Page 23 of Christmas at the Ranch

Sixteen

O f all the restaurants, I think as I stare down at the secret menu and the words before me lose all meaning.

But of course, this is one of the only restaurants in town, and it’s owned and run by his friend and her family.

I should have known there was a chance I’d run into him here. And what if he’s not alone?

I can’t avoid it any longer. I look up. But despite the fact that Tate’s mere presence has turned me into the equivalent of one of Mya’s electrical projects, at risk of shorting out from emotional overload, he doesn’t appear to have noticed me.

He’s standing at the counter, his back toward me.

He’s wearing that red plaid jacket, has his Stetson pulled low over his too-long, brown-blond hair.

Mariella isn’t with him, which adds confusing relief to the cavalcade of emotions inside me.

I watch as Mya comes out of the kitchen and greets him warmly.

Then she says something in a low voice and I know she’s telling him I’m here.

I wish I could see his reaction, his face—but when he turns around, I find I can’t look.

I pretend to be absorbed in the secret menu.

But I can feel his gaze landing on me like it’s a tangible thing.

I look up, and our eyes meeting feels tangible, too.

Almost like a connection between us clicking into place.

A long moment passes with us just staring at each other across the restaurant.

There’s enough time for the electricity to fizzle and for me to remember how we parted ways this morning.

And to firmly recall the image of him and “his Mariella” walking through town.

But then, as he begins to head my way, I lose control once more.

My body floods with nerves, anticipation, and that treacherous, traitorous longing left over from another era.

My hand, holding the secret menu, shakes; the paper flutters like the last leaf on a tree in late autumn, about to fall to the ground.

I put it down on the table, then place my trembling hands on my lap so he won’t see the effect he has on me.

“May I sit?” he asks.

I can’t speak. All I can do is shrug, not a yes, not a no. He sits.

Seconds later, Mr.and Mrs.Young burst through the kitchen’s swinging door, their arms open wide, as if greeting an old friend.

They say hello to Tate, then to me. “A newspaper reporter, here!” They’re greeting me like I’m a celebrity, and I can see Tate’s bemused expression.

“You’ll stay and eat, too, Tate,” they say.

“Oh. I’m not staying. I’m just…”

They don’t let him finish. “Dine with your old friend. It’s settled.”

I feel embarrassed, because this is clearly the last thing Tate wants to do—he probably needs to get back to Mariella—but I also know he’s far too polite to decline.

He looks across the table at me again.

“What’s this all about?” he asks. “You’re the new town newspaper reporter?”

“I got a job,” I say. “With Bruce. In exchange for a place to stay while my car gets fixed. So, I officially don’t need to stay with you.”

“Right. Yeah, you mentioned this morning you really didn’t want to do that.”

He looks away from me, sighs, and picks up the paper placemat cocktail menu in front of him, begins ripping pieces off the corner as if he’s nervous. Or maybe he’s just trying to endure sitting here with me.

Then, Mya is back. She raises an eyebrow at the placemat he’s destroying, says, “Want to order one of those or are you just going to wreck the menu?”

“Sorry, Mya,” he says, but he doesn’t stop.

“No worries. We’ve got a stack of them in the back. But seriously, can I get you something, Tate?”

He hesitates. Then, “Sure,” he says. “I’ll have a…” He points at a random drink, which happens to be something called a Zombie Punch.

Mya raises an eyebrow. “Tate, no one orders most of these drinks, but no one ever orders that one. I think it contains like…five types of alcohol and three kinds of soda.”

“It’s fine,” Tate says. “I didn’t drive. Mariella dropped me off in town on her way to Minden.” I feel a pang at the mention of this.

She glances at me. “Should I make that two?”

I think I could use the drink. “Sure, I’m walking, too. My car is broken.”

She heads off to the bar to prepare them, and Tate continues with his paper-shredding mission as we sit there in silence.

Finally, I can’t help but ask him, “Are you okay, Tate?”

“Sure, I’m fine,” he says.

But then he drops the menu and places his hand beside the little mountain of shredded paper. “Okay, no. I’m not. We need to talk. This can’t wait any longer.”