Page 62 of Christmas at the Ranch
Now, with Tate, the silence after my words stretches into awkward territory—yet I have no idea how to fill it. I look down at the folder. “What was it you wanted to show me?”
He pulls the folder toward himself, looks down at it, takes a deep breath.
Then he opens it.
It’s a composition book, with the nameEmory Oakeswritten on the front in familiar handwriting.
My breath catches in my throat. My old diary.
“I threw that away before I left here when I was eighteen,” I manage.
“Yeah,” he says. “And then, I was out for a walk on the road a few days after you left. Some animals had gotten into the garbage from your rental place,” he says with a wry smile. “It was just there in the snow. I couldn’t believe it. It felt like…” He looks down at the diary, then up at me again. “Like it meant something, but I never could figure out what. Not until now.”
“This is so embarrassing,” I say. “I wrote so much in there about…”Us. You.
“Don’t be embarrassed,” he says. “Please.”
“Did you read it?” I ask him.
“I wanted to, but that wouldn’t have been right.” He pauses. “I gave it to Charlie, told him to lock it away. That I would return it to you one day if I ever got the courage. Then I brought it with me when I came to Toronto. And chickened out, as I told you. Itturns out you were the brave one. You’re the one who came back.”
I pull the notebook toward me. I know every word by heart, but still, I open it to the final page. And with a sinking sensation in my heart, I start to read.
Dear Diary,
I made a huge mistake.
I found my dad this morning, after our Christmas brunch, after we’d opened our presents and everyone was relaxing, and I asked for his help. I told him that I had become friends with Tate and his dad, Charlie.
“Your mother mentioned,” my dad said, frowning, disapproval in his voice, but I chose to ignore it.
I explained to my dad as much as I knew about Tate and Charlie’s financial issues.
“Dad, I never really ask you for anything, but do you think you could help them out in some way? Maybe offer to be a financial backer or something?”
I realize now how naïve I was being. It’s never simple with my father. He’s all business, all the time—always trying to get ahead, I guess. He asked if he could come with me over to the ranch, to speak with Charlie about an idea he had.
“I’ve been wanting to get into horse breeding for a while,” he said. “And your mother did tell me what a quaint facility it is. I could definitely do something with it, make some positive changes.”
This was when I began to realize this could be a mistake. But it was too late, I had already asked for his help. I couldn’t say no. We headed over together. Tate looked confused when he saw me with my dad. I know he had expected me to come over by myself, so we could have some time alone on Christmas. He had told me he had a gift for me—but I didn’t have anything for him! I think that’s why I brought my dad into things. I felt sure I could solve any problems Wilder Ranch was having and make Tate happy. And Charlie, too. The perfect Christmas gift.
I was so, so wrong.
My dad walked up to Charlie and offered to buy the place.
It was awful. It was so embarrassing. But it was worse than that. It was shameful. How could my dad see a place like Wilder’s as just something to buy, something to change completely and utterly? He started talking about how fun it would be to get involved with breeding Thoroughbreds for racing—when Tate and I have talked about how much he disapproves of racing, which is hard on horses and results in mistreatment, then the horses just being cast aside if they underperform. Sold off as horsemeat, if you can believe it. But my dad wouldn’t know about any of that, nor would he care.
Tate looked at me like I was a complete stranger, and to be honest, so did Charlie. He just said, “No, thank you, Wilder’s is not for sale” before heading off to do some chores.
“I tried, Emory,” my dad said to me in front of Tate. “But it seems like these guys don’t want what I’m offering. Maybe they just want to play small.”
I had planned to stay, but Tate, his expression as cold as the ice on the lake, told me he had something important to do with his dad.
“You should go, too,” he said. “I’ll call you later.”
I wanted to explain myself, but I couldn’t find the words. What had I just done?
I told myself I’d give him some space, and I’d give myself some time to figure out a way to make it right, that when he called later, I’d come straight over and we’d talk.
