Page 54 of Christmas at the Ranch
“Your parents know about me and Tate?”
Mya laughs. “Everyonehere knows that the reason Tate Wilder, the town’s most handsome, kindheartedyet brooding bachelor, has never settled down with anyone is because he’s been pining for some long-lost city girl for the past decade.”
Now I feel my cheeks flush. “That can’t be true,” I say, even as the kernel of sunlight grows into a ray of light. “It’s just a rumor.”
“I’d think that, too, except I’ve known Tate nearly my whole life. He’s not big on feelings talk, but there have been a few instances where he’s been honest with me. I know he hurt you, okay? But he was a grieving teenager when you met.”
My mind goes to the articles about his mother. I feel heartsick again.
“I know, and I was so unfair to him. We can’t get past it, Mya. It’s too late.”
But she just keeps talking as if I haven’t spoken.
“He was still grieving,” she repeats. “And still trying to hold on to a business that, you now understand, took his mother away. It felt like his only connection to her. He told me what happened with you two, what the blowup was about. You asking your dad to help, him offering to buy Wilder’s. And I can understand it. You thought you were being helpful, but what you wanted would have changed everything. And it probably would have still spelled the end of Wilder Ranch.”
“I was naïve to try to step in,” I say. “And my father wasn’t fair. I should have known he’d make it about profit, not compassion.”
“Sure. But Tate wasn’t fair to you about it, either. There was more to it than you understood.”
“I never asked what happened to his mother. Ishould have. I told myself it was too painful for him to talk about, but maybe I was just afraid to know how bad the truth was, because it would be something I could never help him fix.”
“You could sit here thinking of ways to blame yourself forever. Trust me, he’s done the same. It was probably good you didn’t ask. Back then, it was still so fresh. All anyone talked about when they talked about his mom was how tragic it was. That was hard for him—it made it almost impossible for him to remember the good times. Until you came along, and you made it safe for him to share those memories of her. You did a good thing for him. Stop trying to rewrite history and make it otherwise.” Her expression softens, and then her voice. “This may be clear to you already: I’m not exactly a softie. But even I can see that what’s between you two is special. It deserves a chance.”
I open my mouth, but I don’t know what to say. Maybe because I agree, but I’m still too afraid to admit that to myself.
Mya stands. “I’ve said enough. You two need to talk. And if he’s smart, you’re about to get the chance.”
Before I can ask her what she means, she’s zipped up her coat and headed out into the snowy afternoon, the front door banging shut behind her.
I sit still, dazed for a moment, then stand and rush to the door, intent on calling out to her to make sure she thanks her parents from me for the tea set.
There’s a figure on the walkway—but it’s not Mya.
Twenty-Six
I step outside the newspaper office and onto the porch just as a light snow begins to fall. It feels like magic. Like little white sparks falling from the sky and onto Tate, who is out there waiting for me—like a vision I conjured, or a dream I keep having, come to life.
I walk down the steps toward him, ignoring the fact that I’m in socked feet, stopping in front of him in the snow.
“Tate,” I begin. “I just found out what happened to your mom. I had no idea. I’m so sorry.”
“You had no idea because I never told you,” he says gently.
“But I didn’t ask.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have had to.” His amber eyes are sad but also lit up with something I think I recognize: the emotions he felt for me back then. The ones he might still feel for me now.
We stand there in the gentle snowfall, a few feetapart, glittering flakes falling between us—and sparks flying between us, too. I feel them. I’ve always felt them.
Whycan’tit be possible that some things are just meant to be?
“Do you want to come inside?” I ask him. He nods and then follows me up the steps.
Inside the newspaper office, I feel suddenly shy. I put on the kettle again to have something to do with my hands. When I turn back around, he’s standing beside my desk. I see him pick up the article about his mom. He starts to read, and I stay still, not wanting to disturb him.
“I never read this,” he finally says. “At the time I was so grief-stricken, I just couldn’t. I wanted to avoid anything that had to do with her for the first while. It was awful.”
“Tate, I’m sorry.”
