Page 48 of Christmas at the Ranch
And yet, there’s no place for me here, not really. Tate doesn’t belong to me. Our wild dreams to be together forever never came true. Our youthful declarations of love were just that: teenage dreams. I keep telling myself to get over it, that leaving it all behind again in a few days shouldn’t hurt as much as I know it’s going to.
I’ve almost reached the car, but I stop walking. Should I really go to Wilder Ranch? Or should I driveBruce’s car back to town and tell Tate something came up? No, because that’s not fair to him, or to Wilder’s. Just because I’m having a hard time seeing him so happy with Mariella doesn’t mean I have the right to be unkind to him, or to Charlie. I need to write this article. I need to be strong, for the Wilders and for Star, as complicated as it all is.
I get in Bruce’s car and drive the short distance to the ranch. As I park, I see Mariella’s hatchback pulling away. She waves at me as she passes on the driveway, and I wave back, trying hard not to grit my teeth.
I approach the north stable and pull open the door. Tate is there, outside Star’s stall. He smiles when he sees me.
“You came,” he says, as if he thought I might not. As if he can tell that at one point I was standing in the woods, considering turning back, making up some excuse and bailing on the article.
“Of course,” I say. I hold up the notebook. “It’s my journalistic duty.”
“Right,” he says. “Let’s go to the office.”
Inside the ranch office, with its messy desk and bulletin board covered haphazardly with schedules and photos, random pieces of tack on every available surface, he clears off a seat for me.
“Tea? Coffee? It’s instant, and kind of terrible, but it does the trick.”
“Tea is good,” I say. As he plugs in the kettle I take a few deep breaths. “Okay, so, let’s start with your new riding instructor. Tell me about them,” I say.
“Mariella,” he says, and I blink.
“What about Mariella?”
“She’s Wilder’s new riding instructor.”
“I thought…” I’m too shocked to finish the sentence, but I’m a reporter right now. Tate dating his riding instructor is none of my business.
“She’s great,” he’s saying. “It took a while, because she’s from Kingston. She’s going to have to move here, so we both wanted to make sure it was the right decision.”
I think I’m diligently writing down all the details, but realize all I’ve written is,Girlfriend??? Or coworker??
I cross it out and write down what Tate has actually said. I look up. “You two really seem to get along,” I say. “Er—I mean, what’s her equestrian background?”
“She trained in the Netherlands. She has family there, and they have a big horse farm. One of her younger cousins represented Holland in the Olympics a few years ago, and she coached him. It was a great experience, but she wanted to move back here to Ontario.”
I’ve writtenDid she move back here to be with Tate??But then I cross that out, too.
“Because her mom wasn’t well,” Tate continues. “But don’t put that in, it’s personal.”
“Of course,” I say, the picture of professionalism. “I’m sure you’ve been so caring and comforting about her mom,” I say. “A real support.”
He tilts his head and looks a little confused. “Well, sure,” he says. “I mean, I haven’t known her that long. And her mom’s better now. Which is why she felt she could move towns, to be here, take the job at Wilder’s.”
The kettle boils, and he tells me more about hisplans for the ranch as he puts a tea bag in each cup, then pours boiling water. When he hands my mug to me, our fingers touch across his desk—and he doesn’t pull away. He lets his pinkie linger against mine, and his gaze holds me, too. I’m the first to look away, but I find it harder to move my hand. As if we’re drawn together by magnets. I finally manage it and pick up my pen again. But then I sigh.
I find myself thinking, all at once, about my best friend’s advice over the past five days. She has texted me several times, saying I need to…Tell him how you feel! What do you have to lose??
I’ve told myself I can’t because he’s with Mariella. But I know it isn’t just about her. That it’s about the risk of him knowing the truth about the torch I’ve carried for him, one that I thought had dimmed, but was really just lying dormant, waiting to be reignited.
“Tate.” I bite my lip; I have to do this. “I think it’s time for me to be really honest with you.”
I keep my eyes trained on his, but it’s an effort not to glance at his inviting mouth. Impossible not to think about our bodies entwined up in the hayloft, on top of a plaid horse blanket. Of the stars shining down on us through the hole in the stable roof. I feel the blush rise up my neck and spread over my cheeks. I remember a time he traced the progress of my blush with his lips. And the more time I spend with him, the harder it’s becoming to fight off these memories. “Emory,” he says, and my name becomes something else on his lips. “What do you need to say?”
I swallow over a sudden lump in my throat. “It’sjust a little hard for me, seeing you and Mariella together. I know we were together a long time ago, that it’s all in the past—but, for me at least, it still feels a bit intense. I’m sorry; this is so embarrassing. But I can’t go on like this. It’s too hard. I don’t think I can keep coming here.”
His expression is so hard to read. He looks shocked and confused. And then as if something is dawning on him.
“Emory, we—” He stops and clears his throat. “Mariella and I are not dating.”
