Last Chance Llama Ranch (26 page)

Bob led the uproarious applause that followed, sweeping up to the stage to usher her off with a bouquet of wildflowers that she accepted with a diva's grace. Merry noted no few people swiping tears from their eyes before calling for fresh drinks from the bar. Feliciana and her husband 'Nesto were swamped with orders, sweat beading on their brows as they served up beers, shots, and platters of nachos for the café's hungry patrons.

“And now for something completely different,” Bob said with a smile when the clapping had died back. “Before their bedtimes roll around, we've got a couple young folks who'd like to do a number dedicated to our own honored guest, Merry Manning!”

Bob called for the lights to be dimmed. Merry looked around the café, wondering what in the world…

And Destiny's Child strode out onto the stage.

Few things, in my experience, can top the sheer contagiousness of a pop empowerment anthem. When it's sung by a purple-haired, pint-sized Beyoncé and four blinged-out backup dancers, there's truly nothing to compare. For five of the funnest minutes of my life, I watched as Sam's Survivors—with the aid of someone's old boom box and a lot of cheering from the crowd—performed a truly spectacular rendition of a song that could not be more apt.

“I'm a survivor. I'm not gon' give up! I'm not gon' stop…”

Well, you know the tune. I think I'll let this little video I took speak for itself.

When the kids wound down, sweaty and exultant from their exuberant performance, there wasn't a booty left unshaken—or in a seat. Dolly, Jane, and the whole horde of hookers were all up and clapping. Everyone from cowboys to kitchen staff was woo-hooing and giving thumbs-ups. Even Steve had managed to wrestle free of his toga and was applauding from his place beside his woman.

Merry finished snapping pics and whistled through her teeth. “Rock on, dudes!” she yelled. “You nailed it!”

Thad bowed like a born showman, arm around Zelda. Mikey and Beebs mussed Joey's sweaty hair and bowed as well. But it was Zelda who took the mic. “Thanks, everybody! And thanks, Miss Manning for what you did for us. We really appreciate it.” The other kids nodded.

What did I do for them?
Merry wondered. She looked at Jane and Dolly in puzzlement, but they just shrugged. Merry blew them a kiss, and they waved happily and clambered down from the stage. Merry saw Bernardo and Mikey being taken under the wings of their parents and ushered out into the parking lot. Thad, meanwhile, hooked his arm around Joey's neck and noogied him fondly as they headed back for their booth, Zelda following with a fresh round of soft drinks.

Speaking of which…Merry had had quite a few beverages herself. She excused herself and headed for the lav.

Zel caught up with her before she could get there. “Seriously, it meant a lot to the boys,” she said, beaming up at Merry. “
I
couldn't have done it without hurting their pride, but this way they get what they needed without all that weirdness. Joey especially. This is going to do him a
lot
of good.” She raised up on tiptoe and pecked Merry on one very surprised cheek before skipping off into the crowd.

“
What
will?” Merry called after her, but Zel was just a ponytail disappearing into the throng.

Alrighty then
, she thought.
I'll sort that one out later. Right now, I gotta pee
.

When Merry pushed the door of the stall open a few moments later after seeing to her business, she got whacked in the face.

With the blues.

The guitar sang, it wept, it scraped the bottom of the Mississippi delta and came up for air carrying with it the souls of generations of master bluesmen. Just a guitar, no vocals, but it spoke to her all the same, cutting through her buzz and tugging at something central to the core of her being. Merry stood stock-still for a moment, just listening, until the person behind her in line for the bathroom nudged her gently into motion. She smiled an apology, shaking her head to clear it of the spell. As she washed up in the communal trough-style sink outside the loos, Merry encountered Dolly. “Whoever that is playing is frickin'
amazing
,” she marveled, flapping her hands dry. She thought recognized an old John Lee Hooker tune, but while the music came clearly to her ears, it was impossible to see from here who was performing on the stage.

Dolly beamed. “He is, isn't he?” Dolly ushered her back toward their seats, and Merry's gaze followed the soulful music to its source.

It was Sam Cassidy. Of course it was.

He sat alone at the center of the stage, perched on a stool with one leg dangling, the other propped on a rung to keep his guitar braced upon his knee. His head was bowed, ear to the belly of the instrument as if it were whispering secrets to him. His hair had been scraped back into what was, for him, a neat braid, and he'd switched out his customary overalls for a pair of well-worn jeans and a whisper-soft white cotton button-down that wrapped lovingly round his muscular torso. His feet were, as ever, bare.

Not bad, Sam. Not bad at all
. Merry surreptitiously snapped a photo with her phone, thinking that with the soft lighting and his head down like that, her readers would see the “Studly Sam” she'd been telling them about all this time. And maybe he wasn't so bad looking in truth, she admitted. She already knew he had a killer bod beneath the unflattering clothes he favored. And his face, plain as it was, was beginning to grow on her.

Fungus grows on you too
, Merry told herself.
They make medications for that.

The crowd had quieted, seduced by the music. Couples kissed, singles stared wistfully into their beers. Merry found herself drifting into a reverie that was half margarita, half melancholy as she watched Sam's fingers pluck the strings with unerring skill. What else might he strum so well? she wondered. The hookers had all stopped stitching, she noticed, and several had similarly faraway looks in their eyes. Merry smiled, thinking Sam had quite a coterie of female fans.
A man of many talents indeed
, she thought. She leaned her head against Jane's shoulder, feeling warm and fuzzy, and remarkably content.

I like it here
, she thought.
I like these people.

I like
Sam
.

Oh, shit.

Merry grabbed the nearest margarita and guzzled. Then she grabbed another one and chased it down.

We do
not
need to be reenacting
Shrek
, New Mexico–style
, she told herself.
Especially considering we're
both
the ogres, and I don't think I'll be changing into a princess anytime soon.
Still, she couldn't help watching how completely present Sam seemed as he spoke to the guitar, and made it speak for him. Here was a man with no pretense, no bullshit, and who would accept none from the people in his life. He could be fierce. Abrasive. Totally off-putting, as she had good cause to know. But he was alive and unafraid in a way Merry herself could only wish to be. The way she'd once
thought
she was, when she competed, but now realized she'd never really managed
.
She'd used competition as a way to gain acceptance. But no matter how many medals she'd won, she'd never really accepted herself.

This man has
, Merry thought.

Face intent, almost tender, Sam wrung the last notes of the song from the instrument. There was a communal sigh, and a respectful silence, but he didn't stick around for the applause that followed it. He slipped offstage and over to the bar with barely a nod of his head to acknowledge the whistles and cheers. Aguas Milagros seemed to understand his need to keep a low profile, and the crowd went back to eating, drinking, and making merry without much fuss.

Except, now they were making a fuss
over
Merry.

“Mer-RY! Mer-RY! Mer-RY!”

“Um, why are people chanting my name?” Merry asked Jane. Her head was snuggled against the vet's shoulder. Jane smelled like lavender and liniment, and the sister she'd never had.

“'Cause it's your turn, lushy girl.” Jane patted Merry's hair fondly.

“Turn to do what?” Merry wanted to know.

“To get up on that stage and wow us with your hidden talents, of course.”

Merry blinked owlishly. “But I don't have any hidden talents,” she protested. “I don't even have any
obvious
talents. Not anymore, anyway.” Suddenly her good humor took a margarita-fueled dive.

“Oh, please,” Randi scoffed. “Everybody can do
something
.”

“Yeah, like, I can tie a cherry stem in a knot with my tongue,” Sage said. She stuck her tongue out and swirled it demonstratively.

“I can tell cat fur from dog fur just by feel,” Jane offered.

Merry had a
Breakfast Club
flashback. But she didn't think taping people's buns together or applying lipstick via her cleavage was really wise in front of half the Aguas Milagros population.
Gotta maintain my dignity
, she thought. And hiccupped.

“Mer-RY! Mer-RY! Mer-RY!”

Bob was holding out his hand. “The masses are calling,” he said, waving her up to the stage.

“You better get on up there, hon, and show you're a good sport,” Dolly advised. “You don't want folks to think you're too high and mighty to go up against the local talent.”

High and mighty. Yeah, right.
But that gave Merry an idea. “Alright, alright,” she shouted over the chants. “I'm coming! Keep your shirts on.” For no reason she could fathom, she was smiling, and it wasn't all about the margaritas. She stumped up onto the rickety wooden pallets, to much whistling and applause.

“Show us what you got, girl!”

“Shake your moneymaker!”

“Make us proud, Mer-Ber!” (This last was from Steve Spirit Wind.)

Merry held up her hands for silence. She found, to her astonishment, that she was rather enjoying being in the spotlight. For the first time since skiing had been taken away from her, she was actually relishing attention. Because these folks weren't judging. They were just having fun.

And, maybe, so can I
.

“Here's a little trick I learned at my mother's knee,” she announced, discovering her inner ham. “Does anyone have a nice, big book?”

Bob dug a hardcover copy of Thucydides's
History of the Peloponnesian War
from inside the host's stand. “Will this work?”

The tome was at least seven hundred pages long, not counting appendices. “I would think so!” Merry laughed, gesturing for the book. Bob brought it to her, eyes twinkling.

“Now, how about a cup of tea?”

“I got a shot of Jameson over here,” shouted one of the bluegrass banjo players. “Better speak quick though, or it's going in my cake hole.”

“That'll do.”

The shot was passed up to Merry, who set it on the stool at her side.

“Whatcha gonna do, Merry?” Randi called out. “Read us a bedtime story?”

“Watch and see.” Merry stood up to her full height, straightened her back, and set the book on top of her head. She bent at the knees—daintily—and picked up the shot glass with thumb and forefinger, pinky extended, before placing it with great deliberation atop the book.

Then she took a stroll around Bob's café.

It goes without saying that my estimable mother, the gracious, elegant, and always entertaining Gwendolyn Manning (hi, Ma!) did not have parlor tricks in mind when she required me to practice deportment with a tome and a tot of hot tea upon my head. She knew that, with my general Goliath-itude, I would be tempted to slump. “Mannings don't slouch, Meredith!” she would say, and, thanks to her instruction, I shouldn't dream of it to this day.

Well, the good people of Aguas Milagros were “right glad” of your home training tonight, Mother dear. I treated them to a display of Swiss boarding school's best, and I never spilled a drop! But while I daresay I didn't embarrass myself overmuch when it was my turn to take the stage, it was Sam's appreciative response I most cherished when I'd taken my bows (and drunk my shot). His applause made me blush like the schoolgirl I most certainly no longer am.

Merry received her fair share of good-natured applause when she'd finished her perambulations around the restaurant and stepped back up onto the stage. Thucydides and the Jameson still precariously perched atop her noggin, she curtsied deeply, not even feeling the twinge in her left leg as she did. Then, with a whoop, she plucked the shot glass from atop the book and drained it, to the cheers of the audience. Flushed with pleasure (and the shot of whiskey), she soaked it up. A sense of love and acceptance suffused her.

Until someone started a slow-clap.

Clap.

Clap.

Clap.

Into the silence in the wake of her performance, the derisive sound echoed like thunder, like a slap to the face.

Clap.

Clap.

Clap.

Merry squinted into the dim interior of the packed café. It took a moment, but when she saw who was mocking her, it felt like an ice-cold dagger to the heart.

By the bar, Sam Cassidy stood, hipshot, mouth twisted with contempt as he gave her the sarcastic salute. Merry went red all over, her pleasure shattered. She gathered herself and started to slink off the stage. But then she stopped.
Why should I run away?
she thought.
I've done nothing wrong.
He's
the asshole.

But why is he being an asshole? I thought we were past all that.

She hopped down and stomped over to Sam. “
What
,” she demanded, staring down at him deliberately from her superior height. “What did I do now?”