Page 31 of Christmas at the Ranch
The next morning, Samantha gazed out the window at the falling snow. The sky was a steel gray and a sharp wind rattled the branches. The minute anything appeared—a car heading up to the ski slopes, a deer crossing the field—it was obscured by a thick white curtain.
It was one of those mornings that were magical at a ski resort but would have been impossible in Brooklyn. At home, the sidewalks would be as slippery as a skating rink and taking Socks for his morning walk would mean digging out Samantha’s proper boots from the hall closet. The moment she piled on her parka, her phone would ring and she’d get unbearably hot standing in the living room in so many layers. By the time she walked around the block, the snow would have turned to sleet, and her hands would be frozen from holding Socks’s wet leash.
In Jackson Hole, the weather meant a lazy day tucked up in the ranch. Fires were lit in every fireplace and there was fresh coffee and hot chocolate in the kitchen. Dozens of movies were available in the home theater, and Samantha could see the steam rising from the outdoor hot tub.
She tapped on her computer and then snapped it closed. Even with the cozy weather, she couldn’t concentrate on her writing. She kept thinking about Beatrix’s request and what she would say to Drew.
There wasn’t a chance at dinner last night to bring it up, and Drew went skiing early this morning. It was Arthur’s idea that Samantha and some of the guests who were less experienced skiers stay at the ranch. The conditions were precarious and he didn’t want anyone getting hurt.
Samantha noticed the books she had borrowed from Arthur’s library. She had slipped them in her purse when Drew came upstairs and forgot to return them.
The journal really was pretty with its Japanese silk cover.
She turned to the first page and was surprised to find it must have belonged to a young woman. It was written in red ink and the cursive had little hearts over the i’s. The date on the first page was June 1991.
She closed it guiltily and placed it on the coffee table. Then she thought of the Nancy Drew books she devoured when she was a girl. Nancy Drew was the most capable sleuth in literature: more skilled than Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot and Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes. At least, Sherlock Holmes had Watson to help solve crimes. Hercule Poirot was older and more experienced than Nancy Drew, but Nancy Drew was just as accomplished.
Nancy Drew was still in high school and she solved mysteries that baffled adults in River Heights. She wouldn’t let a thirty-year-old journal go unread. She’d dive in and uncover something important: the solution to a decades-old feud or the answer to a riddle that had gone unsolved for years.
Samantha picked up the journal. It wouldn’t hurt to skim a fewpages. It would distract her from deciding what to say to Drew, and she might get an idea for a new Sloane Parker book.
Dear Diary,
How many diaries are there that don’t start with “I’m in love.” Trust me, never have those words been truer. If you knew me better (and you will—I promise to write regularly), you’d know I don’t fall in love easily. In fact, I’m against it. High school graduation was only a month ago and I have my whole life ahead of me. Why would I give in to something that takes up my time when I can concentrate on important things: one glorious summer working on the dude ranch and veterinary school in the fall.
But I couldn’t help falling in love. Dutch is handsome and sophisticated; he makes the local Jackson Hole men seem like little boys. I didn’t think that when we first met. He seemed like the most arrogant man ever. Dutch isn’t even his name, it’s his nickname. You’ll laugh when I tell you how he got it.
I was standing in the ranch’s kitchen, making breakfast. I can’t face the day without three scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon. Dutch entered and sat at the long, wooden table.
“I’ll take my eggs over easy, with four slices of bacon,” he said to me. “And coffee would be nice. Two sugars, extra cream.”
“The eggs are in the fridge.” I pointed to the double fridge. “And you’re welcome to some bacon. The stoveis a bit tricky; you have to blow on it to turn on the gas.”
He rubbed his forehead, perplexed.
“I thought you’d make it for me.”
I turned around. I couldn’t help but notice that he was good-looking. His light brown hair was cut short and his eyes were the color of honey. He had broad shoulders and an athlete’s long legs.
“Why would you think that?” I questioned.
“I’m the new ranch hand. The woman in charge said a girl works here, so you’re obviously the cook. A hot breakfast is provided.”
“It is provided, Alice makes the meals. On Alice’s day off, everyone makes their own breakfast,” I explained. “I’m a tour guide, I lead the tourists on horseback rides.”
He studied me critically.
“You couldn’t possibly be a guide,” he said. “The horses are twice as big as you.”
I pulled myself up to my tallest height. 5’6” in my stocking feet.
“I’m tall for a girl,” I said indignantly. “And I’ve known most of the horses since they were foals. We respect each other.” I studied him right back. “You, on the other hand, have probably never worked on a dude ranch.” I waved at his cowboy boots. “No experienced ranch hand would wear boots like that.”
“These are handmade El Dorado boots.” He stretched his legs. “I bought them at Jackson Bootery.They’re the best boots they sell, the manager said they’re made for working on a ranch.”
I stifled a giggle. Then I put my hand over my mouth. It isn’t nice to laugh at someone who just overpaid $200 for a pair of cowboy boots.
“I’ve known Jake, the manager, since he used to lead poker games in the high school parking lot,” I replied. “He knows how to read people. He probably noticed the first-class plane ticket sticking out of your pocket and steered you straight to the El Dorados. If you had gone to Boot Barn, you could have had Stetson Outlaw Boots for half the price.”
