Page 20 of Christmas at the Ranch

“Oh, it’s free,” he says. “But these are all for subscribers. And I need to get them out today.” He seems extremely harried—which is when I notice he’s wearing an air-boot cast on his left foot.

“Can I help you deliver them?” I ask.

“A kind stranger,” the man says with a genuine smile.

“I’m Bruce McLaren. Chief reporter for The Evergreen Enquirer .

Publisher, too.” He pauses. “Come to think of it, I do all the jobs at the Enquirer these days—including newspaper carrier, which isn’t easy considering I slipped on the ice last week and ended up with this.

” He lifts his air-booted leg with a rueful smile.

“Here,” I say, taking the stack of newspapers from him. “I can do this for you. Do you have a list of addresses?”

“Oh, I couldn’t ask that of you,” he says. “Honestly, you’re too kind…” He trails off, waiting for me to say my name. I hesitate.

“Emory,” I finally say, and wait for a flash of unfriendly recognition. But despite the fact that he’s the town’s only news reporter, he appears to have no clue who I am.

“Guess you aren’t in the Evergreen Business Owners’ group chat,” I say under my breath—but he hears me and looks horrified.

“Are you kidding me? I don’t have time for group chats!

I have news to report on, and a paper to print, and then newspapers to deliver.

It’s exhausting.” He pushes up his glasses, which are sliding down his nose.

“Maybe I will take you up on your kind offer. No addresses needed. Every house and business in the town proper gets one. Shouldn’t take you more than an hour.

You’re sure you don’t mind helping me with this? ”

“I’m positive,” I say.

“Well, then, meet me back here when you’re done, and I’ll make you a nice pot of tea as a thank-you.”

I feel the same way I did while helping Charlie with the chores at the ranch yesterday: Having a straightforward task passes the time, and I don’t spiral into worry over my parents, over how I’m going to find a place to stay or when I’m going to get back to Toronto.

I enjoy walking through Evergreen with a purpose, taking in the holiday decorations.

People here go all out, and decorations run the gamut from elaborately tacky tableaus featuring life-size blow-up Frosty the Snowmen to traditional cedar garlands, fairy lights, and elaborate pine wreaths hanging from door knockers.

I slide newspapers into letter boxes and through door handles, lay them on front porches, wish everyone I see “happy holidays” and receive the greeting back.

I read the headlines on the cover, and they all make me smile.

“Holiday Hoedown Set to Be a Huge Success!” “Classic Christmas Recipes from Grandma Shirley.” “Owner of Overturned Golf Cart on 118 Found . ”

On my way back to the newspaper office, I see a couple up ahead on the sidewalk, heading toward Carrie’s Café, talking and laughing. With the snow falling gently around them, they look picture-perfect, walking side by side—but then the man turns and I realize who it is.

He’s not wearing his plaid barn jacket; he’s got on a navy parka.

And it’s Mariella beside him, her long blond hair unbraided, gliding down her back like a glacial waterfall.

She’s wearing a cute little red beret and looks like the main character in a holiday romance movie.

He seemed so upset when I saw him a few hours ago—but all that’s gone now.

It’s fine, I tell myself. It’s good that Tate has a beautiful girlfriend who clearly makes him very happy.

I can’t forever regret the way things ended between us when we were young.

But still, I stand frozen watching as he holds the door of the café open for her.

He doesn’t turn; he doesn’t see me at all.

When he’s inside, I cross the street and approach the Victorian house, all the joyful, festive feelings I was having while delivering the newspapers evaporating.

Bruce opens the door with a smile, which cheers me up a bit.

“I really do appreciate you,” he tells me when he lets me in, leading me through a dusty, papery smelling newspaper office that is, I note, completely empty of any staff.

He clears some space on a messy desk and sets down a teakettle and invites me to sit.

I look around at the framed front pages lining the walls, at the stacks of paper everywhere.

The place is messy but also homey and warm.

“Is your staff on Christmas holiday?” I ask him.

“I used to have a reporter, but she decided journalism wasn’t for her and went to med school,” he says sadly.

“Smart,” I say. “I have a journalism degree, actually. Sometimes I wish I had decided to do something else.”

“But journalism is one of the most honorable professions!” he says, aghast. “?‘A good newspaper, I suppose, is a nation talking to itself.’ Arthur Miller said that. ‘The quality of democracy and the quality of journalism are deeply entwined.’ Bill Moyers.”

“?‘A journalist is a person who has mistaken their calling,’?” I retort. “Otto von Bismarck.”

He laughs. “Ah, so young to be so jaded!” He regards me over his teacup. “So, you don’t work as a journalist anymore?”

“Well, I don’t have an actual job. I freelance.”

“And whom have you freelanced for?”

I list off publications, then realize he’s writing them down.

“Wait,” I say. “Is this a job interview?”

“You seem to be at a loss for things to do, considering you just volunteered to deliver my newspapers for me. And you’ve already noticed how short-staffed I am at the moment.

” He stops writing, waves his pen around at the empty room, then puts it down.

I can see that all he’s written on the page is VERY EXPERIENCED , which is then underlined three times.

“In fact, the matter is settled. I’m offering you a job. ”

“But…I don’t even live in Evergreen,” I say.

“Then what are you doing here?”

“I’m stuck here until my car gets fixed. I almost hit a moose out on the 118 last night.” Again, he looks shocked—and I marvel at the fact that the town’s newspaper reporter and publisher seems to be woefully behind on town gossip.

“How long will you be here?”

“A week, probably.”

“And where are you staying?”

I bite my lip. “I haven’t figured that out yet,” I say.

“I have an apartment for rent upstairs,” he says, tilting his head toward the window, where I see an Apartment for Rent sign I hadn’t noticed before. “It’s been vacant for a while, so is a bit dusty, but it’s furnished and cozy. You could stay there.”

“Really?”

He smiles. “Of course!”

“How about I work in exchange for board?”

“Considering the paper doesn’t actually turn a profit so I wasn’t sure how I was going to pay you, work for board it is! Can you start right now? I’m working on a special restaurant review section for the Christmas Eve edition of the paper. Let’s go out for a working lunch, shall we?”

He stands and gets his jacket while I put my parka back on. Then I walk with him out into the snowy Evergreen afternoon, suddenly a journalist again—the rush of happiness inside me over this fact as delicate as an heirloom Christmas ornament that surely will break if I’m not careful with it.