Page 10 of Christmas at the Ranch

Six

I close my eyes and wait, hoping maybe a sinkhole will open up in the floor of the mechanic’s shop and swallow me before I have to turn around.

“Emory? That you?”

His voice cuts through my angst.

“Yes?” I say, my eyes still closed.

“Might as well turn around and find out what happens next.”

I’m too miserable to actually laugh, but I’m smiling when I turn toward him. Charlie always did have the best sense of humor, and apparently this is still true.

“Hi, Charlie.”

He’s just as I remember him: tall, wearing a Stetson even in winter—just like his son—and with amber-brown eyes that match his son’s, too, but on a more weathered face.

I can’t speak. I find myself peering behind him, out the window, at the white pickup truck with the Wilder Ranch logo—a red line drawing of a horse’s head swooping into a curvaceous W —parked there. I can’t help but look for him—but Tate’s not in the passenger seat.

“It’s been a while,” he says, filling my silence.

“Sure has,” I finally manage. “Ten years.”

Then his smile fades as he seems to remember something. He leans around me, toward Meredith behind the counter.

“I don’t care what the overactive rumor mill in this town is spewing out. Emory herself has done nothing wrong, and you can’t be going and lying to her, overcharging her for something you know you and your brother can have done in an hour.”

Meredith seems even more flustered than I am. Her cheeks turn as red as her coveralls as she apologizes. “I’ll see what I can do,” she says.

Charlie shakes his head. “Damn group chat. Now, I need a new winch. Mine’s busted. Got any of those in stock for me?”

As she goes to fetch it, I turn toward the door, but Charlie calls out to me.

“You want to wait a minute there, Emory, so you and I can have a little catch-up?”

I nod and mumble that I’ll see him outside. In the parking lot, the snow is still falling in feathery little bundles, and I let it land on me, in the hopes it’ll cool me down after the emotional roller-coaster ride I’ve just been on.

Soon, Charlie is outside, too. He looks at me for a moment, then says, “You have an hour to kill while they get those tires on for you. I can’t let you be standing out here in this snowstorm, waiting.”

“I’ll be okay,” I try to insist. “I’ll go to Carrie’s Café or something.”

He ignores this. “Why don’t I take you back to the ranch for a nice warm mug of something, and by the time we’re done getting caught up, Meredith should be done with your tires, too.”

Now I’m as frozen as a snow sculpture. But not because of the cold. Is this really going to happen?

He shoots me a look, reading my hesitation. “He’s not around,” he answers my unvoiced question. “Went to a trade show in Barrie for a few days. Not back till Wednesday.”

Something swirls around me along with the snow. I can’t quite grasp it. Disappointment, I think. He’s not here at all. So there’s no chance of my running into him. But then a new emotion arrives: relief. I can relax now. Tate Wilder isn’t in town. He’s not going to see me, or know I was here.

Somewhat more at ease, I follow Charlie to his truck and climb up into the cab.

Soon the heat is blasting, and he’s driving down the familiar winding road toward Wilder Ranch.

His radio is tuned to Kayak, the quirky local station I was listening to earlier; Céline Dion is singing “The Christmas Song,” soulfully crooning about chestnuts roasting on an open fire and Jack Frost nipping at her nose.

This is nice, I tell myself. I’m going to have a pleasant visit with Charlie, and then, once the hour is over, I will be able to drive away and put this town behind me.

“Charlie, Wilder Ranch looks just the same!” And it does.

Exactly like my dreams of the place—because I have dreamed of it, over and over as the years have passed.

The paddocks are still fenced by sun-bleached wood, now iced with snow, hung with dangling icicles.

Horses either stand still, covered in those same red-and-green-plaid Wilder Ranch blankets I remember, or prance and gallop, snorting plumes of frosty air.

“Well, now, you haven’t been inside yet,” Charlie says, turning off the truck. “We’ve made some modernizations—Tate’s seen to that. But you’re right. Wilder Ranch is still very much the same place you knew.”

The snow slows enough that everything comes into focus.

I can see the main house, which is made of logs like the one Tate built in the woods—except much larger, with a wraparound veranda in the same sun-bleached wood as the paddocks.

I see a construction dumpster out front; Charlie must be doing some renovations.

I look away from the gable I know used to be Tate’s bedroom window and try not to think about the night I threw pebbles at it, trying to get him to come out and talk to me. He never did.

I turn instead toward the stable buildings.

There’s a covered arena, separate from the stables.

Charlie explains that this is one of the modernizations he mentioned.

And that the space that used to be a stall-lined riding ring is now a ranch office, with more stalls and a larger tack room.

“For Tate’s riding school,” he says. Another one of his dreams come true.

I recognize the snow-covered outdoor sand ring, the paths leading to the fields and forest, the woods I know are filled with peaceful, snowy trails and Tate’s house of dreams. I find myself wondering, Does he live there with a wife?

A family? I want to ask Charlie questions about him, but I can’t. I just stand still, taking it all in.

“Let’s walk,” Charlie says, and we do, heading toward the paddocks. “So,” he says as we crunch through the snow. “Tell me what you’ve been up to all these years. What great things have you done?”

I feel embarrassed. What have I done that’s great? “I worked as a local news reporter for The Globe and Mail after journalism school,” I say, and he lets out a low whistle.

“Impressive! That’s our national paper!”

“Not so fast. I got laid off last year, and now I’m a freelancer.”

“Who do you freelance for?”

“The Globe, still. Sometimes the Toronto Star now, too. Just about any Canadian magazine you can think of. Chatelaine. House & Home. Food & Drink . Some websites.”

He glances at me like he wants to ask me something. Instead he says, “Well, I’ve heard of all those publications, so I still find it impressive. You were always going places, Emory Oakes.” I feel a twinge as he says this—because he sounds just like Tate.

I drag myself back into the present as Charlie says, “Okay, so let’s address the elephant in the room.” My heart seizes in my chest. “I’m sorry about the way you’re being treated in town.”

I blink a few times, catch my breath, slow my heart. He doesn’t want to talk about Tate. And why would he? It was years ago. It was between me and Tate. And Tate’s not here.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that the Evergreen grapevine is still fully functional. It was always robust, from what I remember.”

“Yes, well, now it’s been streamlined. That Business Owners’ group chat never shuts up.

” He shakes his head. “I keep meaning to ask Tate to tell me how to mute it but we always get busy with something else and I forget.” Then he shoots me a sidelong smile.

“Small towns, you know. Everyone’s in everyone else’s business.

Sometimes literally. Now, let me guess what brought you here at this exact time. ”

Now my heart rate gallops completely out of control. How am I going to handle Charlie saying he can tell I obviously have never fully gotten over his son?

Except that’s not what he says at all. Yet again, he doesn’t mention Tate and me and what happened between us back then. “You came here to apologize to Gill on behalf of your family. To try to make things right.”

“ Oh .” I have no idea what to say to this. The fact that this isn’t at all why I came jabs at the shame that is so close at hand, pulls it up into my consciousness again so it’s all I can feel.

“And to offer him money, probably,” Charlie continues, which just makes it all worse. “But I don’t think you should do that,” he concludes.

I open and close my mouth, but can’t think of anything to say that will help. Sorry, I didn’t come here to apologize to Gill and I have no money to give him. I gave it all to my mother, who is still throwing her annual Christmas party while my father is in jail.

“It’s okay, kiddo. This is hard, I can tell.

But I don’t know that you talking to Gill will help.

Emotions are running high, obviously. And while I think it’s really quite admirable of you to have rushed here to try to make it right, I just don’t know if you can accomplish that right now.

Gill is a softie in some ways, but a proud man, too.

It’s going to take a while for him to accept help. ”

“Charlie, that’s not why—”

“No, I must insist that it’s just not a good time to go talk to Gill.” He shakes his head, his voice still kind, but firm.

All I can do is nod and force a weak smile.

Thankfully, we’ve reached the paddock fence, which is a distraction.

Reflexively, I search my parka pockets for a mint.

I place my empty hands on the wood of the fence and watch two horses in the paddock together, one a large bay—mahogany-brown coat, coal-black tail—running back and forth at the south end.

She reminds me of Mistletoe until she turns her head toward me and I see the distinctive marking isn’t there.

But there’s another horse nearby, full of energy. Kicking up snow, dashing back and forth, almost as if she’s showing off to the others. And then, she stops and looks over at us.

She has a coat the color of dappled sunlight. Spun gold. Fresh hay. She nickers and trots in our direction. That’s when it comes into focus: the blaze up the center of her aristocratic forehead that ends in a star.

Charlie chuckles, his mood lifting. “Here she comes. Our Star.”

He reaches into one of his pockets and hands me a scotch mint.

I take it and hold my palm flat, filled with sudden reverence.

Star. I was here the night she was born.

Star dips her head to take the mint and her muzzle grazes my skin, a soft brush of velvet.

Then she steps back, crunching and staring.

Once she’s finished the treat, she tosses her head and whinnies, while Charlie chuckles and tells her one is enough.

She sidesteps one more time and paws the ground, as if waiting for a different answer, before shooting me what I’m sure is a haughty look, then turning and trotting back the way she came.

I turn to Charlie. “I haven’t thought about her for years,” I say, my voice filled with emotion.

“Really?” Charlie raises his eyebrows. “You’ve never thought of her?”

How can I tell him the truth? I haven’t allowed myself to think of her is more accurate.

I’ll always remember my eighteen-year-old self breathlessly telling Tate and Charlie that the night Star was born was the most memorable night of my life.

Helping during a foaling, especially one as complicated as hers, is an unforgettable experience.

All at once, my eyes are filling with tears.

I blink them away fast and turn back toward the paddock, hoping Charlie didn’t see.

It almost seems as if Star did, though. She’s stopped in her tracks, and her head is lifted, as if she’s caught a scent.

She turns to me, gives me a long look, then lets out a whinny before galloping in a circle.

I think of something Tate told me once, years ago.

Did you know a horse can sense your heartbeat from four feet away?

“That girl,” Charlie says. “Even at ten years old, she still acts like a damn filly. And against all odds, too, since she was a preemie. You remember.”

“I remember,” I breathe, the words coming out in puffs of white air, lingering in front of my lips as if I could reach out and touch them. “Ten years. I can’t believe it.” But I can, of course. I know exactly how long it’s been since I’ve stood in this spot or been near this horse.

“We all got a little older, didn’t we?” He tips his cap forward to reveal a head full of gray. “I’ve turned into Father Christmas.”

“Aw, Charlie, you look the same, just like this place. The hair only makes you look dignified.”

“Dignified!” He laugh-shouts the word and a horse in the paddock whinnies a response. “Don’t think that’s quite the right word for me, but I’ll try to keep impressing you.” He turns and watches Star thoughtfully for a moment, then looks toward me and tilts his head.

“You still ride?”

“Not since I was here.”

“You know what they say, right? ‘It’s just like riding a horse.’ You never forget.”

I laugh. “I’m pretty sure the saying is ‘It’s just like riding a bike.’?”

“Same thing.”

“Oh, right,” I say, laughing again. “Thousand-pound animal with a mind of its own, thirty-pound metal frame with hand brakes. Exact same.”

Star is still prancing in the distance, glancing our way every few seconds, as if she’s a kid showing off. “Well, she sure does seem to want your attention. Want to take her inside, give her a good grooming?”

“Yes,” I say, the answer automatic, the idea of getting close to Star impossible to resist.

He grins. “All right, then. Let’s go.”