Page 16 of Christmas at the Ranch

Eleven

I hop up into the cab of Tate’s truck and try to steel myself against the scent of pine needles and bonfire smoke, leather and saddle soap, but it’s even stronger in here.

He turns on the radio. It’s tuned to Kayak FM; as we drive, a DJ with a breathy voice details all the holiday “goings-on about town.” “There’s the holiday hoedown tomorrow night at Cormac’s Community Garden,” she says.

“A special turkey supper at the Rotary Club, and, of course, the Starlight Ride, a week from today. That’s always a local highlight, and this year will be no different… ”

I glance at him. “The Starlight Ride still happens?”

He turns up the speed of his windshield wipers against the thickening of the falling snow before he answers. “Evergreen tradition. You remember?”

Stevie Nicks’s version of “Silent Night” begins on the radio. “Of course. How could I forget?”

A long pause. I listen to Stevie’s smoky voice, the rush of the road under the truck tires, the shushing of the windshield wipers against the snow. And try to deal with a sudden surge of longing on my part, for starry nights and snowy trails.

For the way we were, once.

This not a big deal mantra is not working at all.

“Yeah. It’s a good time” is all he says.

And we leave it at that.

Tate pulls up in front of his cabin and I thank him. “You’re being really generous with your place.”

He just shrugs. “Of course,” he says. “You need somewhere to stay. And I’m fine bunking with Charlie. There’s stew in the fridge, some salad stuff, fruit and coffee and bread for the morning. Help yourself. You know where everything is?”

“Think so,” I say, trying to mirror his casual tone.

“Then…” He leans over me to pop open the passenger door, and I know it’s just Tate being Tate, that Charlie raised him to be mannerly.

He would lean over and open the door for anyone.

And yet, having him so close, even just for a few seconds, fills me with more of that confused longing.

“Take care of yourself,” he says. I nod, hop down, land gently in the snow.

For some reason, I salute as I stand there, and he smiles as if he’s not surprised at my awkward behavior, because he still knows me. I find myself smiling back.

But when I turn toward his front door and the sound of his truck fades down the lane, a wave of loneliness threatens to destabilize me again.

This is a big deal. I’m at Tate Wilder’s cabin, alone, yet again.

I pause and look up to the sky. Like last night, there are just snow clouds.

No stars to wish on. Nothing for me to do but let myself inside and try to get some rest.

The next morning, I call Lani. She is, as I predicted, horrified about the moose and my near-death experience, and I have to spend several minutes reassuring her I really am unhurt.

But she seems almost delighted that I’m back in Tate’s cabin.

“I knew this wasn’t over,” she says, her voice taking on the same dreamy quality it gets when she’s discussing the happy ending of one of her favorite movies.

Which are, by the way, Notting Hill and Sleepless in Seattle .

Lani is a romantic at heart, but it’s never quite rubbed off on me.

“Oh, trust me,” I say, turning on the coffee maker. “It’s over. He’s just being polite. There’s nothing left between us.” A knock at the front door punctuates this sentence.

“Is that him ?” Lani whispers.

“I’ll call you back,” I promise, for just a moment feeling like Anna in Notting Hill as I fix my hair self-consciously in a mirror before rushing to answer the door. But it’s not Tate.

“She’s alive,” Charlie says, his tone wry but his eyes dancing as he leans against the doorframe. I blink against the sunlight. The snow has finally stopped.

“I’m so sorry I left yesterday without saying goodbye,” I begin.

“No apology needed,” he says. “You didn’t expect to have Tate come crashing in, in the middle of the night.”

“I think I’m the one who did the crashing,” I say ruefully, but he just shakes his head and smiles while I wonder exactly what Tate told him.

“I put a call in to the mechanic, just to make sure they didn’t plan to mess you around again.

They need a bit of time to figure out what it’ll take.

” I can only nod as he lifts his Stetson from his head, mashes it in his hand as he regards me thoughtfully.

“And you’ll stay here,” he concludes, his voice now firm. “Until it’s fixed.”

“That’s kind of you. And Tate,” I manage. “Hopefully, it won’t be long.”

Charlie nods, then puts his hat back on. “Do you think you might do me a favor?” he asks.

“Of course. Anything, Charlie.”

“Star seemed so happy to see you yesterday, and she really took to you being close to her. And remember what I said about how you never forget how to ride a horse?” I nod. “Would you be interested in riding her?”

I remember how it felt as I groomed her. Like we belonged together. The truth is, I’d like nothing more than to try riding Star—and so I tell Charlie that.

He grins. “Meet me at the north barn, where her stall is, once you’ve had some breakfast.”

He tips his hat and turns to leave while I stand at Tate’s door watching him walk away down the path toward the stables, a sense of joyful anticipation bubbling up in my chest like fizzy liquid in a holiday party punch bowl.

When I’m ready, I head outside and walk down the snowy path, through the snow-clad trees, toward the ranch.

Inside the north barn, Charlie already has Star in crossties, and I start grooming her.

As I do, I can’t help but glance around, looking for Tate.

Charlie has tracked my gaze and lifts an eyebrow.

“He’s out for a trail ride with a friend.”

“Who is?” I say, shrugging my shoulders, turning away. I pick up a currycomb from Star’s grooming kit, rub it against her coat in gentle circles, loosening the dirt. Once I finish that, I reach for the hoof pick.

“I can do that if you want,” Charlie says. “Her hooves are pretty muddy.”

“I want to see if I can still manage it,” I say, determined.

Star resists me at first, but I lean my weight against her, nudge her shoulder with mine.

Finally, she lifts her front foot for me.

Charlie is right: The insides of her hooves are packed tight with mud, but I work at it and succeed.

Soon, all four of her hooves are done and I’m in possession of a deep sense of satisfaction.

It’s so easy to be happy around here, I find myself thinking. That confused sense of longing returns.

Charlie has gone off to find me a helmet and a pair of riding boots, and once I have those on, we make short work of tacking her up together.

I place her ebony leather saddle gently atop a white fluffy saddle pad on her back, slide her bit between her teeth, and the straps of her bridle over her ears.

“You ready?” Charlie asks me. I secure my helmet, and even though my heart has started knocking against my chest like it wants to be let in from the cold, I nod and say yes, trying to sound more confident than I feel.

Just like riding a horse, I say softly to myself as we walk toward the arena.

I step up onto the mounting block, holding Star’s reins in one hand and the saddle pommel in the other, then lift my left foot into the stirrup so I can swing myself up into the seat.

“What’d I tell ya, kid?” Charlie calls out. “You never forget!”

I laugh. “I’m just sitting in the saddle! We haven’t gone anywhere yet!”

But I know what to do. I nudge Star’s flanks gently with the bottoms of my heels, take the reins tighter in my hands, and direct her out onto the track. Charlie is right; you don’t forget how to do this. The simple signals between horse and rider are still second nature to me.

As we walk the arena track, our pace leisurely, I gaze out the small windows we pass, take in the fresh layers of snow on the distant hills and evergreens of the Haliburton Forest. I can just picture it: Because of all the snow still falling outside, the fields and trails will be fresh and white.

I suddenly long to go out there with Star, to ride those trails I still remember so well on this horse.

After I’ve walked Star around the track a few more times, Charlie instructs me to ask her for a trot.

Again, I nudge her flanks with my heels—a little harder than before—while tightening up the reins to signal to her that it’s time to move faster.

As I begin posting—rising and falling in the saddle seat along with her stride—Charlie calls out, “You two look great!” I’m practically beaming with pride at his compliments as he directs me to make some circles and figure eights with Star on either end of the arena, then asks if I feel up to cantering, which is the gait one speed lower than gallop.

“I’m ready!” I call.

“You know what to do,” he answers—and again, he’s right. I shift my hips so my seat is lower in the saddle, slide one heel just in front of the girth and one just behind. I squeeze, and we’re off.

Some horses have a smooth canter, some a bumpy one.

Some are in between. Star’s canter feels like riding a cloud.

I never want it to stop, but eventually, I know I have to slow her down.

The frosty plumes of air from her nostrils fill the air and she’s working up a sweat.

Exhilarated, I pat her shoulder enthusiastically then slow her to a walk again.

I can tell Charlie’s also thrilled. He approaches Star to pat her shoulder, too, while she tosses her head, clearly pleased.

“What would you think of cooling her down a bit more outside?” he asks me, a thoughtful expression on his face. My heart feels like it’s soaring.

“I’d love to ride her in the snow,” I say.

“Let me just go grab my guy, Hank, and we’ll all walk outside together.”