Page 18 of Christmas at the Ranch

Twelve

“Feeling good up there? Nothing hurts?”

“Only thing that’s wounded is my pride,” I say to Charlie, my new refrain. But that’s not quite true. In addition to my sore backside, which will definitely bruise, there’s a dull pain in my chest I know isn’t related to the fall.

I’m worried about Star—and about Tate, too.

“At least she had the good grace to dump you off in a snowbank, though. She’s a lovely girl at heart, just dealing with some stuff.”

“Aren’t we all,” I mutter.

I try to focus on finishing off my ride, making sure Star knows tossing riders off will not be tolerated, building back my own confidence, for whatever that’s going to be worth. As Star and I walk around the arena track, I pat her shoulder, say her name, tell her what a good girl she is.

She slows, then stops at a window and looks out, lets out a sigh before lowering her head.

“You know you can do it, right?”

She tosses her head, stamps one foot, as though she’s understood me. My heart aches for her, and I wish I knew how to help.

Charlie approaches. “You’re right,” he says. “She can do it.” He looks up at me. “Tate’s not going to like this, but I think you two should keep trying.”

Tate’s not going to like this . I wonder why but can’t ask.

And maybe I don’t have to wonder. Maybe I just need to accept the truth.

Tate is fine, living his life, helping his dad run the ranch, spending time with his gorgeous girlfriend, Mariella.

He never expected to see me and definitely does not want me here.

Except I am here. And Star needs help. “If you want me to try again with her, of course I will. I’m not afraid,” I say. “I just want to help her.”

“You are helping her,” Charlie says, then pauses. “And—” Star nuzzles his shoulder and I wonder what he’s about to add.

But then, a voice at the arena door interrupts us. It’s a tall man in a cranberry-hued tuque greeting Charlie, who glances at his watch. “That would be the farrier,” he says to me, then calls out, “Good morning, Seb! Be right with you.”

Charlie waits while I dismount, then tells me we’ll talk later before he heads off in one direction and I in another, to untack Star and put her back in her stall.

I set her up in crossties, remove her saddle and bridle, and lightly brush her, talking to her softly all the while.

Before I return her to her stall, I pilfer a carrot from Kevin’s stash, promising I’ll find her some mints for next time as she crunches the carrot.

I’m walking out of the tack room when I hear voices in the aisle. I pull back into the shadows in time to see Tate walk past beside Mariella.

“It’s so great here,” Mariella says, her voice appealingly husky, in a just-rolled-out-of-bed sort of way. Then she lets out a happy little sigh, and I grimace. She’s sexy and adorable. “You’re so lucky, Tate, to get to ride out on those trails whenever you want.”

“You could ride out there whenever you want, too,” Tate says. “I mean…if you decide…”

What he says next is muffled by the sound of Kevin braying loudly, perhaps wise to the fact that one of his carrots is now missing.

Delighted laughter from Mariella, and I suddenly feel so bitterly jealous I can practically taste it in my mouth.

But then I’m startled from my thoughts by a sound.

Tate has entered the tack room, carrying two bridles.

He jumps when he sees me. “Emory! I didn’t know you were still here.”

“Sorry,” I find myself saying, even though I’m not quite sure what I’m apologizing for. My existence? I turn away from him, pick up a sponge, and pretend to be scrubbing Star’s already clean bridle.

Behind me, Tate clears his throat. “You’re okay?” he says. “Absolutely positive nothing is hurt from the fall?”

“I’m fine,” I say, with more force than I intended. Then I turn to him. “Really,” I say more gently. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

But his amber eyes are clouded with concern, and now that my gaze has met his, I find I can’t look away. I wish I could suddenly develop mind-reading powers. His expression is a puzzle. He bites his lip, then lets out a long puff of air.

“Could you wait here a sec?” he asks. “There’s something I need you to do.”

He’s back within moments, holding a clipboard, which he hands to me.

“It’s a waiver,” he says.

It seems straightforward, just a document indemnifying the ranch of liability should I get hurt while riding here. But there’s more to it than that, and I know it. I look back up at him, not bothering to disguise the hurt I feel.

“You think I’d sue,” I say.

“Everyone who rides here has to sign one,” he says. “But Charlie always forgets. I have to protect the ranch.”

Every fiber of my being wants to protect the ranch, too.

I love this place. But how do I say this to him when he never believed it before?

He’s certainly not going to believe it now.

I realize as I stare at his unreadable expression that he’s always expected the worst of me.

Even ten years later, this hasn’t changed.

“Does she have to sign one?” I find myself asking.

“Who do you mean?” he says. I tilt my head toward the door, my heart feeling heavy.

“Oh. You mean Mariella.” He says her name gently, like the treasure he probably sees it as. “Well, that’s different,” he begins. “She—”

But I don’t want to hear it. I don’t think I can take it. “Forget it, please. It’s none of my business. I’ll just sign it.”

I take the pen and clipboard from him, sign my name, hand them both back. “All done.”

Our eyes meet again, but this time, there’s no destabilizing sensation of cosmic connection I thought was there last night. Those rum drinks must have been stronger than I thought. Now his stare is completely blank. All done.

“Goodbye, Tate.”

I walk out of the tack room, head down the stable aisle as fast as I can, past Mariella, who I try not to look at, but then can’t stop myself. She’s even more beautiful up close, and her laugh as she hands Kevin a carrot is like a Christmas Eve church bell.

I’m almost out the stable door when I stop walking and turn.

Star is standing at her stall door, watching me leave, nickering softly, as if calling me back.

But Star is not my horse. She belongs to Tate, to Charlie.

Earlier, Charlie asked me to help with Star—and I said yes. But I can’t do this anymore.

“Goodbye, Star,” I say, and she snorts at me, then retreats to the back of her stall.

I turn away and begin to walk, each step away deepening the ache in my heart that I desperately need to find a way to heal.

But healing is not going to happen for me at Wilder Ranch.

This place has only ever hurt me. I need to walk away and leave all my memories, the good and the bad, exactly where they began.

Except that, as hard as I try to tell myself my memories of this place aren’t as good as I think they are, they follow me as I walk away, whispering in my ear, refusing to stop trying to convince me of what once was.

Dear Diary,

Last night, as the vet had feared she might, Mistletoe went into labor. Tate and I were in the hayloft together when we heard a sharp banging below us in the barn.

Although she had calmed down after being put on rest in the bigger stall, she seemed to have become worked up again. She was kicking, even rearing up. Frankly, it was scary.

Charlie called the vet, and things got worse.

The vet was at another foaling, an hour away.

We were on our own for now. I could tell Charlie and Tate were really worried—and I found out why, at least partially: It turns out, Mistletoe was Tate’s mom’s horse.

Charlie told me quietly, but Tate overheard him.

He walked away from me, and it surprised me that he just wanted to be alone.

I started to feel afraid then that we weren’t becoming as close as I believed—but I had to put my emotions aside, because we had to focus on taking care of Mistletoe, all of us.

Charlie asked me to go get the plug-in kettle from the main house so we could boil water to sterilize things.

I ran there, and when I was coming back, Tate was waiting for me outside the barn.

I grabbed him, hugged him. He held on to me for what felt like dear life.

I promised him Mistletoe was going to be okay. And the foal, too.

At this, Tate pulled away and looked into my eyes. He said, “I know you mean well, Emory—but you can’t promise me that. You don’t know how this is going to end.”

That scared feeling was back, but I pushed it aside again. I held up the kettle and said we’d just better get inside to help Charlie.

In her stall, Mistletoe was lying down, looking weak.

But when she saw Tate, she stood and started pacing, making strange, agitated noises.

It was as if she just couldn’t get comfortable, no matter what she did.

I felt for her. She seemed to be in such pain.

All at once, her water broke, and Charlie said there was no stopping it now: The foal was going to be born, two weeks early.

Even though I had no idea what I was doing or how to help with a foal’s birth, I knew I was going to have to learn on the fly.

I kept thinking that I wanted to be able to keep my promise to Tate, even if I had no control over the world.

I wanted Mistletoe and her baby to be okay, so badly .

But Mistletoe really seemed to be struggling.

She was sweating and weak, clearly wanting to get up and change position, but now unable to even stand.

When she rolled onto her side, Tate and Charlie looked terrified.

Charlie explained that she was already in the final stages of labor, with the vet still half an hour away.

He told Tate and me to back away from her, even though I know Tate wanted to stay close, soothing her with his words, talking in her ear.

But, Charlie explained, if a mare is distracted or agitated by anything during labor, she may try to delay things.

In this case, with a premature foal, and with the water already broken, it was important to avoid any holdup in the birth canal or the foal could die.

We did as we were told, but I knew it was torture for Tate not to be able to be close to his horse.

I held his hand, but his was limp. He barely even seemed to be breathing.

Time slowed. Every second felt like an hour, every moment Mistletoe was in pain, that we spent wondering if her foal was going to come out okay, felt like an eternity.

And then, all at once, everything began to happen fast. Mistletoe seemed to get a burst of strength, first standing, then crouching.

I’d never seen a horse do anything like this.

She was almost human in the way she was behaving, as if she knew exactly what was best for herself and her foal.

Charlie spread out a clean tarp for the foal to land on, and had us all put on rubber gloves that went up to our shoulders, just in case he needed to reach in and help the foal out.

I’ll admit, this idea made me feel a bit sick—but anyway, we didn’t have to do it.

First, we saw little hooves—and held our breath until Charlie made sure they were front feet and not back.

Mistletoe labored and pushed, and at the very moment the vet came running in, the foal was born, encased in a blue membrane sac, but visible through it—impossibly small but, the vet said, breathing well.

We waited for the foal to break the sac itself.

When that didn’t happen, I felt so heartsick.

Until the vet broke the sac, and there she was.

A filly. The tiniest, most perfect creature I had ever seen.

Covered in amniotic fluid, but we could still tell her color: palomino blond with a platinum tail. She looked like an angel.

Meanwhile, something was going wrong with Mistletoe.

She appeared to be in great pain, and the vet said that was because she was having trouble expelling the placenta.

He gave her an injection to help it along.

Tate sat by her head, talked to her. All we could do was wait.

For the placenta to be expelled, for the foal to stand on her own and start to drink, the only way she was going to be guaranteed to survive without major medical intervention.

Tate grasped my hand now, held it so tight it hurt. But I didn’t want him to let go.

Outside of Mistletoe’s large stall window I could see it was getting dark, that the first star was out—the North Star, so bright and pure. I closed my eyes and made a wish, for whatever it was worth. Please let Mistletoe be okay. Please let the foal be okay.

The injection worked. Mistletoe’s fever broke, she expelled the placenta, she stood up.

And then, the foal struggled to her feet, too.

Her skinny legs didn’t look strong enough to hold her, but somehow, they did.

She wavered for a moment while we all held our breath, then stepped toward her mother, nuzzled below her flank, looking for milk.

“This is a miracle,” the vet said. “For a premature foal to already be standing, already be feeding—honestly, I didn’t think there was any chance of this tonight. I thought I’d be taking her with me to the intensive care unit at my animal hospital.”

I realized I was crying, but I think we all were.

We watched the foal nuzzling against Mistletoe as she leaned down her head and began to lick away the amniotic fluid from her foal’s gorgeous, sunbeam-colored coat.

Once the foal had finished drinking, she turned her head and looked at us, blinking, dazed, perfectly adorable, taking in everything about this new world she was in.

“Look at that,” I said. “She has a blaze on her forehead, just like Mistletoe does.” It shone white against her golden coat.

I stepped closer, careful not to get too close and upset Mistletoe, but she didn’t seem to mind.

She nickered at me as if to say, Look how beautiful my foal is.

“It looks just like a shooting star,” I said, pointing to the marking.

And that’s how Star got her name.