Page 24 of Christmas at the Ranch

Seventeen

We’re interrupted by Mya setting down our drinks. “Two Zombie Punches. And two pints of water. Proceed with caution.”

Tate takes a sip and winces slightly. “It’s not bad,” he says.

I follow suit and nearly spit mine across the table.

“Are you kidding? It tastes like paint thinner!”

“That would be the hundred proof rum,” Mya calls playfully from across the restaurant, and we both push our drinks away at the same time, as if we’re having the same thought: that it isn’t safe to lose control in front of each other, the way these drinks would doubtless cause us to.

I’m about to ask Tate to tell me whatever it is that’s bothering him so much when Mya’s parents show up, each bearing a plate of dumplings. “Time for the first course!”

When Tate looks at me again, I don’t see anything but helplessness in his expression.

I have no idea how he feels, or what he was about to say.

I don’t know if he wants to be joining me for dinner, or if he hoped to just say what was on his mind and leave, to officially never see me again.

But either way, it’s too late. The Youngs are placing food in front of us that, despite my tortured emotional state, makes my mouth water and my stomach grumble with hunger.

“Three kinds of dumplings,” Mr.Young announces.

“The first are filled with ground lamb and spices.” These are surrounded in their bowl by steamed greens.

“Next,” he says. “The Three Umami dumplings, which have ground pork, shrimp, and dill.” These have white and green dumpling wrappers and look very festive.

“Finally, Hot and Sour Dumpling Soup. This is my mother’s very secret recipe. ” He says this with pride.

“He won’t even tell me what’s in it,” Mrs.Young chimes in.

The soup is in small white bowls filled to the brim with liquid as red as a Christmas gift ribbon.

Little flecks of sesame seeds and scallions float on top, and it smells delicious.

It is a testament to my hunger, and to the enticing display, that even while I’m sitting across from Tate Wilder all I can do is reach for a spoon.

“This is so good,” I breathe—and see with relief that Tate is spooning it up as eagerly as I am. Once he has a bite of the soup, he, too, lets out an involuntary sound of pleasure that strikes a chord deep inside me, unlocks a memory as steamy as the soup.

“ So good,” he agrees. “This definitely makes the fried rice and beef with broccoli Charlie insists on getting pretty boring. I’m ordering from the secret menu from now on.”

We’re barely finished with the dumplings and soup when the Young family arrives at our table again, this time with platters they describe with love as each dish lands before us: fresh, hand-pulled noodles that Mr.Young beams over.

The bowl of noodles is studded with stir-fried vegetables, jeweled with meat.

There’s also mapo tofu, in a bright gravy as vivid as the hot and sour soup broth; steamed eggplant topped with aromatics and a black vinegar sauce; and a “Chinese hamburger,” which is a pita-like bun filled with tender braised pork, chopped green herbs, and sauce.

Mrs.Young explains that this was her favorite street food, growing up in Shanxi.

There are also rolls of Pingyao beef—“like a Chinese corned beef”—and Shanxi crispy duck, which is first steamed and then fried, Mrs.Young tells us, making it “so crispy and delicious you’ll forget about Peking duck forever.

” The duck is served with what she calls “bings”: like pancake wraps, savory, mixed with Chinese chives and spices.

“I have no idea how we’re going to eat all this,” I say to Tate.

“I have a feeling we’ll manage,” he says.

“True, the last time I ate properly was at the Watering Hole. I’m famished.” I realize I don’t care that I’m talking with my mouth full.

For a while, all we do is chat lightly as we eat, skimming across the surface of our lives as if we are just two old friends catching up.

The food has somehow thawed things between us, the warmth of sharing a meal so strong it even works on us.

We talk about the horses, about Evergreen life, about my working at the Enquirer for the week.

We exclaim over how great the food is. I take notes on a steno pad Mya gives me, and Tate helps me out with ways to describe it all.

Succulent. Heavenly. Ambrosial. Exquisite.

But eventually, he puts down his fork. The agonized look returns.

“What is it, Tate?” I say.

“If you’re going to be staying in town, even just for another week, I don’t want it to be weird every time we see each other. Because”—he gestures around him—“in Evergreen, you can’t throw a stone without hitting someone you don’t want to see.”

Someone you don’t want to see . I look away from him and shovel a bite of duck into my mouth in an attempt to eat my stung feelings—but it doesn’t help.

“So, you don’t want to see me,” I say. “And you keep running into me. I’m sorry. I wish I weren’t here just as much as you wish I weren’t here, okay?”

Now he looks surprised. “That’s not what I—”

“Oh, I get what you mean.”

“Emory.” His voice is low, his eyes suddenly fierce. “Please. It’s not that I don’t want you here. That’s not it at all. And it’s no coincidence that I came in here. I was out looking for you. I’d been to every place in town.”

I stop chewing. I don’t know how I manage to get the last bite down, because my mouth has gone completely dry.

“Why were you looking for me?”

“Because we need to talk. I can see why you’re upset with me.

” He rubs his beard-fuzzed chin with his hand.

“The last time we saw each other, I wasn’t very nice.

Maybe that’s an understatement. And when you fell off Star, I…

” He clears his throat. “I was worried about you. Really worried.” There’s pain in his eyes.

“And when I asked you to sign the waiver, I know it came off as me being a dick, thinking you might sue—but things have been really hard at the ranch. And I didn’t know…

” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, but it has been ten years.

I couldn’t let my feelings get in the way of doing what was right for the ranch.

” He looks up at me again. “Except it’s you,” he says.

“I know you would never sue. I should have given you the benefit of the doubt, finally. I’m sorry about that. ”

I’m not sure what to do with everything he has just said to me.

The fact that he was looking for me. The way he just said Except it’s you .

But I can’t let my heart get away from me.

He’s stumbling over his words, probably doesn’t even really know what he’s saying.

I focus on the words that felt the most ominous.

“What do you mean, ‘things have been really hard at the ranch’?”

He sighs. “It’s never been easy. You know that.

But for a few years recently, things got especially challenging.

I tried to start up a training and show facility, and it just increased our overhead way too much.

We ended up in a lot of debt we’re still digging out of.

” He looks into his glass, takes a sip, puts it down.

I know, perhaps better than anyone, that this is hard for him to tell me.

“The town rallied together to keep us from going under. There was a big holiday fundraiser last year. It was difficult, to take money from people. Charlie fought so hard against it—and I wanted to fight, too. You know about my pride, maybe better than anyone.” I can’t help but nod.

“But I knew we had no other choice. Either we took the help, or we were going to have to start selling horses.”

He looks at me now and his words hang between us. I know there isn’t a single horse in the Wilder Ranch herd that Tate and Charlie would be able to let go of without regret.

“Did things get better?”

He shakes his head. “It’s what happened with Star.

When she got hurt, this past summer—it wasn’t just her who was hurt.

A group booked a trail ride. None of them had ever been near a horse before, even though they said they had experience.

That’s when Star got spooked by the coyote.

Unfortunately, the guy fell off and broke his leg. ”

Tate takes a sip of his drink, grimaces, swallows hard, and puts it down. “We got him to the hospital as fast as we could, and it wasn’t a complicated break; they set it easily. But turns out he was a lawyer.”

I feel stricken. But then something clicks. It still hurts that earlier today he made it seem like he couldn’t trust me. But I can see how all this might be a little raw. “No waiver?”

“There was one, but it was just something I’d found on the internet and printed off.

It didn’t cover all the bases, it turns out.

And the guy, he really scared us with all his legalese and threats.

I started to think maybe we’d lose everything if we went to trial.

So, we settled out of court—but it was a lot of money.

We’re slowly regrouping, but it feels sometimes like it’s day by day at the ranch.

It’s been stressful. But things are getting better. ”

Mya is at the table again, beginning to clear our plates.

Her father, behind her, drops off a platter of lo mai chi, little cakes that resemble mochi, and a pot of tea.

I reach for a cake and stare down at its pale pink, sugar-dusted surface.

It makes sense that Tate would be so nervous about my fall, about all riders signing waivers—even someone he knows.

“I wish I could help,” I find myself saying. “With Wilder’s. Your situation.” I realize too late that this isn’t the right thing to say—it’s what broke us apart in the first place.