Last Chance Llama Ranch (21 page)

And Steve clamped himself to her other side and made panini di Merry.

“You're not mad?” Merry asked.

“Mad?” Steve's face was a mask of incomprehension.

“About the whole, um…”

Steve let loose with a guffaw that shook dust from the ceiling fans. “The taint thing?” He laughed.

Merry blushed.

At his side, Mazel Tov grinned, answering for him. “Steve's been tellin' me his junk's newsworthy for the past forty years. He's pleased as punch to rub my nose in it now.”

“Rub
everybody's
nose in it, according to Mer-Ber,” Steve said, waggling her in his embrace as if trying to unscrew her from the earth. His eyes were alight with pleasure.

“Oh, well, um…I'm glad you weren't offended…” Merry extricated herself with the deftness of someone who'd once had groupies.

“Takes a whole lot more than that to offend Steve,” Mazel assured her.

“Hold on now,” Steve interrupted, pasting a cunning expression over his delight. “What if I
was
offended? How would you make it up to me?”

“Well, I…” Merry was at a loss, but she sensed Steve already had a few ideas up his sleeve. “What would you suggest?”

His grin widened. “Mazel and I just so happen to have a bit of a side business going on. A hobby, you might say, but we think people would really dig it—
if
they heard about it.” Steve fiddled with the end of one of his long gray braids, and if Merry hadn't become intimately familiar with his complete dearth of self-consciousness, she might have thought he was feeling shy. “Me and the old lady, we were talking about it the other night, and we wondered if maybe you could help us spread the word? Like, maybe you could mention it on your blog?”

“
Column
,” Merry mumbled.

“Right on,” Steve said, clearly not appreciating the difference.

“Our product makes a perfect holiday gift,” Mazel put in brightly. “But really, it's great for any time of year.”

“What is it?” Merry asked, wondering if she'd regret it.

“Come by our pad some night, dear, and we'll give you a demo.”

But Merry had another pad to visit first.

Or yurt, or tipi, or earthship or whatever
, she thought. Sam's lair was sure to be something out of this world.

I
n a hole in the ground there lived a Cassidy…

“I should have known,” Merry sighed.

Sam Cassidy had himself a gen-u-ine hobbit hole.

Into the banks of the cottonwood-lined creek that bordered the far side of Dolly's property, Dolly's nephew had dug himself a Tolkien-worthy den, complete with round wooden door and sloping turf roof. Merry looked down at Cleese and sighed.

“Well, boy, shall we see what quest awaits?”

The turtle, along for the ride in its clear plastic travel terrarium, nodded slightly. He seemed more ready for their excursion than Merry was. She hadn't wanted to leave him to his own devices overnight, though the truth was she didn't know what might be in store for the terrapin—or for herself—on this mission.

“Alrighty then.” And Merry grasped the brass knocker set into the middle of the green-painted door. It swung open upon the first strike, all of its own accord.

“Oh, for the love of literature,” she sighed. “First Tolkien, now Lewis Carroll?”

For a bunny stood, nose twitching, at the door of the hobbit hole. A plain brown bunny, with one lop ear, rather fat.

“Aren't you going to invite me in?” asked Merry—as she thought, facetiously.

“Come in already,” it boomed.

Merry staggered backward, unbalanced both by the enormous picnic basket Dolly had sent her over with and by the travel terrarium she carried. And, oh, yeah, by the rabbit that had just talked to her.

“Are you deaf? I said get in here. Time's wasting.”

What was it with bunnies and time? She searched for evidence of a top hat or pocket watch, but the rabbit was pretty ordinary, not counting its powers of speech. It turned and hopped back into the house, and, bemused, Merry followed.

Cassidy (presumably the actual source of the irritable command) was nowhere to be seen, but that was okay. Merry needed time to take in his habitat. She gaped around her. The great room's central feature was a
tree
. A huge, knobby-barked tree—a cottonwood, Merry thought—whose ancient branches, no longer living but no less imposing for that, arched toward the ceiling, while a clever spiral staircase climbed its bole. At the top, what looked to be a loft bedroom had been nestled into the fossilized tree's crown, and hanging plants trailed down from the railings that bounded the little aerie.

Rough-hewn
latillas
wove chevron patterns along the ceiling, while thicker beams of gnarled wood with the bark still on supported walls of whitewashed adobe that had clearly been plastered by the loving hand of an expert. Free-form archways made from more plaster-and-tree-branch construction led off in several directions toward what looked to be a kitchen, a bathroom, and storage closets. The living room sported padded benches tucked against the thick-paned passive solar windows that made up one whole wall of the house, offering views of the creek, the not-so-distant mountains, and the rolling, alpaca-dotted pastureland of Dolly's ranch.

It was Wonderland meets Middle Earth.

“Hoooo, boy, Cleese,” she muttered to her turtle. “We are
not
in Kansas anymore.”

Merry could swear the turtle snorted.
Sorry, boy. Too many metaphors, I know
.

“Where've you been, Wookiee?” Sam appeared in the doorway of what looked to be the kitchen, judging from the copper pots hanging from a ceiling rack behind him. His ever-bare feet were so quiet on the packed-earth floor she hadn't even heard him approach. He was wearing a shabby pair of Oshkosh overalls over a faded yellow western shirt that had what might once have been tiny flowers or horses or cowboy hats printed on it. His hair formed a nimbus of I-don't-give-a-fuck around his head. He had the bunny in the crook of one elbow, and he was stroking its lop ear absently as he scowled at her. “Half the morning's gone already.”

Merry ignored his surliness, too amazed by his abode to let him rile her up. “Holy crap, Sam. How on earth did you ever find such a house? Was the ranch built around it? Did Peter Jackson film a scene from
LOTR
no one knows about here?”

Sam eyed her as if he couldn't tell whether she were complimenting or insulting him. He shook his head. “I didn't find it, I made it,” he mumbled.

“Like,
made it
, made it? With tools and all that?”

He rolled his eyes, but he still looked a bit shy, as if nervous about her reaction to the home. “With tools and all that,” he confirmed.

“
Daaaamn
, Llama Boy.” Her pirate brow rose. “You've got some seriously hidden talents.”

He snorted. “Seriously hidden, or seriously talented?”

“Bit of both,” Merry said, her lip curling up.

Sam let the bunny down gently at his feet and crossed his arms, but he was only reluctantly scowling now. Merry didn't fail to notice how his biceps and pecs stretched the fabric of his shirt. He turned and gestured for her to follow him through the house, bunny hopping at his heels as if carrots would sprout from them.
They might too
, thought Merry. Sam swiped his hat from a hook on the wall and smashed it over the haystack on his head. “C'mon, we'd better get out back and greet our guests. I've already kept them waiting too long because of you, and they're probably getting hungry.”

She hefted the substantial wicker basket as she hurried after him. “Who're we feeding today anyway, a pack of ravening wolves?”

“Pretty much,” Sam said. “Come meet them.”

And he led the way through the kitchen, past the mudroom, and out the back door. Where the hungry wolves awaited.

Merry's guts went cold.

W
hen confronted by wild adolescents, make no sudden moves. They can smell a fogy a mile away. And woe betide the fool who betrays uncoolitude for even a microsecond. For she shall be heaped with scorn such as the world has never known…

Teenagers.

She was surrounded by teenagers.

Sullen, scowly teenagers.

Is there any other kind?
Merry thought. Her feet had grown roots in the doorway (appropriate enough, given that the doorframe was practically woven from roots). But Sam was having none of her hesitation. “C'mon, Wookiee, the kids are waiting,” he said, and shoved her out into the sunlight.

Merry barely had time to take in her surroundings—a well-tended vegetable patch, with a lattice of climbing grapevines overhead providing shade for the motley crew who stood, in various poses of studied nonchalance, under it. Five sets of eyes narrowed on her. Five sets of arms crossed over chests that ranged from underfed to overstuffed. Five chins lifted, and five mouths made moues of distinct disdain.

“Whoa, Sam. Where'd you find the Brienne of Tarth look-alike?” asked the meanest, nastiest, snottiest-looking one. Merry, who'd endured more than her fair share of bullying, zeroed in on the source of the snark unerringly. It was the lone girl who had spoken. She had piercings in lips, ears, and nose, and a purple-dyed ponytail shellacked up high on her head.

Merry shot a glance at Sam, uncertain that it was her place to tackle this offensive, but he just gazed back, blasé as could be.
Thanks for throwing me to the wolves
, she thought. Of course, he probably didn't watch
Game of Thrones
—she'd seen no TV inside the hobbit hole—so he'd have no cause to catch the reference.
Not that he'd be likely to come to my defense anyhow
.
Nope, I'm on my own here
.
So what would Brienne do?

She'd face her opponent head-on, is what she'd do. With a broadsword. Merry took a deep breath, pasted on the most engaging grin she could dredge up, and stood up to her full height, facing the teens. The boys, she saw, were all snickering, following the example of what was obviously their ringleader. All except one, a runty-looking kid with dark circles under his eyes and acne scars, probably about sixteen. He was staring at Merry with particular intensity. No, with
recognition
.

“Hey,” he said, venturing forward hesitantly. “Aren't you…?”

“Hagrid?” one of the other boys quipped, flashing a look at the girl for approval. She high-fived him.

“Naw, more like Optimus Prime,” said another. More snickering. But the skinny kid shook his head, peering up at Merry with something close to awe. He shot his compatriots an impatient glare. “Don't you dweebs know anything? This is
Merry Manning
.”

Blank looks and sneers.

“Duh. She was in the
Olympics
.”

Well, just the once
, Merry thought. She shifted uncomfortably under the teens' scrutiny, aware as well of Sam at her side, looking at her with baffled interest.

The kid was gazing up at her with mingled adoration and astonishment. “Right? You were that skier, who won all the medals a few years ago?”

For a second, caught in the spotlight of all those adolescent eyes—and worse, Sam's—Merry was tempted to deny it. Dealing with fans—or anything to do with her now-faded fame—had always been the worst part of Merry's former career. But she sensed the kid was low man on the totem pole, and his peers would turn on him in a heartbeat for any perceived weakness.

“Yes, that was me,” she said, ratcheting up her smile to professional strength and striding forward with the entirely fake confidence her mother had drilled into her. She extended her hand to shake the boy's. “It's nice to meet you. What's your name?”

The kid looked starstruck, and it seemed to be going around. The other boys—including Sam—were looking uncertain. Even Purple Hair had lost her sneer. “I'm Joey,” the kid said bashfully.

“Hey, Joey. It's nice to meet you,” she said again. “And how about you guys?” She spread the smile around to the rest of the group, watching their faces transform from hostile to halfway human.

Sam came forward, gathering the kids together with a gesture like a mother goose chivvying her goslings into order. “Survivors, let me introduce you to our temporary ranch hand, Merry Manning. She's visiting from…” He paused, looking at Merry with a certain chagrin. “Uh, I guess I never asked where you're from, did I?”

No, you didn't. That would have required pleasantries
. Merry had grown up all over the world, and didn't particularly identify with any one place. “Chicago, most recently,” she said.

“Right, Chicago, and she's a travel writer. She's working on some stories about the Last Chance for her online magazine.” Another pause, more chagrin. “You kids cool with being in a magazine article?”

Their eyes widened. Sam's narrowed as a thought occurred to him. To Merry, he side-mouthed, “Ah, do I need to get release forms or something?”

“Only if I use their pictures and their real names. We can ask their parents afterward.”

“That might be tough,” Sam said quietly. “These kids haven't got the most, um…involved…families.” He turned back to the teens. “Why don't you introduce yourselves to Ms. Manning—”

“Call me Merry,
please
, for the love of God.” Merry pulled a face. “I feel ancient enough in present company,
Mr
. Cassidy.”

One or two of the teens cracked a smile.

“Right. Say hello to Merry.”

“Yo. I'm Thaddeus.” This came from a tall, budding lothario with overly gelled hair and an attitude that said he knew he was irresistible. He had the sleeves of his white tee shirt rolled up to his shoulders to reveal arms that were corded with muscle, which he was flexing at the magenta-hued girl with no particular subtlety.

“Hi, Thaddeus,” said Merry.

“You could call me Thad if you want,” he said gruffly.

“I'll do that,” Merry said with a smile. She turned to the next boy. “And you are?”

“Mikey.” He was a plump, sandy-haired kid with more smudges than clean spots on his oversized tee shirt and torn jeans. He couldn't have been above fifteen.

“Hey, Mikey. Pleasure to meet you.”

The boy colored, staring down at his feet. Merry let him off the hook. “And who's our curly-haired friend?”

“I'm Bernie.” The kid was a born charmer (now that he was no longer scowling), with wild, corkscrew curls and chocolate brown eyes like a Labrador's. “You can call me Bernito, or Beebs, or B-Bomb. Anything but
Bernardo
. Cool?”

Merry nodded, smiling her promise to the boy. She looked expectantly at the last of the group.

A pause, but eventually the girl gave it up. “I'm Zelda.” Her crossed arms trumpeted just how impressed she wasn't, but her toe, tapping in Chuck Taylors that had been graffitied over with markers into a colorful abstract painting, showed she was nervous in Merry's presence. “So, what, like, you used to be like on TV and shit?” She shot a glance at Sam, then amended, “I mean, and stuff.”

Merry darted her own glance at Sam, whose expression was approving of the girl's belated retraction. Interesting. Prickly as they were, the kids seemed to worship Sam.

“She used to be on the US Ski Team,” Joey volunteered, seeming to enjoy being the possessor of proprietary information.

Captain, actually
, Merry thought, but saying so would have been blowing her own horn a tad too much. “It's true, I was,” she said. “But I don't ski anymore. Anyhow, today's not about me. It's about you guys. So, Sam”—she turned the smile up to blinding—“what's on tap for us on this excursion?”

Momentarily, Sam seemed knocked off kilter by the wattage of the smile. Then he shook off his bemusement, hooking his thumbs in the pockets of his overalls and rocking back on his callus-crusted heels like a proper rancher. “Right! I promised you guys last time we'd be going balls to the wall this go-round, and I mean to keep that promise.”

There were some smothered grins at his choice of phrase, but Sam kept on going. “I don't care what you may have heard outside of this circle, what people tell you at home or around town. You guys are badass. I don't call you ‘the Survivors' for nothing. You've made me proud these past few months, and I think you've proven you're ready for just about anything I can dish. Am I right?”

“
Fuckin' A
right!” yelled Thad.

“You know it, dude,” Bernie said, ruffling up his hair into a lion's mane and making fearsome faces at the other boys.

Mikey flashed gang signs and assumed a pose of supreme confidence. Joey just smiled shyly.

Zelda rolled her eyes at their antics, but Merry noticed her cheeks had flushed at Sam's praise.

“Alright. So,
since
you're such badasses, I figured you're not going to freak out if I really challenge you this time. I'm talking a twenty-four-hour
immersive experience
.” He paused to give them each a lingering look, as if measuring their mettle. The teens stood up straighter. “Today's survival scenario is all about roughing it, like you'd do if you were caught out lost on the woods and had to make it through the night with no time to prepare. Now, did you all bring your overnight gear with you?”

There was some shuffling around, and Merry noticed a pile of packs at the feet of the teens. Most of them were beat-up old school book bags, scribbled over with band logos and anarchy signs, ripped and torn. One was the same magenta as Zelda's hair. The kids nodded.

“Did I
tell
you to bring overnight gear?” Sam's eyes were alight in a way Merry had rarely seen.
He loves these kids
, she realized.
Loves 'em like his llamas
.

Bernie spoke up. “Well, no, but dude, you did say we were gonna be out all night…”

Mikey cut in. “And, like, it's barely fifty overnight.”

“I brought my old man's camp stove and sleeping bag,” Joey said softly. “I'm sure he wouldn't mind.”

“Well, dump it all in the house, guys. You aren't going to need it.”

“I don't travel without my eyeliner,” Zelda informed them loftily. “Girl's gotta have standards, amirite?” She glanced shyly at Merry as the only other female present, but, seeing Merry wasn't wearing any, seemed to deflate.

“Eyeliner too, Zelda. You can get reacquainted with your cosmetics tomorrow.”

Huge sigh. But she trooped into Bag End with the others, tossing her knapsack with a distinctly teenaged thunk onto the mudroom floor. Before the kids could return, Merry gave Sam a skeptical look. Eyeliner might not be de rigueur for a camping trip, but she was pretty sure blankets and flashlights and s'mores were. “Um, Sam? Is it wise to go without any gear up into these mountains? Like the little guy—what was his name, Mickey?—said, it gets pretty darn cold up there overnight.”

Sam scowled. “Mikey,” he corrected. “Are you questioning my judgment? Do you seriously think I'd endanger these children?”

“Well, no, but…”

“We all have hidden depths, Ms. I-failed-to-mention-I-was-in-the-Olympics. You weren't always a writer? Well, I wasn't always a llama wrangler—
or
a Wall Street shill, for that matter. Before I came to Dolly's to help her run the ranch, I was a certified survival instructor. I've taught kids
and
adults primitive skills for years, and I've never lost a student yet. I don't intend to now.”

Merry felt a pang of conscience. Not because she'd questioned Sam's judgment—she'd be happy to do that all day long—but because she hadn't done her research. A professional journalist should have done more thorough background on her subjects. Not that Sam had been any too forthcoming about his past with her—or welcoming in any way whatsoever—but still.
I'll do better from here on out
, she promised herself.
My readers deserve it.

“Anyhow,” Sam added grudgingly, “I'm not going to starve them.” He gestured to the enormous picnic basket Merry had laid at her feet. “With my adult excursions, we go without the smorgasbord, and just eat what we can forage. But you can't do that to teenagers unless you want a riot on your hands. Besides, while the idea here is that they learn something that helps them become more self-reliant, some of these kids already know more about deprivation than you or I ever will.”

Merry thought of how skinny Joey was, how Mikey's clothes seemed to have come straight from the rag bin. Her heart ached. “So what's the plan?”

“You'll find out when they do, Wookiee,” he said.

The teens trooped back out to surround them again before Merry could flip him the bird he so richly deserved.