Page 36 of Christmas at the Ranch

Twenty-Six

I step outside the newspaper office and onto the porch just as a light snow begins to fall. It feels like magic. Like little white sparks falling from the sky and onto Tate, who is out there waiting for me—like a vision I conjured, or a dream I keep having, come to life.

I walk down the steps toward him, ignoring the fact that I’m in socked feet, stopping in front of him in the snow.

“Tate,” I begin. “I just found out what happened to your mom. I had no idea. I’m so sorry.”

“You had no idea because I never told you,” he says gently.

“But I didn’t ask.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have had to.” His amber eyes are sad but also lit up with something I think I recognize: the emotions he felt for me back then. The ones he might still feel for me now.

We stand there in the gentle snowfall, a few feet apart, glittering flakes falling between us—and sparks flying between us, too. I feel them. I’ve always felt them.

Why can’t it be possible that some things are just meant to be?

“Do you want to come inside?” I ask him. He nods and then follows me up the steps.

Inside the newspaper office, I feel suddenly shy. I put on the kettle again to have something to do with my hands. When I turn back around, he’s standing beside my desk. I see him pick up the article about his mom. He starts to read, and I stay still, not wanting to disturb him.

“I never read this,” he finally says. “At the time I was so grief-stricken, I just couldn’t. I wanted to avoid anything that had to do with her for the first while. It was awful.”

“Tate, I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. Don’t be. It’s actually really nice to see this.

To read the things people said about her, what an important part of the community she was.

How loved.” He pauses, lost in his thoughts.

“And you know what? She really was that amazing. She was the best.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out with a little shudder that makes me want to reach for him.

“I’m sure she was,” I say. “Of course she was. She made you.” The last words I say are a whisper. I’m not sure he’s heard them as he sinks down into my desk chair, his eyes on the article again.

“Time has…well, not exactly healed it,” he says.

“I don’t think a day goes by that my dad and I don’t miss her, think about her.

We still talk about her a lot, which is nice.

At first, we didn’t, but then you came along.

You helped me, Emory. I knew even after you were gone that if we didn’t talk about her, we might forget all the best things about her.

So we did. We do. And somehow, holding on to all those good memories, keeping them alive, has made it easier to live with, I guess. ”

He puts the article down on the desk. I forget about waiting for the kettle to boil and come closer to him, as if pulled by a force I can’t control.

It has always been this way with him.

When I’m near enough, he reaches for my hand and looks up at me. My heart fills at his touch. My insides feel like the water in the kettle, bubbling over. We stand that way for a while, not saying anything, just looking into each other’s eyes.

“Emory,” he finally says. “I’m so sorry. For everything.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” I tell him.

“But I do. I let you walk out of my life. I let your dad offering to buy the ranch come between us because I was ashamed that I wasn’t able to handle it on my own, with my dad.

That you even felt the need to help me. But that wasn’t your fault.

And I punished you for it. I’ve regretted it every single day. ”

“I walked away. I did it to us, too. I left without saying goodbye. But, Tate, we were young. We keep saying this, but I don’t think we really accept it.”

“Why do you think that is?” His voice is low. He doesn’t wait for me to answer his question. Instead, he answers it himself. “Because the feelings never went away. At least not for me.”

My full heart leaps at his words. My emotions boil over. “I think it’s pretty obvious they never went away for me, either. I’m here, aren’t I?” I can’t help but laugh softly.

“I thought maybe you just got lost on your way to somewhere else.”

“Maybe, but I got found.”

His gaze is soft and searching. “The first night I saw you, in my kitchen, you said you only stayed at my cabin because you didn’t think I’d be there. It sounded like you wanted to avoid me at all costs.”

“I guess that was true,” I say, thinking about my emotions that night.

It feels like so long ago. “But only because I didn’t want you to see the state I was in.

I had imagined seeing you again, over the years—but in my fantasy I had always just come from the hair salon, and was wearing the perfect outfit, and I was in a really good place in my life. ” I laugh at how ridiculous I sound.

Now it’s his turn to laugh. “I never expected to find you in my kitchen in the middle of the night. Half naked.” He raises an eyebrow, and the look he gives me causes the boiling to turn into a low, sultry simmer.

But then he looks thoughtful. “Although, the truth is, it wasn’t a surprise to see you.

I talked to Charlie that night, and he said you were there.

I think maybe he wanted me to come home and see you?

He’s always had a soft spot for you.” This makes me smile.

“As soon as he said Emory Oakes was back in town…well, I think I lost my mind a bit. I had been planning to leave the trade show Wednesday morning, but I just got in my truck and drove home. I had to see you. I couldn’t let the chance slip away.

But then I set about messing it up at every opportunity. ”

“That’s not true,” I say.

“It’s partially true.”

“Maybe it’s safe to say we both seemed pretty intent on messing things up between us.”

He nods. “We did, didn’t we? Which is why I want to tell you the truth now. Very clearly. No chance for misunderstanding.”

My heart is pounding. I think I’m starting to get scared. I have wanted this for what feels like always. But Tate Wilder and my feelings for him have only ever brought pain.

He’s watching my face, and he looks concerned.

“Emory, this is real. It’s not going anywhere,” he says, reading my thoughts the way only Tate can. “I care about you. I always have.”

I step back slightly because there’s something I need to know. “If that’s true, why didn’t you ever call me? You had my number when I left.”

There’s pain in his eyes now, and I almost reach out to him, pull him up and into my arms. But I need to hear this, all of it.

“It’s kind of embarrassing,” he says. “Just after you left, I dropped my phone in the arena, and Walt stepped on it. Cracked it into a dozen pieces. Your number, which I hadn’t memorized, was in there.

Your address, too. I wasn’t ready to talk to you when that happened anyway, but by the time I was, I didn’t know how to reach you. ”

“You could have come to the city.”

He hesitates, bites his lip. “I did. About six months later, I looked up your address in the phone book, and I drove all the way to Toronto. I sat outside your house and felt really weird about that. Like if you saw me, you might think I was a stalker or something.”

My heart feels like it’s swelling in my chest.

“I called your landline, the one from the phone book, and I think your mom answered. I asked if you were there, and she said you were at the library.” He smiles a little at this, but sadly. “I lost my nerve. I didn’t leave a message. I just got in my truck and drove back here.”

Now I step close to him again. I put my hand on his chest, and I can feel his heart racing as he continues to sit in my desk chair, looking up at me.

“There’s more,” he says softly. “I used to go to the Royal Agricultural Winter Fair every year. I’d take as many horses, as many students as I could—so I could be there every day, just in case you happened to be there.

Which you never were. I looked for you everywhere.

I was convinced I’d see you in one of those fancy rich people horse show boxes you told me about.

” He smiles up at me for a moment as I shake my head, filled with regret.

“My parents kept wanting to get a box at the horse show, the way we used to when I was younger, but I always told them no. Being around horses, after you, was too painful. It reminded me of us. But to think that I could have seen you…” I trail off.

Because there’s still more I need to know, so I can be sure, once and for all, that the safest place for me is in his arms. “Last night, though…When you got so upset with me.”

He sighs. “I don’t want to make excuses for myself, because I wasn’t fair to you last night. I know that. It’s just…losing my mom when I did, the way I did, was hard.”

“Of course it was,” I say. “Tate. I can’t imagine—”

He shakes his head. “Just let me finish, or I might lose my nerve now. When I saw you fall off Star, I was so afraid you were going to get hurt like my mom did. I know that’s not reasonable, that you were right when you told me, years ago, that just because something bad happened one time doesn’t mean it will again.

But your fall triggered something in me last night that I think had already been opened up the first time you almost got hurt on Star, a few days ago. ” He’s looking away from me.

“Tate,” I say. “Look at me. Please.”

He does. And I see so much pain in his eyes I can hardly stand it. I reach down to stroke his cheek.

“I’ve never cared about anyone this way, Emory. No one except my family.” He reaches up for my hand against his face. Stills it, holds it there. “And I never want to let you go.”

I don’t know if he can hear my heart from where he sits, but it’s officially galloping away from me now.

There’s so much I want to say to him, but I can’t find any more words.

Possibly because being so close to him, after so long imagining this, dreaming about it, is completely distracting.

It’s starting to consume me, like I’m a piece of paper and he’s a lit match.

Then, suddenly, he’s letting go of me. I feel bereft for a moment without his touch, until he stands and our bodies become aligned.

Mere inches of space separate us. All my senses are on high alert.

I can smell him. Woodsmoke and saddle soap, pine needles and leather. The air between us is electric.

“I missed you so much,” he whispers. He touches a wisp of my hair. “I missed your hair. This color. Like the glossiest chestnut.” Now he looks down at me. “And your green eyes, and your smile. Like the sun. You’re everything I always imagined you would be, and more.”

“How often did you imagine me?” I find myself whispering. Our lips are so close now. I reach up and bury my fingers in his hair, pull him one inch closer. He lowers his hands to my hips.

“All the time,” he whispers back. “I dreamed about you, too.”

I want to press myself against his body, but I also want to take it slow.

“This feels like a dream right now,” he says.

“Do what you would do if it were,” I say.

He tilts my face toward his and kisses my mouth.

And if listening to him talk sets my insides to boil, if looking into his eyes fills me with unimaginable longing, if touching him sends sparks through my body, then kissing him undoes me entirely.

Both my hands are on his face now. His stubble is tantalizingly rough beneath my fingers.

But his lips are the softest thing on earth.

We’re slow at first, and then our hunger for each other takes over.

“Come on,” I say, pulling him toward the stairs to my apartment, feeling suddenly urgent. “Come upstairs with me.”

We only make it as far as my tiny kitchen. I tug off his flannel, then his T-shirt. He pulls my sweater over my head as he pushes me against the counter.

“Emory,” he whispers as he leans back to take me in. “You’re so beautiful.”

I grab the waistband of his jeans and pull him close. I don’t want there to be any space between us, not anymore.

“Tate.” I say his name, over and over, like a wish I’m making . Because he’s all I want.

He kisses my neck, my shoulder, my collarbone. He gently pulls down my bra straps and kisses the tops of my breasts, then moves his lips lower as I moan.

“You’re perfect,” he says—and he does make me feel that way, like the most perfect version of myself. Every inch of my skin is tingling. I’m so filled with desire for him it feels like I can hear water rushing in my ears.

But then I hear something else.

A sound downstairs in the office. I didn’t lock the front door, I realize.

“Hello?” It’s a familiar voice.

The very last voice I want to hear right now. “Emory? Are you there?”

It’s my mother.