Page 32 of Christmas at the Ranch
“How do you know I flew first-class?” he asked stiffly. “And you don’t know what I paid for the boots.” He smiled; his smile was really something. It made him resemble a movie star: wide and white and showing two dimples. “I’m good at looking out for myself.”
I carried my plate to the table and sat beside him.
“I’m glad.” I pointed at the stove. “Then you can fix your own breakfast. I have to eat and my first group arrives in thirty minutes.”
He wanted to keep talking. At first, I was quiet. I like to get inside the head of the horses before the morning ride. He made bacon and offered me a piece. It was much better than mine. I tend to burn the edges and leave the middle soggy. His was crispy on the outside and juicy in the middle. So I asked him about himself. That way, I could keep eating.
He’s from New York City and graduated fromColumbia. He’s working here for the summer and then starting business school. I told him I just graduated too; I didn’t mention that it was from high school. His ego is already so big, if he knew he was talking to an eighteen-year-old girl who had never been east of the Teton River, it might explode.
“You haven’t told me your name,” he said, finishing his third cup of coffee.
“It’s Diana,” I replied. “You shouldn’t drink so much coffee. It’s bad for your heart, and the horses can tell if you’re overstimulated. They respond better to calm direction.”
He stirred a sugar cube into his coffee.
“Let me guess, you’re studying to be a doctor,” he said, raising his eyebrows.
I shook my head. “I’m going to be a veterinarian. Medical school takes too long, I don’t want to start my life when I’m forty.”
“We finally agree on something,” he answered with a grin. “My parents wanted me to go to medical school. My father is a surgeon at Mount Sinai hospital. I refuse to be paying off school loans when I’m fifty. Two years of business school and then I’m starting my own company.” He held out his hand formally. “My name is Dutch. Maybe we can have dinner tonight.”
“No one is named Dutch.” I giggled again. “Unless they’re the male lead in a 1950s beach movie.”
My mother says I have to stop giggling. Young women laugh, they don’t giggle.
“It’s my nickname, I got it freshman year.” He shrugged. “I always made a girl pay for herself on a date.”
“That’s the most chauvinistic, self-centered thing I ever heard,” I blurted out before I could stop myself.
“On the contrary, that way the girl knew where we stood,” he countered. “There wasn’t any of those conversations about me being owed something because I bought her a burger.” He went back to his plate of eggs. “You didn’t answer my question. I don’t know anyone else in Jackson Hole, but something tells me I’ve already met the prettiest, smartest girl in town. Will you have dinner with me?”
I couldn’t help it. The way he looked at me was like no boy ever had. My knees went weak, there’s no other way to describe it.
“Yes.” I nodded solemnly. “I’ll have dinner with you.”
I took him to the Chuckwagon. He assumed I chose it because of its history. The Chuckwagon has been in business since 1948. The photos on the wall are of the original building with horses lined up outside, and not a car in sight.
But I picked it because Lianne, the hostess, promised me a free dinner in exchange for taking care of her cat when it had kittens. Dutch didn’t have to know that. Let him believe I could afford the overpriced bison burgers.
“I have to admit, this looks delicious,” he said, when the waiter set down our plates.
“It’s buffalo meat, you won’t find it anywhere but Wyoming,” I answered, helping myself to a handful of onion rings. “It’s better than those faddish dishes they serve at New York restaurants: focaccia with basil and pesto, and sun-dried tomato pizza.”
“When were you in New York?” he asked curiously.
I flushed. How did I set myself up for that? Usually I controlled a conversation. He had a way of unmooring me, like a sailboat that slipped its anchor.
“Never. I haven’t been out of the state,” I admitted. “Tourists tell me about it. In Wyoming, people work too hard to exist on roots and vegetables; they need meat and potatoes.”
“And onion rings.” He smiled. “We didn’t need to share a plate; you can order your own portion.”
I dropped my hand from the plate.
“For some reason they taste better when they’re shared,” I said stiffly. It was time to change the subject. “Why are you in Jackson Hole?”
“I told you, to work at the ranch.” He poured ketchup on his plate.
“Yes, but why?” I inquired. “Even without the cowboy boots, you don’t look like you fit in.”
