Last Chance Llama Ranch (29 page)

W
hen she emerged, Bob was there to greet her. He had a damp dishcloth in one hand and an icy can of soda in the other. “Forehead,” he said, waving the cloth. “Back of neck.” He waggled the frosty can. Before Merry could protest, he led her back to her booth and applied both as directed.

Merry let him.

Normally, she hated to be fussed over. She hated to be seen in moments of weakness. But right now…she was on empty, and it wasn't just her roiling stomach.

“Breathe,” Bob advised. He took on his notable-quotable voice. “‘When we pause, allow a gap, and breathe deeply, we can experience instant refreshment. Suddenly, we slow down, and there's the world.'”

Merry endeavored to follow the advice. “Who said that?” she asked after several deep inhalations.

“Pema Chödrön. Or at least, her social media manager. I saw it on her Facebook page.”

“I'm not sure I'm ready for the world,” she confessed. The cold can on the back of her neck was helping; she no longer felt as if she might faint. Quaking, however, was still very much on the menu. “I guess you heard all that?” She gestured to her laptop.

“It's a small café,” he acknowledged. “Sounds like you've hit the end of the line with that website you work for.”

“Yeah. With a splat.” Merry scrubbed a hand over her face, feeling the screws under the skin. Right now the titanium felt like about all that was holding her together. “I don't know what I'm going to tell Dolly. She was so excited about me bringing in new business for the ranch through DDWID.”

Bob looked thoughtful. “You know, I really dig your column, Lady Hobbit. But have you ever thought of doing more with your writing?”

Merry shrugged. “Not really. I'm still pretty new at it. I don't even know what I'm doing most of the time. My editor was always teasing me about trying to write the great American novel when I should have been pleasing Five-Second Sally.”

“Well,
that's
interesting,” said Bob. He scratched pensively at his beard. “I don't know who this Sally chick is, but seems to me you could give her a run for her money.”

Merry's lips twisted ruefully. “That's sweet of you, Bob. But I'm not a real writer. Most of the time I'm just pulling stuff out of my ass.”

“My dear,” said Bob, “most of life is ‘pulling stuff out of your ass.'”

“Who said that?”

“I did.”

Merry gave him a wan smile.

“Seriously, why don't you try it? You could write a book about life with the llamas.”

“Like, a novel?”

“Could be.” He shrugged. “But I was thinking maybe you could take what you've already been doing—your profiles of the town and the people here—and turn the whole thing into a book. Like one of those travel memoirs.
A Year in Provence
, or
Wild
. That sort of thing. Be good for tourism,” he said, gazing around at his near-empty establishment. “And the Buddha knows we need more of that around here.”

The wheels started churning in Merry's mind. A sense of hope, of excitement, uncurled in her gut. What she'd said to Joel was true. Aguas Milagros was worth more than just a couple of throwaway pieces posted on the Internet. It was a corner of the world unlike any other she had visited. A place that made you want to stay, get to know folks. Even set down roots. “You think anyone would be interested in reading a book like that?”

“I think…” Bob rested one warm hand on Merry's shoulder. “I think with a book like that, you could make a real difference in this town.”

You
make a difference
, Merry thought. Aguas Milagros could hardly survive without Bob and his unique café.
Dolly makes a difference. Jane makes a difference. And hell, Sam, sour as he is, makes a difference here. But how can I?

What does this town need?

A draft of autumn air swept Dolly into the café.

“I need Merry.” The screen door slapped shut behind her with a bang, and she caught sight of Bob, standing by Merry's booth with his dishcloth in hand. “Don't think I'm speaking to you just because I'm speaking
near
you, Bob Henderson. I only came looking for my redheaded ranch hand.” Her eyes lit on Merry. “Ah, there you are. Child, I am pure overwhelmed, and I need you back at the ranch. We've got to get prepped for the Wool Festival at Taos next weekend, and I'm about up to my eyeballs with everything that needs doing.”

“Um, Dolly…there's something I have to tell you. Can you sit for a minute?”

Dolly plunked down opposite her in the booth, giving Bob the hairy eyeball as if daring him to challenge her right to be there. “What is it, child? You look worse than even Bob's margaritas can account for.”

Bob's lips tightened, though he pretended not to notice the jibe, heading back to the counter and his prized cappuccino maker. The sound of steam could be heard, coming, Merry thought, as much from his ears as the machine.

In as few words as she could, Merry filled Dolly in on the situation. Bob busied himself refilling Merry's coffee cup, and brought over a cappuccino for Dolly as well. Merry noticed Dolly's had a Medusa head drawn in the foam. Dolly sipped at it, then scowled when she realized she'd accepted Bob's hospitality. She didn't seem to notice the Gorgon she'd slurped.

“So, Don't Do What I Did is basically kaput, though I'll try to keep it going on my own website and see if I get any traction,” Merry finished. “I can keep doing my best for you around the ranch until Luke gets back, but I won't have the same readership I once had. All that publicity I promised you and the Happy Hookers…well, I don't know that I can deliver on that anymore.” She hung her head.

Dolly patted it, stroking her chapped fingers through Merry's hair in a motherly gesture. “Don't get your knickers in a twist, hon. You've done plenty for us already, and it ain't like I'd have gotten a ranch hand I didn't have to pay if it hadn't been for you coming here. Worry about yourself right now. Didn't you tell me you planned to head straight on to the next gig after you were finished here, and your place was rented out meanwhile? You got somewhere to go after this?”

“Ah…I haven't exactly figured that out yet.”

“Well
I
have, and it doesn't take much figuring. You'll stay at the ranch 'til you sort yourself out.” Dolly thumped the table decisively. “Looks like Luke's taking his sweet time down in T or C anyhow, canoodling with his new bride. Might be a while before he makes his way back up our way, and with autumn settling in like it is, we're gonna need someone handy with the ‘women's work' we do in the colder months. Spinning wool and such. Dyeing yarn. I can't pay much, but I can keep your butt in biscuits 'til you figure out your next step.”

Merry gulped. “Uh, Dolly, you do know I'm not exactly…” She made crocheting motions with her hands.

“I know you aren't. Not yet anyhow. But you'll learn. That is, if you think you're up for it—and you aren't too proud for such homely stuff.”

“Dolly, I'd do just about anything for you. I hope you know that.” Merry's throat tightened. “It's only, I don't want to let you down…”

“So don't.”

Just like that, eh?
Merry smiled wryly. A sense of relief washed over her at the thought of staying awhile longer. Relief, and something stronger. “Okay, but what about Sam?” she asked. “Last night he didn't seem any too keen to have me sticking around.”

“You let me worry about Sam. Anyhow, he's gone off on one of his legendary sulks as of this morning, and it may be a while before we see hide or hair of him again. Now, we finished jawing? I got about a truckful of yarn needs sorting, labeling, and packing up, a half-dozen prize alpacas waiting on a good grooming before we can show 'em at the festival, not to mention about ten hundred amigurumi need boxing and price tagging. So shake a tail feather, child, and let's get a move on.”

Merry got to her feet, took Dolly's hands in her own, and, with tears in her eyes, gently kissed the older woman's weathered cheek. “Yes, ma'am!”

Once, they called me the redheaded renegade. (That might have had something to do with the way my skis went out from under me from time to time, but shush, we're not talking about that.) Anyhow, now I'm going rogue once more, dear readers, and this time I invite you to join me. Aguas Milagros has been too damn much fun to leave behind. So I'm not
going
to leave it behind. I may be parting ways with
Pulse
, but I think I'll stay with Dolly and her llamas awhile longer. I invite you to stick around too, and see what transpires. Find me at OnMyMerryWay.com.

T
he theme from
The Exorcist
poured out of Merry's back pocket. She arched her butt up to retrieve her phone, looked at the screen, and winced. There were six missed calls from her mother, not including this last one. “Take a hint, woman!” she told the device.

“What's that, hon?” Dolly looked over at Merry. She had one hand on the steering wheel of her battered old pickup, the other arm out the open window, and an inquisitive expression on her face as the wind teased her gingery hair. She was taking the winding road to Taos with the ease of someone intimately familiar with it.

“Oh, just my mother.” Merry stuck the phone back into her jeans pocket and unconsciously smoothed her unruly brows. “She'll call about twenty-five times more, until I pick up. It's never anything urgent, unless you consider the shameful state of my wardrobe or my skin-care regimen an emergency.”

Dolly cracked a smile. “You two not too keen on one another?”

“Oh, she's keen on
me
,” Merry said. “Keen to change everything about me, that is.”

Dolly laughed. “Had me a mother like that. Wanted me to be a beauty queen, if you can believe it. Took me traipsing all over New Mexico trying to enter me in two-bit kiddie pageants. Me! I was practically born in a pair of shitkickers.”

Merry knew the feeling. If she had her way, they'd bury her in sweatpants. “So what did you do?”

“Got so bad, I started faking I was sick the morning before we'd set out on one of those stupid auditions. But it wasn't 'til I hit upon the idea of drawing spots on my face that she finally took the hint. I only meant to dab on some chicken pox, but I used a Sharpie marker 'cause I didn't know any better. Wouldn't come off for about two weeks, and the whole time I was looking like Raggedy Ann.” She chuckled. “That was the end of
that
.”

“I wish it were that simple for me.” Merry sighed. “At least back when I skied I could get Mother off my case a little.”

“Is that why you did it?” Dolly wanted to know.

“Skied, you mean?”

Dolly nodded.

Merry looked out the window, letting the question settle in as the dramatic scenery sped by in tones of rust and sage and sand. She wanted to say yes. Her mother had pushed and pushed, and had as much as come out and said that Merry was only satisfactory as long as she could bring home gold. But she couldn't honestly claim her whole career had been about making her mother proud. She'd made
herself
proud too. There'd been nothing like the rush…the feeling of her body obeying every command, of being powerful, graceful, even
fierce
…instead of just a freak. Since she'd first picked up poles when she was three years old, nothing had ever made Merry feel so at home, so
herself
, as skiing.

No. She hadn't done it for her mother. She'd done it for her own satisfaction, and if it got Gwendolyn off her back in the process, so much the better. “Let's just say it was a point of commonality,” Merry said, “and once it was gone…well, these days we have fewer and fewer safe subjects to discuss.”

Merry's phone played
Tubular Bells
again. She ground her tush into the car seat as if that might shut her mother up.

“You gonna keep ducking your ma forever?”

Maybe I can claim to be out of range for a little while longer.
Or fake like I fell off a cliff.
They were, after all, driving along the rim of the very steep Rio Grande gorge at the moment. But as much as she might fantasize doing a
Thelma and Louise
to escape reality, that would probably fly about as well as a '66 Ford Thunderbird. “I'll have to deal with her sooner or later,” Merry acknowledged. “There's some family business that needs deciding, and they want to see me for Thanksgiving.”

“You should invite them out to the ranch,” Dolly surprised her by saying. “Might be nice, getting to meet your folks, and we always make enough food for an army.”

Merry choked on a laugh. The image of Gwendolyn Hollingsworth Manning at the Last Chance, surrounded by Dolly's menagerie, was beyond absurd. And her father…Pierce would be gracious, of course, but she couldn't really see him sitting down at Dolly's kitchen table and tucking in to one of her homely meals.

Marcus might like it though
. Merry smiled at the thought of her suave supermodel brother kicking back with a bunch of farm animals…and Sam Cassidy.

“That's kind of you, Dolly. But I wouldn't dream of imposing”—
inflicting
was more like it—“on you or Sam that way. You've already been so hospitable, and I'm sure I'll have found my next gig by then.” She changed the subject before Dolly could insist. “Oh, hey, looks like we're coming up to Taos!”