horseback through the trees, along the very same path I was on, just the day before.
It had felt then like we were the only two people in the world. I force myself not to look away; I make myself watch as Tate and Mariella, against the backdrop of the setting sun, talk and laugh their way out of my line of sight.
Training my heart to remember that Tate is not mine feels harder than breaking a wild horse. But I have to keep trying, even in this place where the memories of him, of us, are all around.
Dear Diary,
I am no longer a virgin.
It happened in the hayloft, which I wasn’t sure about at first, but then I realized there would be no other place for us to be alone—and that I really wanted it to happen before I left. Sooner rather than later, frankly, so it could happen more than once.
We’ve spent every possible moment together for the past two weeks, and we only have one week left. I have to believe our relationship will go beyond this time—but even if it doesn’t, I have no regrets. I tried to find a way to tell him this, and he looked into my eyes—Diary, I cannot possibly express the way it feels when our eyes meet,every single time. Like I’m spinning, like I’m floating, like the world is brand-new…
He kept asking if I wassureand I kept telling him I had never been more certain of anything, ever. When I told him it was my first time, he got really quiet. I was worried he might think it was weird that I was eighteen and had never gotten this far with anyone—except at this point, I’ve been pretty honest with him about most things. All we do is talk and talk (and kiss) and talk. He knows I’ve never really liked anyone at my school. I do know he’s had a few girlfriends, but no one he has felt this way about. I believe him when he says that. I try not to get too jealous, thinking about being gone in just one more week and all the girls who are probably crazy about him, because who wouldn’t be?
But then he looked into my eyes and said, “It’s not my first time—but it is my first time with someone I feel this way about. Someone I’m in love with. And so, in a way, it really is a first time.” When I close my eyes, I can hear him say those words to me. Over and over, the most perfect words to say.
He made it really special. I came over after dinner, late, snuck out—although honestly, I don’t know why I bother, no one seems to notice what I’m doing. I wonder if half of my parents’ guests even know I’m around. And my mom just thinks I’m upstairs reading or over at the barn taking lessons.
I like that only Tate and I will ever knowexactlywhat it was like.
He had lanterns all set up on the hay bales—like candles, but of course, those wouldn’t have been safewith all the hay. The plaid horse blanket was laid out, and another blanket on top of that. I was so touched. It was so sweet.
I was so nervous. I could hardly look at him—but when I did, I knew it would be okay.
“I want this. I want you,” I said to him, wrapping my arms around his neck. “This will never have been a mistake.”
It did hurt, for just a minute. Then it didn’t anymore, and I was worrying about what I was doing, if I was doing it right. As if reading my mind, Tate kissed me, then pulled away and looked at me, his gaze deeper, I think, than it has ever been. “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “You’re perfect.”
I believed him. Suddenly, it felt like I was perfect. The very best, most beautiful version of myself possible. I stopped being self-conscious and focused only on what I was feeling in my heart—and my body. The intensity of his kiss, the way his skin felt on mine, how I didn’t just feel but knew in that moment I was closer to him than I had ever been to anyone. He was gentle, he was sweet—but also…well, he’s so hot. It was so good. Thinking about it makes me blush—and want to do it all over again.
When it was over, he pulled the blankets over us and held me close, kissed my hair, whispered in my ear. “In case it wasn’t clear before, City Girl, I wasn’t just saying that because I wanted you. I mean, I did want you—I do, actually, I don’t think I’ll ever stop. But I love you, Emory Oakes. I really do.”
“I love you, too, Tate Wilder,” I said. And I felt like the happiest, luckiest girl in the world.
Twenty-Two
I’m at the inn for another two hours, chatting with Reesa after interviewing her for the article. When I eventually walk to Bruce’s car in the semidarkness, stars blink to life above me, like Christmas lights on a tree. I breathe deeply, trying to quell my racing heart, my confused emotions. But no matter how unsettled I may be feeling about Tate, I can’t deny it: To me, this is the most magical place in the world. Nowhere I’ve ever been, before or since, has compared to Evergreen. To Wilder Ranch.
I think I belong here.
