Page 7 of Christmas at the Ranch

Four

A sound I remember well pulls me toward the lake.

My boots slip and slide on the granite steps that lead from the cottage down to the water, but I don’t fall.

The dock is out, pulled ashore to protect it from the ice, so I stand on the rock wall at the edge of the water and listen.

There it is again: the noise that woke me in the middle of the night ten years ago and led me to Tate Wilder.

I lean down and pry a rock from the icy ground, practicing the motion of flicking my wrist to see if I still remember how.

I do. Like so much about this place, it has left its imprint.

I let the rock fly, and the noise it makes as it bounces across the new ice is a lilting, whistling pop that is so deeply satisfying, I do it again.

Eventually, my hands grow too numb to skip rocks anymore, so I turn away from the lake and walk down the lantern-lit driveway.

I turn right instead of left, determined to walk away from Wilder Ranch instead of toward it.

I have a view through the trees of the lake, silent, cold, and moody in the early evening light.

It’s the perfect visual match for my somber emotions.

I hear a car coming up the hill behind me and my heart seizes momentarily— What if it’s him?

But it isn’t. It’s a man and woman in a pearl-white SUV, and they wave at me as they pass—which I remember is the rule here in cottage country.

I wave back and continue on my way, down the hill and around another corner.

Most of the cottages are closed up for winter, and I’m completely alone—until a little red fox trots out of the trees, keeping to the opposite side of the road, glancing at me with cautious disinterest as he hurries on his way.

Next, I see two deer leaping up the snowbanks on the road’s shoulder, then stepping gingerly onto the icy gravel.

One glance at me and they’re off, bounding into the woods.

I stand still, feeling a sense of wonder that I let wash over me: a deep sensation of luck at spotting the fox and the deer.

My heart has been racing on and off since I left the city, but now I feel it slowing.

I’ve read and written articles about the health benefits of “forest-bathing.” It’s amazing that even in my agitated state, being so close to the woods makes me feel like I can really breathe, finally.

I walk again, my pace more relaxed, the lake at my side, until I realize the sun is about to set and I should get back to the inn.

My stomach grumbles. It has unknotted itself, and I’m grateful that Reesa will have left me bread and soup.

I think of all the elaborate food my mother had the chef cook that Christmas, when what I really wanted was a simple, comforting meal.

I wanted a life that didn’t consist of constant striving for the next level of status, to unlock a level of wealth that seemed pointless, like pouring more water into an already overflowing bucket.

I turn and walk back the way I came. Near the deer tracks at the side of the road, I spot other animal tracks.

I lean down to take a look: They’re large, paw-shaped, and there are no human footprints beside them to indicate these are from a dog.

I feel a prickle at the back of my neck.

Is there a wolf nearby? I remember listening to a pack of them howl one night with Tate, feeling thrilled at the sound—slightly scared, too, but sure I was safe in his arms. Now I think of the two deer I saw earlier and feel a sinking sense of doom for them.

The world’s not a fair place, Emory . My father’s voice is so real I look over my shoulder to see if he’s there—and then remember where he is.

In a jail cell, in the city. I wonder how he is, if he’s feeling as adrift as I am, as my mother must be, too.

If he’s scared. I’ve never seen him scared.

I look up at the darkening sky and keep remembering him, the father from my childhood.

The idea that the world isn’t fair is one of the bits of wisdom he sought to dispense as I was growing up, during our early morning bonding breakfasts on Bay Street, before our driver would arrive to take me to school.

That was back when he believed that one day I would work alongside him.

I’m seized with the urge to try to reach him, somehow.

I want to hear his voice, hear him say to me, like he did when I was younger, One foot in front of the other, Emory. It will all be fine .

Now I’m swamped with more sadness. One foot in front of the other.

He just kept doing that, but I think he started to forget why.

And it hardened him. As his business grew, he never stopped pressing forward, didn’t take a moment to look around and see what we already had.

If he had done that, he might have, in the pause, seen who he was and who I really was, too.

As opposed to who he had hoped I was going to become: someone just like him.

During one of our last conversations, he snapped at me that maybe the world didn’t deserve his benevolence—and in his voice, I heard his father, my grandfather.

I didn’t know my grandfather well; he died when I was ten, but I remember him as stingy and mean, abrupt and judgmental. When did my father turn into him?

I’ve become lost in the wolf tracks, staring down at them and imagining different paths. I’m upset with my father for not really seeing me—but I let my thoughts of him get lost in the woods, too.

It’s cold. My feet in my boots are growing numb.

I walk again, until I can see the glowing lanterns on the inn’s driveway.

Once inside, I smell Reesa’s fresh bread.

It’s comforting and welcoming. In the living room, I see that she’s left the fire on for me, a note on the coffee table.

The soup is on the stove. It’s called Saturday Soup; we make it every week.

A little spicy, lots of vegetables. Bread on the counter beside it.

I step into the kitchen, where I see the large pot of soup simmering on the stove. I ladle some into a blue pottery bowl, cut a slice of bread, spread it thick with the soft butter, then take my meal back out to the living room.

The soup is just as delicious as it smells, the peppery flavor heating me all the way down to my cold toes.

The butter melts across the still-warm surface of the bread like the setting sun’s reflection on a lake.

I grow thoughtful as I eat this wonderful food in this cozy setting, more intent than ever on the idea of pitching an article or review of this place.

Something about finding comfort and winter joy in the most unexpected hidden gem towns.

I find myself smiling as I imagine how delighted Sam would be.

Looking around at this silent, empty room, I also think they could really use the business an article could bring in.

It would be doing a good deed—and I’ll need to focus on good deeds going forward to make up for the havoc my father has wreaked in the world with his dishonest ways.

Once I’m finished with my dinner, I clean up, then find myself staring back out the window into the night.

I feel a tug of curiosity, and of longing, too.

My head tells me to go upstairs to bed—but my heart is getting away from me, and perhaps it was just a matter of time before it completely loosened itself from the ties I keep trying to bind it with.

Fortified now by the soup and bread, I put my coat back on, pick up Reesa’s lantern, and step outside, closing the door quietly behind me the way I used to when I was a teenager in love. I swing the light toward Wilder Ranch.

Slowly, I walk forward. I see a break in the trees, and what could be a path. I push aside snowy branches; the path gets wider. All at once, I can almost see the ghosts of us, two teenagers, kissing in the moonlight, our arms wrapped around each other, never wanting to let go.

They say the first cut is the deepest, but I’ve often wondered if there’s something wrong with me.

I’ve dated, but I’ve never allowed anyone else into my heart in the same way, not since Tate.

Not for a decade. After getting hurt the way I did, I’ve been so afraid to let myself be seen the way Tate saw me back then.

I keep walking, keep shining my light around. It lands on tree trunks, snowy branches—and then, a log cabin I didn’t expect. Startled, I pull back into the shadows. But I already know what this cabin is. I cast the light on it again.

Tate’s house. I feel as certain of this as I am of my own name.

It’s just how he described it to me, plucking it out of his dream life and painting it with words.

I’ve been dragging granite rocks out of the lake for years, and someday, I’m going to use them to build a fireplace with two sides, one in the living room, one in the bedroom.

It’ll be a log A-frame, with a great big wall of windows facing the valley, looking down at the ranch. I think you’ll love it, too, Emory.

The trunk of the tree I’m pressing my body against feels solid and reassuring on my back. I focus on it rather than letting my thoughts spin even further into the past, snake my hands around behind me and touch the bark, richly textured beneath my thin gloves.

You have to walk away. What if he sees you out here?

I turn away from Tate’s cabin, from the stables and horses I know are there in the dark.

Once I’m a safe distance away, I click my lantern back on and shine it on the path ahead.

Soon, I spot the lanterns on the inn’s driveway.

I just have to walk toward them, one foot in front of the other, and I’ll be okay.