Last Chance Llama Ranch (12 page)

A
crumpled napkin arced over the top of Merry's laptop and landed on the keyboard, startling her half out of her wits. She looked up to see Sam standing over her, hands on his hips—or what she assumed were hips beneath the all-encompassing overalls he wore. For a second it surprised her to see him as he really was—a haystack sporting a scowl—instead of the dreamy fiction she was spinning for her readers. “Wrap it up, Wookiee,” he said shortly. “We're getting ready to go. Your fans will have to wait a little longer for their next installment of ‘How to Antagonize Llamas and Completely Miss the Point of Nature, with Host Meredith Manning.'” He turned and strode off to fetch the llamas without waiting for a reply, oblivious to the tongue she stuck out at him.

Too bad.
That man is in dire need of a raspberry.

“My name's not Meredith, just so you know!” she called after him, but he didn't hear her. Probably for the best. Her sudden need to confess her true identity since she'd arrived in Aguas Milagros was totally inexplicable.

Karl and Birgit, she saw, were off looking for a stand of trees thick enough to hide the call of nature they were attending. (Sam had provided them baggies for the used TP so they could “carry out what they carried in.”) Their absence was clearly all the permission Sam had needed to show his true colors…

Or was it only Merry who got his goat?

Talking to the tourists, he'd seemed relaxed, at peace…even happy. It was rather a stunning transformation. Without the dyspeptic look he wore around Merry, Sam's plain features were engaging, if not handsome. He looked younger, in his element. He radiated the sort of masculine confidence she'd often seen in her male counterparts on the ski team, though instead of competing to conquer the slopes, all Sam seemed to want was to share his understanding of the natural world with the people who signed on for his tours. Merry had had no cause to doubt his sincerity, or his obvious love of his adopted home. Everything she'd written about him, and their journey so far, was true.

Well, all except for his feet being sexy. And the dashing hero act when she'd crashed into him—which
totally
hadn't been her fault. Yes, she'd smashed into Sam. And true, he'd caught her when her damn leg had betrayed her by buckling. But instead of flirtation, there'd been a look of almost…
disgust
…in his eyes while he steadied her—at arm's length, certainly not in some movie-hero embrace. It was a look that had wounded Merry more than she liked to admit.

I know I'm big and clumsy
, she'd wanted to scream at him.
I know I'm not exactly a supermodel. And yeah, I've invited myself into your world for my own gain, but, damn it, I
am
doing the work!

Just not to Sam's satisfaction. Her efforts to get the picnic laid out had clearly not been fast enough. He'd nudged her aside brusquely when the table had proven tricky to set up and her exhausted, trembling hands had fumbled. He'd sighed as if pained when she couldn't get the llamas' harnesses switched out on the first try. And he'd snorted with derision when she'd almost tumbled into the brook trying to wedge herself into one of the infernal camp chairs after finally getting everyone served with Dolly's delicious food, the napkins, and utensils.

Speaking of which…Sam was expecting her to “pull her weight” and get their gear repacked. She saved her unfinished article and powered down the computer Severus had obligingly lugged up the trail for her (at least the beast was good for something other than just slavering all over her neck). It had been important to Merry to get her impressions down while they were still fresh, and besides, it had given her the perfect opportunity to eavesdrop while Sam had his guard down, chatting with the Germans. She'd have to finish the entry and post it when she got to Café Con Kvetch after the tour finished up.

If I make it to the end of this Bataan Death March.

Merry rocked, rolled, and wriggled her way out of the V-shaped seat, glad no one was around to see her flopping like a dying mackerel on the grass. The Germans were posing for one another by the stream now, snapping photos and generally having the time of their lives. As she watched, they trotted off to the meadow to catch up with Sam as he untethered the llamas. Even from twenty yards away, she could make out from their pantomimes that they wanted to get a picture with him.

“Wait, let me,” Merry called, and started after them.
Damn well gonna pull my weight, and that means keeping the paying guests happy.
She sucked in a breath as her leg locked up, the lunch break having allowed lactic acid to build up in the damaged muscles. She
willed
the damn thing to obey her, breathing through her teeth, and it was with only a slight hitch in her step that she strode into the meadow.

“Here, guys, smoosh together with Fauntleroy in the middle, and I'll get you a souvenir your friends back in Bavaria will love.” She took the camera from Birgit's eager hands, angling to give them a shot worth posting on social media. (Age notwithstanding, the garrulous Muellers were avid Facebookers, and they'd already promised to send her a friend request once they got home.) Sam gently tugged Fauntleroy into frame, then draped his arms across both beast and tourists in an encompassing embrace.

“Excellent,” Karl beamed. “Say
käse
!”

“
Käse!
” At the last second Sam turned his face and gave Fauntie a smooch right on the cheek.

Merry checked the instant replay on the camera's screen. The animal was grinning fiendishly, as was Sam, and even she had to laugh as she handed back their camera.

“How about one with the two of you?” Karl suggested. “You make such a lovely young couple.”

“Oh, we're not—”

“She's not my—”

Merry and Sam spoke simultaneously, and she saw his tanned face was so suffused with color his blue eyes fairly glowed by contrast.
Yeah, with devil fire
, she thought. She had a feeling her own blush was amply evident on her fair, freckled cheeks.

“No?” Birgit said, sounding surprised. Her gaze moved between the two of them, eyes narrowed shrewdly. “Well, maybe not yet, but I think soon,
ja
?” She gestured for the two of them to step closer together. “Kiss, you two. For the picture.”

“I'd rather French-kiss Fauntleroy,” Merry muttered, but she moved closer.

“Better him than me,” said Sam, out of the corner of his mouth. He was careful to keep four hundred pounds of llama between the two of them, she noticed, and that was
just fine
with her.

“Eins, zwei, drei!”

Merry and Sam both moved to kiss the llama's cheeks. But Fauntie wasn't having any of it. He reared his head back…

And the tourists got a picture of a very surprised-looking Sam Cassidy and Merry Manning, kissing smack on the lips.

The only one grinning after that was his lordship, who hummed proudly at his bit of mischief and went back to munching grass as if he had not just dropped a nuclear bomb upon his human handlers.

Whoa
. Merry's lips were tingling.
I need some antibacterial Chapstick
, she thought,
or maybe a visit to a Voodoo priestess. I'm surely hexed for life.

Sam cleared his throat as if expelling some of that same bad juju. “Okay, guys,” he said, clapping his hands together. He was still smiling for the benefit of the tourists, though it looked forced now. “Just a couple more miles to the top, and I promise you it'll be worth it. Everyone feeling refreshed and ready to go?”

“Ja!”

“
Jawohl!
” The couple trotted off to reunite with their llamas.

Um…no?

Sam wouldn't look at Merry. But he gave her orders just fine. “Wookiee, go make sure Snape's pack is strapped on securely while I finish breaking down camp. He likes to blow out his belly sometimes to keep it loose, and you have to let him think he's gotten away with it until he forgets and his guard's down. Just don't, for the love of God, get all up in his grille again. I already stowed the paper towels and I haven't got time for another spit-take.”

“I'm not sure who's spittier, the llama or the wrangler,” she groused. Which wasn't really fair—Sam's lips hadn't been at all slobbery. A bit chapped, maybe. And surprisingly warm…

Sam was scrubbing his hand across those warm lips right now, as if trying to erase all trace of their lingual collision. “Just get Snape, would you? And do me a favor: Let's forget that…er…accident ever happened.”

“Sure thing,” Merry said. She found herself enjoying his discomfiture perhaps more than she ought. “Nothing worth remembering, anyhow. Here, Snapey! Here, Snape-Snape-Snape!” she called. “Jersey Boy over here says it's time to decamp.” Hoping the slight hitch in her step looked more swagger than stagger, she headed back to their lunch site, where Severus was stripping the last leaves off the sapling he was tied to. She whistled a fair rendition of “Living on a Prayer” as she walked.

“Heard that, did you?” A resigned expression on his face, Sam followed Merry back to their camp, leading Fauntleroy in tow. The two animals chortled to one another in greeting, then parted to seek more tender shoots to nibble. Sam sighed as he wrapped the last of the long leads into a neat bundle and stuffed them into his animal's pannier. “I thought you were deep in cyber trance or I'd have been more discreet.”

“There's no shame in being from the birthplace of Bon Jovi,” Merry said, quirking her pirate brow and stuffing her tongue firmly in her cheek.
Yep. I'm loving Uncomfy Sam.
She located her sore-abused hat by the stream bank and stuffed it over her braid—the braid Sam had inflicted on her without so much as a by-your-leave—then busied herself checking Snape's pack straps. Despite Sam's warning, they seemed snug enough—though who could tell beneath three feet of matted wool? “Lots of people loved
Slippery When Wet
.”

“I don't…Well, okay, I kind of
do
…but…” Sam stopped, smiling reluctantly. “Just don't post that on your blog, okay?”

“Column.”

“Whatever you call it. I have a reputation to maintain.”

“Sam Cassidy, Sullen Mountain Man?”

He looked up, blue eyes flashing in surprise. “Is that how you see me? Sullen?”

“If the shoe fits…” Merry didn't want to poke the bear too much, but really, did he think he was Mr. Cute-and-Cuddly? “Oh, wait, I forgot, you're too
close to nature
to wear shoes.”

Sam scrubbed one leathery paw down his face. “I probably deserved that. I'm sorry, Miss Manning—”

“You can call me Merry already. We've practically swapped spit. And it's better than
Wookiee
.”

“Merry then. Look, I'm sorry. I've been kind of an ass. It's just that, when I look at you, I can't help seeing every big-city princess…”

“Princess?”

“Would you let me finish?”

Merry nodded tightly. Much as she wanted to sock him in the jaw, she needed to know what it was about her that so chapped his troll ass.

“Maybe I got the wrong impression. But when you swanned your way onto our ranch in that prissy white coat that probably cost more than all my aunt's alpacas together, scaring Buddha and squawking like a chicken over a little spit—”

“A
little
spit? I've seen drier geysers—”

“Anyway, I got my back up, is all. I've known a few women like you in my time—”

“Women like me?”

Sam ignored her indignant sputter, setting his teeth as if determined to plow through a vicious headwind. “And I…well, maybe I overreacted. I can see you're trying, even if you
are
hopeless.” He reached out, and for a breathless second Merry thought he was going to stroke her cheek, but he just snicked her hat out of the way of Snape's questing mouth.

I'm not hopeless
, Merry wanted to say.
I'm crippled.

Pride stopped the words in her throat.

“We'll see who's hopeless, Sam Cassidy,” she said tightly, snatching back the abused hat and squashing its brim between white-knuckled hands. “This
princess
can take anything you dish out, and hand it back with ice cream on top. So if you're finished insulting me, I have a mountain to summit.”

Music from
The Good, the Bad and the Ugly
was playing in Merry's head. Not the theme song, but the part of the score that accompanied the scene where Eli Wallach drags Clint Eastwood, stumbling and half dead, across a wide and inhospitable desert. The music undulated, wavering from crescendo to low point as Merry trudged the switchbacks toward Wheeler Peak, single-mindedly focused on one thing.
Not being left behind.