Page 8 of Christmas at the Ranch

As I get closer to the inn, I feel a bone-deep tiredness settling over me. It’s still silent when I get inside. I hear some voices in the downstairs bedrooms, but no one is about. Upstairs, I wash up, pull out the Fit-mas Tree shirt to wear to bed, change, and head for my cozy little room.

In the bottom bunk, I close my eyes. Behind my eyelids, lights glimmer as if strung across the eaves of stable buildings painted red, weathered to a shade as soft as a beloved old sweater.

And I can see his cabin in the woods. I open my eyes again and stare into the darkness, but the vision of his home is still there.

It’s with me in this room, and it’s out there, too.

Just beyond these walls, only a few hundred feet away from where I’m tossing and turning, trying to sleep.

I need to talk to him. How could I not if I came all this way? I need to finally get the closure I never had, and then I need to move on with this life.

As terrifying as I find this idea, there’s also a strange sort of peace in it. I close my eyes, and a calm settles over me. And finally, I sleep.

Dear Diary,

I’m sorry about the messy handwriting. I have to write fast because I’m on my way to the ranch soon to help Tate get the place prepared for the Starlight Ride.

It’s a week from today, sounds like the most festive (and frankly, romantic) thing in the world, and I can’t believe I get to be a part of it.

Everyone in the town comes. Some choose to ride horses, others to walk.

They carry lanterns and sing carols and do a loop through the woods before ending up back at the Wilders’ for hot chocolate, mulled wine, a bonfire, and more carol singing.

I’m telling my parents that I’m taking lessons over at the stable next door, and they’re happy I’m having fun and keeping busy. I haven’t mentioned Tate. Or the Starlight Ride. I just don’t want them involved. I want this to be mine. So I’m keeping it to myself.

Anyway, my not being around leaves them free to stay up late smoking cigars, drinking martinis, and talking about politics (i.e.

, why late-stage capitalism should never end, ugh) and whatever business it is my dad and Cousin Reuben are cooking up.

I don’t know how I’d be surviving this holiday without Tate—and I don’t know how, in a few weeks’ time, I’m going to live without him.

But I don’t want to think about that right now. Not yet, dear Diary, not yet.

The day after we first met, I walked around like I was in a dream.

I actually started to worry it really WAS a dream.

Could the night before have actually been possible?

I waited and waited, and finally at three (I had a hard time deciding what was “mid-afternoon”—two seemed too eager, four seemed too late, and at this time of year, it would almost be dark out), I told my mother the half-lie about riding lessons—and my mother ALMOST said she wanted to come with me.

But then Aunt Bitsy started whining about how she had promised they’d go skiing, so off they went.

Phew. I felt a little guilty; my mom likes riding, too.

But Bitsy has zero filter and would just embarrass me.

And my mom…well, she’s a snob. There’s no other way to put it.

She likes upscale equestrian facilities, not cozy country ranch properties. Wilder Ranch would not be her thing.

I was so nervous about what it would be like to see Tate again.

Would I feel the same? Would he? I was nervous, but as soon as I saw him outside one of the stable buildings, standing there in the snowfall as if he had been waiting for me, I could tell.

What had happened between us was real. When our gazes locked, it felt like we were connected by a cord.

He smiled that slow-burn smile of his, and I started to feel like I was melting again.

We went to see his horse, Mistletoe. She is so beautiful.

I can only imagine how lovely her foal will be when she’s born.

We gave her some mints, and then walked farther out into the paddock to bring in the horses we would ride: Jax for him; Walt for me.

Once we got them tacked up, we headed out.

I’ve never been on a trail ride in winter—and wow, have I been missing out.

The forest was blanketed in snow, the trees looked like they had been hung with lace.

It was a sunny afternoon, so warm we both tied our jackets to our saddles, and our horses walked side by side as we talked.

The forest path we were on meandered up a few rolling hills and eventually we reached a clearing with a breathtaking view of the valley below.

You could see everything from there: the forest, the lake, the stables, the town.

It was perfect, and I told him that. He smiled and said this was the spot he wanted to build his house on one day.

It felt like he was telling me a secret.

He said he had been dragging granite rocks out of the lake for years—and someday, he was going to use them to build a fireplace that would have two sides, one in the living room, one in the bedroom.

When he said the word “bedroom” I think I probably blushed, but if he noticed, he didn’t let on.

He talked about it being a log A-frame, with a big wall of windows facing the valley, looking down at the ranch. It sounded so perfect.

I asked him if that was what he did for fun: drag granite rocks out of the lake.

Then I almost wished I hadn’t. I think I was asking about friends, about girls.

Maybe in that moment I was worried about there being someone else in his life.

He just shrugged and said, “At my high school, you’re either a football jock—and I’m not really a Friday Night Lights kind of guy—or a burnout—and I don’t smoke weed.

I have a few buddies and we hang out sometimes, but this”—and he looked out at the valley spread before us, the stables, the paddocks—“is where I’m happiest.”

I almost said it was where I was happiest, too. But I stopped myself.

Instead, I asked him what he wanted to do after building that house—who he wanted to be.

He told me he wanted to be here, running the ranch with his dad, that he hoped to eventually develop a riding school and train show teams. That maybe Wilder Ranch would one day be well-known for producing quality riders.

Even Olympians. I told him I admired someone who had dreams like that—who knew exactly who they wanted to be.

He asked me about what I wanted for my future, and I told him about my journalism school plans.

He said, “Well, it sounds like you’re sure about your future, too.

You just won’t be staying in one place, like I will. ”

We were side by side on our horses, looking down at the spot where he wanted to build his house—and I just felt so sad all of a sudden. Like despite all these intense feelings, I could see his future…and I wasn’t in it.

Then he looked over at me and said, “What are you thinking?” I shook my head and told him it was nothing important.

He said, “Well, I was just thinking that I hope we’ll still know each other when I build that house.

I hope you see it someday.” Then he bit his lip (Diary, I can’t express how it makes me feel when he does this) and his expression became searching.

He wanted something, and I wanted to give it to him.

To give him everything. But I settled for leaning over and giving him a kiss.

Have you ever kissed someone while sitting on a horse? It’s not easy, but it’s also magic.

I keep reminding myself I haven’t known him long enough to be feeling this way. But my heart just won’t listen to reason. I know he feels the same, and that makes it even more special, more intense. We’re falling fast, and I’m not going to do anything to stop it…