Last Chance Llama Ranch (10 page)

And goggled.

Merry had seen ferns, and even hearts painted in foam before, but this was…
a latte llama
?
Yes, plainly and unmistakably, Bob had created a tiny, realistic portrait of the woolly beast within the confines of a wide china cup. With nothing more than steamed milk and deep, rich espresso, he'd performed a kind of enchantment. “I can't drink this,” she said, looking up at Bob.

His twinkle faded. “Why not?”

“Because…because…I'll ruin it!”

The twinkle returned. “All things are impermanent,” said Bob, folding his hands over his tummy and settling more comfortably into his beard. “Life, art, coffee…they all evanesce. So enjoy them while you can.”

“Well, okay,” Merry said reluctantly, “but not until I Instagram it. And do you mind if I post a picture of you with your creation for my magazine? My readers will have a spaz.” She was already digging out her smartphone.

“A modicum of publicity would not go amiss,” Bob allowed, making a peace sign as he posed with the latte. “And if a ‘spaz' is anything like a thrill…I live to provide.”

Merry snapped. And sipped. And groaned. Fuck, it was good. “Bob, can I give you a hug?”

“Of a surety.”

So Merry did.

“I'll be back with your check in a bit. Meanwhile, relax and do what you came to do.” He waved at her computer. “MacBook Pro? Fifteen inch?”

She nodded.

“I've got the new Air, myself. Wonderful device. Restores my faith in humanity.”

And he wafted off, leaving Merry to her work.

The scant leftovers had congealed, as had Merry's restiffening muscles, by the time she was satisfied with her articles. She posted the pieces, along with an email to Joel letting him know they'd gone into the system and were ready for his review. Knowing how quickly he worked, and how little he slept, she'd no doubt they'd be live on the site by morning. Live, and waiting for her readers to enjoy…or loathe. They wouldn't be shy about letting her know which. With the web, she'd found, there was no such thing as middle ground. Or perhaps those who felt merely “meh” about one's work rarely chimed in. The extremists, on the other hand—the trolls—were vocal, prolific, and bred more of each other with each comment.

Well, I'll sink or I'll swim. And at least if I sink I can get out of this place soon.

But did she want to?

Merry was brought up short at the thought.

Yes, landing in Aguas Milagros was like traveling back in time. And yeah, it was weird as hell sleeping in a chicken coop and playing Farmer Fred with a bunch of woolly animals in the back of beyond. It was uncomfy. It was potentially hazardous. But at least it was new. And new meant
exciting
. Merry hadn't been a skier because she hated excitement. It was only after the accident that she'd learned to equate “excitement” with “danger.” And “danger” with “no, thank you.” Such discretion had seemed like the better part of valor—only an idiot failed to learn from her mistakes—but…

It's been killing me by inches.

She hadn't realized just how much she'd missed adrenaline until just now. Sure, the sleepy town of Aguas Milagros and its laid-back inhabitants might seem a strange place to find a thrill, but…there it was. Unmistakably. For the first time in two years, Merry felt energized. Excited to try new things, and immerse herself in this totally foreign experience. Excited to make that experience come alive for her fans.

Maybe I've just had too many enchiladas and a turbo-powered llama latte too late at night.
But whatever. She was going to
crush
this assignment. If there was a Pulitzer for puff pieces, she'd own that shit. Because Dolly and her menagerie deserved her best. Bob and his wryly named diner deserved her best. And Sam…well, Sam could go fuck himself.

She turned back to her keyboard, intending to start a new post about how awesome this assignment was.

“Hoping the Last Chance will make you famous?”

Sam had not gone to fuck himself. Instead, he was fucking with
her
. She eyed him like a carton of week-old Chinese food she'd found in the back of a not-very-cold fridge. He was in jeans and a worn flannel shirt this evening, sans hat and, she noticed, sans shoes too. Come to think of it, she'd yet to see him wearing any footwear at all. Apparently Bob didn't have a no shirt/no shoes/no assholes policy.

“I've already
been
famous,” she snapped before she thought better of it.

Sam looked at her, brow quirked. “I hate to tell you, but
in your mind
doesn't count, Miss Manning.”

He didn't know? After what Bob had said, Merry had assumed Sam was aware of who she was—hell, that everyone in town knew. Merry Manning had been a household name, after all. A goddamn
Wheaties
box. The news media had been touting Merry's achievements for months before the Olympic trials, the sports broadcasts building her up into some sort of home-grown legend, America's great hope for gold. She'd done pretty well at her first Olympic games, but
this
was supposed to have been her year. All the races leading up to the big games, the national competitions and the World Cup…no one had been able to touch her. You'd have to have been living under a rock…

…or in North Bumblefuck…

…to avoid knowing.

“No, not
in my mind
. I was—” Merry stopped, reconsidered.
I really need to get out from under the giant boulder that is my ego
, she thought.
Not everybody cares about skiing. Even folks who live forty minutes from some pretty choice mountains.
Maybe Bob was the exception, not the rule, in Aguas Milagros. A flush crept over her cheeks. “Never mind,” she mumbled.

Sam, arms crossed over his barrel chest and legs planted wide, continued to eye her. Or more accurately, he was eyeing the array of mostly empty plates that surrounded her laptop like soldiers laying siege to a castle. “They don't have food where you come from?” he asked, allowing the subject to shift.

“Not like this,” Merry said, too distracted to bristle at Sam's sarcasm. She was busy digesting the realization that she was anonymous for the first time in a decade. It sat even better with her than the feast she'd just inhaled.
I can be anyone I want here.
“
No one
has food like this.”

Sam's flinty gaze seemed to soften—just infinitesimally—as he glanced over at the kitchen, where the cook was now tidying up, off duty for the night. “Yeah, Feliciana's something, alright.”

“Bob, too,” Merry said. “I'm half-convinced…”

“I've heard him sing,” Sam interrupted. “Couldn't carry a tune in a bucket.”

“I'm sure there's quite a story there.” Merry took a chance. “Quite a story with you too, Mr. Cassidy. Care to go on the record—give my readers a few details about the life of a llama wrangler?” She pulled out her smartphone and started tapping until she found the voice recorder app.

“Oh
hell
no.” Sam reared back as if she'd offered him a shit sandwich. He pointed his finger at her. “Don't you dare put me in that blog of yours.”

“It's not a blog—”

“Whatever the hell you're calling it, I don't want to be in it.”

“Why, are you on the lam or something?”

“I like my privacy,” he growled. “And I
don't
like my family being mocked for rubes by some big-city journalist.”

“I would never mock Dolly!” Merry glared up at him. “Jeez, can't you even give me a chance? This is all new for me too.”

Sam slouched back on one hip, brow raised. “I thought you were a legit writer. Now you're telling me you've never done this job before?”

Merry wiped her fingers on her napkin, stacking her plates neatly to make things easier for Bob. “No, it's not
new
for me, exactly. Just…well, this is my first DDWID mission.”

“I have no fucking idea what you just said.”

“‘Don't Do What I Did,'” Merry said helpfully. “It's the name of my column. Didn't Dolly tell you?”

Sam shook his head. “And the ‘don't do' part refers to working on a llama ranch?” His scowl was thunderous.

“The title's supposed to be tongue-in-cheek. If you check it out, you'll see it's really just meant to be me showing people how the other half live.”

His face grew positively apoplectic. “The
other half
?”

Shit
. “That's not what I meant…”

“It's what you
said
.”

“I just meant…well, for crying out loud, you guys
do
live a pretty unusual lifestyle. I'm trying to show my readers a glimpse of something they may never get to experience on their own. It's meant to be charming! Read it for yourself if you like.”

Oh, wait, no…
If he did, he'd see she'd portrayed him as some sort of cowboy out of a Harlequin romance. But what were the odds that a guy like Sam Cassidy would even own a computer? He probably lived in a yurt or something. If there was ever a guy who typified “off the grid,” it was Sam.

“
Charming
,” Sam said slowly, as if the word gave him heartburn. Merry contemplated offering him one of her antacids, then thought better of it. He pushed the sleeves of his oiled canvas jacket up, and Merry was momentarily distracted by the muscular forearms he bared. Hopefully not in preparation for strangling her.

“Yeah, you know…I show them what your daily life is like, tell them all about the animals, and how you take care of them. When I tag along on your llama tour tomorrow, I'll tell my readers all about that too. By the way,” she hastened on before he could protest, “Dolly said to tell you you've got two people who signed up for the trek. My writing about it should be great for your business. I get like twenty thousand page views a day, and that's not counting my Twitter following. It's basically free advertising to exactly your target market, and I know Dolly's pretty keen to take advantage of that.” Merry offered him the cheeky smile that had—at least before the evergreen had rearranged her face—won her countless hearts and no few sponsorship deals.

Sam seemed to respond less to the smile than the promise of publicity. Merry had gotten the sense that the Last Chance was hanging on by a thread, and whatever else Sam was, he wasn't stupid. She could do a lot for tourism at the ranch. “Well,” he said slowly, “you
are
here to work. And Luke—that's our regular hand—did help out with the tours, so I suppose it's in your job description. If you're serious about doing this job—”

“I
so
am—”

“Then meet me out front of the barn tomorrow. No later than seven, or I leave you behind, got it?”

“I got it,” Merry said stiffly.

“And Miss Manning?”

“Yeah?”

“Be prepared for some serious shit,” he said, turning on his heel and stalking out of the diner.

Worse than the shit you just gave me?
Merry wondered.

W
ow. That is some serious shit,” said Merry.

She was eyeing a flatbed truck of the sort that ranchers, she supposed, must use to transport livestock. Only this one had been customized for llamas. It was a bit like an army troop carrier, except that it was gated and had bars high enough that frisky fluffies couldn't hop out.
Do llamas hop?
she wondered, distracted by the image of the Last Chance's prized pack animals bounding fences like sheep in a mattress commercial.
One leaping llama…two leaping llamas…three leaping llamas…zzzzzzzz.

They may not hop, but they sure do drop
, she thought. The bed of the vehicle was awash with yesterday's llama leftovers. Leftovers Merry had been tasked with excising before they went out on their morning trek.

“Occupational hazard,” said her new boss. “Shit, as they say, happens.”

Merry didn't need the smirk that went along with that fatuous comment, but Sam Cassidy, it seemed, was giving them out for free this morning. Hat firmly in place, hair knotted back in a low, messy ponytail, his bearlike body clad in ratty overalls that could have come from the Dust Bowl era, he stood with arms crossed over his chest, bare feet planted wide in the dirt.

He was the very picture of rugged individualism.

Rugged,
asshole
individualism.

“And, um, after it happens, how does one dispose of it?” Merry slung her borrowed hat onto the passenger seat along with the satchel containing her laptop, and shucked off her sore-abused Burberry trench. She hung the latter over one of the truck's doors, far enough from the crime scene so that the still-mostly-white fabric wouldn't suffer further indignity.

Unlike me.

Sam unwound a hose from where it had been hooked to the side of the barn. “Start with this,” he said, talking to her as if she were five, “and then you scrape off whatever's left with this.” He pointed to what looked like a garden hoe leaning against the weathered wooden structure. “Lather, rinse, repeat.”

Merry stifled the urge to flick a llama turd at Sam. Flinging poo at her boss on her first day working for him
might
start things off on the wrong foot—no matter how much his condescending attitude begged for it. “And what will you be doing while I'm in decon mode, may I ask?”

“Wrangling llamas, of course.” Sam smirked again.

“Seems like you're getting the better end of this deal,” she muttered, taking the hose from him while pointedly avoiding skin-to-skin contact.

“The front end, anyway,” Sam acknowledged, looking not the slightest bit sorry. “You wussing out?”

“Not hardly!”

“Then get to work.”

“Yes,
boss
.” It took an enormous effort of will, but Merry did not hose her host down with freezing-cold water as he sauntered off, whistling for his llamas.

Setting her jaw, Merry hoisted herself painfully up into the bed of the truck, sluicing and scraping until the corrugated metal bed could once again be seen. Thirty minutes later, she was wet, cold, and caked in what was surely all the bacteria in the world. Mornings in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains were both chilly and breezy, and the blowback from her hose-down operation had not been pretty. As soon as this benighted expedition was over, she was going to boil the shit out of everything she was wearing, then take a quick dip in Betadine. Maybe start a course of antibiotics too. But the truck was about as decontaminated as anything short of a flamethrower could make it, and Merry was rather proud of her efforts.
I wouldn't want to eat off it, but I wouldn't stop Sam if he wanted to.

She glanced over at her boss, and her gaze narrowed. He had four llamas haltered and hitched to the corral now, and four sets of bulging canvas panniers waiting loaded at his feet. He was leaning against the fence, loose as you please, chowing down on the breakfast burrito Dolly had made him. Merry had been too achy—and still full from the Café Con Kvetch dinner extravaganza—to take advantage of her hostess's generosity this morning, but now she was regretting it.
Not that I could eat with hands this filthy
, she thought. Somehow, seeing Sam blithely scarfing his breakfast while she
became
breakfast for a horde of rampaging germs only made her more annoyed. “Done!” she chirped, giving him her biggest, brightest smile.

He strolled over, tossing back the last bite of his breakfast and dusting off his enviably clean hands. He leaned over and took a gander at the inside of the vehicle. Then he pulled a pair of gloves out of the back pocket of his coveralls—why hadn't
she
been offered gloves?!—and put them on before brushing a llama bean she'd somehow missed over the side. He sucked on his teeth contemplatively as he walked around the truck, inspecting every inch, letting the moment go on until Merry could scarcely contain a growl. “Passable,” he finally allowed.

“
Passable?!
Mr. Clean
couldn't get that filthy fu—” Merry took a breath, seeing the amusement in his eyes. “Thank you
so
much for the lovely compliment,” she bit off. “Do you have anything else you need me to do before we hit the road? I believe you said you've got two tourists meeting us at the trailhead, and I wouldn't want to keep them waiting.”

“That we do. You know the drill?”

“Not really,” Merry admitted.

“Well,” he said, obviously enjoying her discomfiture, “these beginner trips, I like to take the paying guests up into the national preserve. The views are pretty stunning, and the trail's not too strenuous—only about seven miles. The llamas take most of the load so the tourists can enjoy the scenery without hoisting a pack. That's the appeal of these treks—well, that and the unique opportunity to bond with these very special animals.” The sarcasm vanished from his face as he looked over his little herd. His expression was gentle, even loving, and it transformed his homely face into something halfway pleasing.
For a second there, Sam was almost…attractive
, Merry thought.
Almost
. He gave the nearest beast a scratch on its neck, and Merry could swear she heard it chuckle.

She could not share the humor, however.
Seven miles. Up a mountain.
Merry gulped. Levering herself out of her cot had been almost beyond her capacity just an hour ago, and while she had to admit the truck scrub-down had limbered her up a little, it was even odds whether she'd be coming back down the mountain under her own steam or strapped to the back of her llama. “Sounds great!” she enthused. “What do I have to do?”

“It's not rocket science, Miss Manning. Just hang on to your llama's lead and stay out of his way. They know what they're doing. When we get to the top, you'll help stake them out and lay out a lunch while I charm our trekkers.”

Merry's jaw dropped.
Charm…? Sam…?

He ignored her expression. “You better not hold us back, city girl,” he warned. “Altitude gets above thirteen thousand feet up there and a lot of people can't hack it. Oh, and while you're saving your breath, that reminds me: I don't want you ruining their good time with a lot of reporter-type questions. They're here to relax and enjoy nature, not give an interview. So zip your mouth shut, keep up, and we'll get along just fine.”

Merry would wager she'd spent more of her life at high altitude than Sam, though admittedly not recently. “Don't worry. I'll keep up.”

He let out a
humph
. “Let's get loaded then.” He let down the back ramp of the truck and took the first llama's lead. “C'mon, Paddington,” he said, tugging gently. The beast, wearing a self-satisfied smirk much like his master's, swayed leisurely over to the ramp and ambled up it without fuss. “Now you, Miss Manning,” Sam said, waving at the next one.

“You don't have to call me Miss Manning,” Merry said, playing for time. Alpacas might be the bomb, but their larger cousins had yet to win her over. She looked askance at her charge. The critter in question was a dusty black, with a white blaze on its chest, a sweeping set of lashes, and banana-like ears. From its sulky expression, she gathered it was no more eager to make her acquaintance than she was its. “It makes me feel like a schoolmarm.”

“Gym teacher, maybe,” Sam drawled, giving her a once-over that made Merry feel every inch of her six-foot-three figure. “Now, you going to get cracking, or are we going to stand here jawing all morning?”

Merry sucked in a breath.
Do not slap your host. Do
not
slap your host.
“Right,” she said, marching purposefully forward to grab a halter. “C'mon, little doggie. Let's get this show on the road.”

“Miss Manning…”

“It's
Merry
!”

“
Miss Manning
, you might not want…”

Merry ignored him.

And paid for it.

Ptoooo!

A stream of sheer evil arced through the air.

Thwack
.

Not again.

“Fuck!” Merry stripped off the flannel shirt she had on over her tank top, using it to mop her face where the fiend had doused her.

The next thing to hit her was Sam Cassidy's guffaw. It was loud. It was raucous. And it washed over her in waves of hilarity that just wouldn't quit.

When she was sure she wouldn't get any death-goo in her eyes if she opened them, Merry cracked them into slits just wide enough to skewer Sam with a deadly glare.

Sam had his back against the side of the truck, his head buried in his hands. He was shaking, and tears of mirth tracked down his cheeks. “Jesus, lady, you're about as subtle as a sledgehammer. Didn't I tell you not to make sudden moves around the llamas?”

“Fuck you, Sam Cassidy.” The words were out of her mouth before she could call them back.
I've gone too far; I'm gonna get fired.

But Sam was made of sterner stuff.

“Not in a million years, sister.” Yet Sam was eyeing Merry with a curious light in his eyes.

Suddenly, Merry realized she had nothing on up top but a thin white racer-back tank. Her heart sank as she remembered.
My scars.
Her left arm was a horror show from her triceps to halfway down the back of her forearm, where the doctors had pinned the shattered elbow joint and forearm bones back together. The scar looked like a giant flesh zipper, faded now from angry red to pale pink, but still ugly. Her right hand flew up instinctively to cover the mess, but when she looked at Sam, dreading the revulsion she'd see in his eyes, she realized he wasn't looking at her elbow.

He was eyeing her
breasts
. Breasts which were now clearly outlined by the damp tank top, not to mention pressed together because of her protective gesture—
and
plumped up by the impractical lace push-up bra her mother had sent along in her last care package.
As if I were the lingerie type.
But beggars couldn't be choosers, and Merry had not been able to justify turning away her mother's gift when her own underwear budget was so under
whelming
.
In the cold, her nipples had done the natural thing, and they were clearly capturing her host's attention.

When was the last time a man looked at my body and saw something other than my scars?
Something about Sam's gaze told her that scars were the last thing on his mind right now. A warmth trickled into her belly. Flustered, Merry went on the offensive. “Eyes up here, buddy,” she snapped, even as a blush spread across her llama-loogied cheeks.

“I'm not sure I can crane my neck that high,” Sam shot back, nevertheless pulling his gaze up to meet her eyes. “C'mon, Wookiee. Stop scaring Severus and let's get these boys loaded.”

“Severus?”

“Snape,” he said helpfully. “You
have
read Harry Potter?”

“Of course I'd get the Slytherin,” she sighed, but she moved forward gingerly and took its lead.

This time the llama, which appeared to have learned the art of smugness from its owner, allowed itself to be led up the ramp.
Out of ammo, probably.
The others followed suit and Sam slammed the tailgate shut.

“Up and at 'em, Wookiee,” he said.

Merry, who was a veteran of unkind nicknames, had a pretty good idea when one was going to stick.
Could have been worse
, she supposed, though she wasn't sure how.

“Let me just wash up,” she said, holding up her hands to show their grubbiness.

“Hate to break it to you, lady, but the trail's not any cleaner. Let's go already.”

Merry balked. “Not until I've gotten clean enough to at least tie back this disaster,” she said, pointing gingerly at the blowsy Medusa do that had replaced her usually quite delightful coppery mane. Her hair had slipped free of the clip she'd used to pin it up, and dangled now in unkempt ropes that clung to her cheeks, neck, and back in ways that made her want to scream like an Edvard Munch painting. Hell if she'd touch it with these farm-fresh fingers.