Last Chance Llama Ranch (39 page)

I
ain't apologizing, so don't start with me,” Dolly said. She met Merry's betrayed look with a pugnacious one of her own.

“But why would you—” Merry looked furtively around the living room, but her parents and brother were out of earshot, availing themselves of the facilities to freshen up. “How
could
you invite my family here without telling me?”

Dolly gave an exasperated huff as she pulled blankets and pillows from the chest that did double duty as her coffee table. “It's plain as day you needed to make your peace with them. Besides, it just didn't seem right, you spending Thanksgiving without your loved ones.” She shoved the stack of linens at Merry. “Here. Take these out to the cabin for that scamp you're calling a brother. I already made up the spare bedroom for your folks, if they ain't too fussy for homely things.” She gave Merry a measured look. “I figure you and Sammy won't find it too much of a hardship to bunk together at his place.”

Merry blushed—
hard
—but she refused to drop the subject. “Dolly, you don't understand about my parents…”

“What's to understand? You love them, don't you?”

Merry made a face.

Dolly whapped Merry with one of the pillows—gently, but hard enough to make her point.

“Yeah. I guess.” Merry sighed.

“And they love you, don't they?” Dolly persisted.

“I assume so,” Merry allowed, “though sometimes it's hard to tell.”

Dolly didn't smile. “You ought to know better than that, child. They just flew halfway around the world to see you, didn't they?”

To
scold
me
, Merry thought.
To bend me to their will
. “It's complicated,” she said.

Dolly rolled her eyes. “When
isn't
family complicated?”

Right. Dolly had a troublesome family member of her own breathing down her neck in the person of one John Dixon.
I need to get my head out of my ass and remember I'm not the only person in the world with problems. And mine are the kind plenty of people would be glad to have.

“Seems to me you've got yourself a golden opportunity to straighten things out, child,” Dolly said, interrupting her thoughts. “Whatever's between you and them, if you don't work it out now, I guess you never will.”

I could have lived with that
, Merry thought. But there was no help for it now. “I hear you, Dolly, and I appreciate what you're trying to do. I just don't want them to ruin your holiday, is all.”

“Way I see it, the only one fixing to ruin the holiday is
you
, child, if you don't adjust that attitude. So slap on a smile and help me make your folks feel welcome.”

Merry plastered a hideous grin across her face. “Don't say I didn't warn you.”

My mother ruined Thanksgiving.

A woman of unparalleled grace, charm, and breeding, she is also the last person you want in your kitchen. (Sorry, Mom, but it's true.)

Or your mudroom, in the chill confines of which Dolly had left the turkey to brine. Apparently the vinegary scent of the mixture—Dolly's patented secret recipe—proved too much
for my mother's nostrils in the night, and she left the exterior door open to ventilate the hacienda.

Someone—or—some
thing
—took this as an invitation to abscond, Grinch-style, with the gobbler.

There was only one thing for it. Café Con Kvetch.

“I'm dreadfully sorry, Mrs. Cassidy,” Gwendolyn said. “I'm afraid I've spoiled your festivities.”

They were gathered in the hacienda's kitchen, staring out into the mudroom at the remains of the brining bag that were scattered, reeking of apple cider vinegar, across its floor. Of the turkey itself, there was no trace.

In addition to their mortified expressions, Pierce and Gwendolyn had on matching dressing gowns in maroon quilted silk. It was scarcely dawn, the light just peeking over the snowcapped mountains, the air cold enough to make Merry, clad only in Sam's hastily donned red union suit, shiver uncontrollably. Sam, in just jeans and the Carhartt jacket he'd snatched up at the sound of Gwendolyn's screams, chafed Merry's arms to warm them. He started to give her the jacket, but Merry shook her head sharply, giving him a warning look. She had no desire to scandalize her parents with the sight of Sam's brawny naked chest. Pierce and Gwendolyn hadn't questioned the sleeping arrangements last night, and Merry wasn't eager to announce she was shacking up with her host's nephew—if the union suit hadn't already given it away.
We've got enough to deal with around here
, she thought.
Hardly need Dad grilling my boyfriend about his prospects and intentions
.

The fact that Sam was—or wanted to be—her boyfriend, was still far too new. But pretty awesome, Merry had to admit. Unable to help herself, she leaned subtly into him. Sam leaned back, just as subtly, but she had a feeling she wasn't fooling her sharp-eyed mother. After the night they'd shared, Merry was lucky the hobbit hole was halfway across the ranch, or her parents would have gotten an earful. Instead, they'd woken to an earful of Gwendolyn's even more impressive screeches, along with the howling of wild animals fighting over Dolly's heritage turkey.

“Thought I heard the call of the wild Hollingsworth Manning,” said Marcus, wandering through the front door sporting a wifebeater and low-slung pj bottoms. “What's cooking?” He yawned, looking over their shoulders to survey the crime scene.

“Not us, apparently,” Merry muttered. She yanked Marcus's pj's up before he could moon them all, and he returned the favor with a wedgie that made her yelp and dance away. “Quit it,” she whispered, smacking his arm. “This is serious business.”

“If you wanted to be taken seriously, you should've worn something a little less
Honey Boo Boo
,” he said. “So what's going on? Heard a noise outta Mom I didn't think was humanly possible.”

“It was the most ungodly cackling sound,” Gwendolyn said, one hand held to her throat. “Just like those jackals—remember, Pierce, when you were stationed in Egypt and we spent the night bivouacked in the Valley of the Kings? On our honeymoon?”

“How could I forget?” Pierce said, his expression saying he remembered the occasion fondly. “It did sound like jackals.”

“Coyotes,” Sam corrected. “They're all over the place round here.”

Gwendolyn tied the sash of her dressing gown tighter around her waist. “I'd no idea,” she murmured. “Of course, I should have realized, we're so far from civilization…”

Merry winced at her mother's snobbery, but neither Dolly nor Sam blinked an eye.

“You weren't to know about the coyotes,” Dolly said to Gwendolyn. Already dressed for the day in a flowered cotton shirt and corduroy pants, she was also wearing what Merry had come to know as her “brave face.”

“When I went out to investigate,” Pierce explained, “I saw a pack of animals running away, carrying the turkey with them. It was too late to intervene, I'm afraid, and I don't suppose they'd have listened to reason even if I'd had my wits about me to sit them down at the negotiating table.” He smiled at his own joke.

“We had the occasional fox at Father's hunting lodge,” Gwendolyn added apologetically, “but they'd never be so cheeky as to run off with one's supper.”

“We'll just run down to the market and buy another turkey,” Pierce offered, patting his wife's shoulder. “There'll still be time, won't there, if us boys head off now for the store?”

Dolly sighed. “Nearest grocery's a forty-minute drive, and it's closed for the holiday anyhow. I got my bird from a fella who raises 'em on his spread across the valley, but he'll have sold 'em all by now, even if we had time to slaughter and pluck a new one.”

Gwendolyn looked a bit green.

“What if we ate at that café we passed on the way in yesterday?” Marcus asked. “I think I saw a sign that said they'd be open for the holiday.”

Now Dolly looked green.

“I think it's a great idea!” Merry said. “I'm sure Bob would be happy to have us. And Thanksgiving
is
all about mending fences, after all…right, Dolly?”

Dolly was all too aware of Merry's meaning. “Touché, child,” she murmured. “Sam, why don't you call over there once the sun's more up, and tell Bob to expect six more for supper.” She headed for the sink. “Meanwhile, who's for coffee?”

Four hands shot up, and four sets of eyes stared at Dolly like dogs begging for a treat. “Alrighty then. Tea for you, Gwen?” Dolly asked.

“If you have it,” Gwendolyn said, not correcting Dolly's use of the diminutive, though it looked like it cost her.
Points for class, Mother
, Merry thought. But then, class had never been Gwendolyn's issue. Warmth, on the other hand…

“While it's brewing, you might like to put on some clothes,” Dolly said, eyeing Merry's union suit and Sam's bare chest. Merry blushed.

“Excellent idea for all of us,” Pierce said heartily. “Come, darling, let's make ourselves scarce.” They decamped. Marcus seemed in no hurry to take off, however. He was too busy trying to sneak pics of Merry's onesie with his phone, which he'd had tucked in his pajama pocket.

“That goes for you too, Crest Commercial,” Dolly said tartly. “Quit cluttering up my kitchen and go get decent. I got Jane coming over in a bit to check on the new cria, and I don't want you upsetting her with all that handsomeness.” She ignored his baffled expression and shooed him out the door. “Go on now.”

It was a less disheveled Manning clan that reconvened around the kitchen table an hour later. Dolly was doling out flapjacks adorned with fresh fruit, maple syrup, and homemade whipped cream, and an enormous rasher of bacon sat in the middle of the table.

Sam dove in, and Merry couldn't blame him. It had been a
very
active twenty-four hours, after all. Pierce, too, helped himself to a healthy portion, eyes alight with pleasure at the homely fare.

“Your cholesterol, dear,” murmured Gwendolyn, placing a hand on his wrist.

“My cholesterol is on vacation,
dear
,” he said, stuffing a bite of pancake in his mouth.

She tsked, but she left him to it.

“None for you, Gwennie?” Dolly asked.

“Oh, no thank you. I don't eat…” She waved at the stack of crisp, golden goodness.

“Mother doesn't eat anything that tastes good,” Merry explained.

“Meredith, please…” Gwendolyn sighed.

“Well, you can't go all morning on an empty stomach,” Dolly exclaimed.

Merry was fairly certain Gwendolyn had gone the better part of the nineties on an empty stomach.

“Come now. What can I make you, Gwen honey?”

“Perhaps just some egg whites if you have them, Mrs. Cassidy.”

“Sure, I can do that,” she said, “if you'll call me Dolly like I asked. But what about you?” she asked Marcus, whose plate was also empty. “You on hunger strike as well?”

“My trainer says carbs are off-limits until after the 2(x)ist shoot next month.” Merry could swear tears were gathering in Marcus's eyes.

“I don't see any trainers at this table, young man,” Dolly said, waving a thick, perfectly fried slice of bacon under his nose.

“Hm, that's true.” He perked up. “Fuck it!” A second later his plate was packed full.

“Language, darling.”

“Shorry, Muffer,” Marcus said around a mouthful that threatened to choke him. “Oh mah gah, thish ish so fugging goo.”

There was silence for the next few minutes while the Mannings masticated. Merry, having little appetite, fiddled with her fork, then caught her mother's reproving expression and set it back down. For good measure she removed her elbows from the table. “So,” she said brightly, “when are you all headed home?”

Sam choked on his pancake.

“We have family business to discuss before anyone goes anywhere, Merry,” Pierce said. “We've been patient while you've sorted yourself out, but now it's time to make decisions. It can't be put off any longer.”

“Pierce, darling, I hardly think it's proper to discuss this in front of the Cassidys,” Gwendolyn murmured.

“No,” Merry said. Her gut was churning. “I've got no secrets from Sam and Dolly—or if I do, I don't want to anymore.” She took a deep breath. “Truth is, Sam, I'm worth twelve million dollars.”

Sam swallowed his bite, took a sip of coffee. “That a fact?”

“Well, that's what I'm worth if I play Mother's game. If I leave the Last Chance and never come back.” Merry's voice was rising, but she couldn't seem to control it. “If I spend the rest of my life raising money to renovate drafty old castles in Cornwall and sipping martinis with her bridge partners or betting on polo matches with Dad's diplomat cronies.”