Page 33 of Christmas at the Ranch

Twenty-Four

I wake up the next morning alone in the apartment, sore, sad, and tired.

I know I’m not truly hurt from the fall off of Star.

But something inside me feels broken. Last night, out on the trail and at the ranch, it started to feel like magic again with Tate.

I let myself pretend that ten years hadn’t passed.

I let myself believe we were meant to be, that there had always been an invisible connection tethering us together.

I told him things about the way I felt for him and about my life. And it backfired.

In the shower, I turn the water as hot as it will go and let it pound against my shoulders and my neck.

As the water drips down my cheeks, I try to pretend I’m not crying.

It hurts too much this time, even though we barely started again.

Even though all we did was touch hands as we tacked up Star.

Stare into each other’s eyes. Talk and talk.

The way we used to.

I can’t deny it anymore: Those moments last night were everything I had ever dreamed of for ten years—and then, it was all yanked away in a startling moment I should have seen coming.

One second, I was on my favorite horse with a man who was turning out, yet again, to be one of the best people I had ever known.

The next? Tossed into a snowbank—and then, the look on Tate’s face.

Like it was all my fault, somehow. I had started to hope that Tate and I had grown up, that we’d changed.

But Tate is still the exact same guy I fell for too hard at eighteen, and that means it’s all too easy for him to write me off, to shut me out again.

And me? Apparently, I still think fairy tales are real.

But before I leave, I will keep all the promises I made here.

I will not leave any loose ends. I’ll write the article on Wilder Ranch like I told Tate I would.

And the story about the Evergreen Inn, for Reesa and Sam.

I’ll help Bruce close out this week’s issue of the Enquirer and I’ll talk to him about a website.

I’ll try to teach him some social media tricks he might be able to use to get the newspaper more attention and, thus, get more tourist traffic to Evergreen.

And I will apologize to Gill, for what that’s worth. Because it’s the right thing—and the very least—I can do.

I call the mechanic and confirm with Mario that my car will be ready tomorrow. Which means I will go to Lani’s and spend the rest of the holidays with her family. And on Boxing Day, I’ve decided, I’ll go see my mom. And we’ll visit my dad together. In jail.

My phone rings, startling me. My heart seizes in my chest as I listen to an automated voice telling me I have a collect call from an inmate at Toronto South Detention Centre, almost as if I’ve conjured my dad with my thoughts. The voice says to press 1 if I wish to accept the charges. I do.

“Emory?”

“Dad! Are you okay?”

A dry chuckle. “Considering where I’m calling from, not exactly.”

All at once, I’m a kid again—and I’m in tears. “You know what I mean.”

A pause. “I do,” he says. “And I’m as okay as I can be.

” In the silence between us, I feel dread creeping in.

Why is he calling me? The Stephen Oakes I know almost always has a game plan.

Is it because he wants me to try to use some of my connections in the world of journalism to help put a spin on this mess he’s in? I close my eyes, bracing for it.

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” he says. I grit my teeth. “And I’m really sorry, Emory.”

I open my eyes, unsure of what I’m hearing.

“I spent some time at the start of this mess thinking of ways to get out of it—but then one of my lawyers shared a few letters and statements from some of the people who were affected by what we did. I never should have gone along with Reuben’s idea.

It was his, yes, but I didn’t say no. I have so many regrets, Emory. I wish I could fix it.”

I have no idea what to say, but the first thing that comes to mind is this: “I love you, Dad.” It’s true.

It’s complicated, yes. He definitely has a lot of making up to do.

And there’s a very good chance he will never fully be able to pay for his crimes.

Too much has been taken away from people.

But it sounds like he wants to start. And this is such a relief that I wipe away tears.

“I love you,” I repeat. “And I’m here for you. ”

Voices in the background, rising in volume. “I have to go,” he says, his own voice still filled with remorse. “But we’ll talk again?”

“We will,” I say, suddenly feeling desperate, not wanting to break this rare connection between us. “Wait, Dad. How will I…how do I know you’re really going to be all right?”

“One foot in front of the other, Emory. That’s what I’m doing. You, too, okay?”

I swallow hard over the lump in my throat. “Bye, Dad.”

“Bye, sweetheart.”

I hang up and stare down at my phone, my eyes still blurred with tears.

That didn’t sound like the Stephen Oakes of the past decade; it sounded like the dad I used to know when I was younger.

Not perfect, but honest with me, at least. I have no idea what the future holds for him.

But it’s a comfort to know he isn’t going to fight tooth and nail to get out of this.

He’s taking responsibility. And that’s worth something. In fact, it’s a small miracle.

I go downstairs to the newspaper office to turn on the coffeepot.

Bruce arrives, and we fall into our routine for the morning.

Having straightforward tasks to do is a relief.

I proof and fact-check his column, he does the same for a short piece I wrote about a holiday charity dinner the local Rotary Club is putting on.

With those two tasks done, we sit together at my desk and I show him the news template a popular web-building site offers, how easy it would be to buy the domain name for TheEvergreenEnquirer.ca.

But he looks so confused by all of it, I end up promising we’ll talk when I’m back in the city, that I’ll help him set up the website from home.

So much for leaving Evergreen behind, I think a bit grimly.

But I can’t say no to Bruce. I also set up a Facebook page and an Instagram account, all of which just makes him look even more bewildered.

“But I’m really very grateful to you for helping to usher me into the twenty-first century,” he says uncertainly.

When I tell him about the feature I’m planning to write on Wilder Ranch, he looks happier, on more familiar ground.

“That’s yet another great idea!” he says.

“That place is one of the cornerstones of our community. So glad they’re expanding their business.

Horse training, perfect. That Tate really does have a miraculous way with animals.

Last year, our dog, Millie, got out of our yard and somehow managed to get herself stuck on the road median out on Highland Street.

” He shakes his head, frowns at the memory.

“We were sure she was going to panic and run into traffic and get hit by a car. But Tate happened to be there, and he got out of his truck, walked over to her, and whispered something in her ear. Calmed her right down, and he was able to pick her up and carry her to safety. I’ll always be grateful to him for that. Quite a lovely guy, that Tate Wilder.”

My mouth has gone dry, and my heart lurches painfully. “I’ve heard that about him,” I manage, as Bruce crosses the room and points to the wall of filing cabinets.

“I’ve got all the articles from our past issues filed away there. Have a look if you want. There’s likely some backstory on Wilder’s you could use. Filed under ‘W,’ easy enough to find.”

I transcribe my notes from my conversation with Tate the night before, trying to keep myself emotionally above it all.

It’s hard, but not impossible. I’m just doing my job, I tell myself.

I’m just helping out Bruce and the Enquirer .

And Evergreen can still be a place that’s dear to me.

I don’t have to look back and feel only sadness and regret—do I?

Once I’ve got all my notes in order about what’s next for Wilder Ranch, I realize I need some backstory—and going through past issues of the Enquirer will mean I can avoid having to call the ranch and speak to Tate again.

It was clear from the way Tate told me to leave last night that he doesn’t have anything left to say to me.

And I can’t risk Charlie answering, either.

I think if I heard his voice, I’d just start crying again.

Bruce announces he’s going to be out for the rest of the day; he’s getting his boot cast removed, and then, since he’ll be in Haliburton, having an early holiday dinner with his printer.

“You sure you don’t want to join us?” he asks me. “I hate to leave you here working so hard.”

“I’m happy to be here working,” I say, which is true. The more I work, the less I have to think about all the things that are weighing on me. “There are some loose ends I need to tie up with this article. Go, enjoy. I look forward to seeing you without your boot cast tomorrow.”

“Just in time for the holidays,” he says merrily, and then he’s gone.

Alone, I head over to the wall of filing cabinets, open the one that’s labeled W, and flip through the drawer until I find the “Wilder Ranch” folder.