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Authors: Hilary Fields

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BOOK: Last Chance Llama Ranch
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T
hanks for being so patient with me today, Mrs. Cassidy,” Merry said as they made it to the little cabin. It was going on five o'clock and the sun was still game to keep shining another few hours, but her hostess had decreed they'd done enough for the day. Merry couldn't help agreeing, if only privately. “I hope I haven't been more trouble than help,” she said, swiping the back of one filthy hand across her sweat-stained forehead.

“How many times do I have to tell you to call me Dolly? And you did just fine, child,” said Dolly, removing her gargantuan hat to ruffle the hair compressed within. “Just fine,” she repeated, looking her new employee up and down with some concern. “Hope we ain't wearing you out. You look a bit peaked. How about I fix you some supper, then you can wash up and hit the sack.”

“Thanks, Mrs.—sorry, Dolly—but I've really got to get to work.”

Dolly's forehead wrinkled a bit with confusion. “Ain't that what we've been doing since sunup? I know you're gung ho and all, but you've got nothing to prove. You pulled your weight today, child.”

Even through her haze of exhaustion, the compliment warmed Merry. “I meant for the magazine,” she explained. “My editor's expecting me to publish my first pieces, like, yesterday, so I've got to get to that Internet café you mentioned and send them out. I figured I'd eat there and save you the trouble, though I would like to wash up before I go.”

“I hear you,” Dolly said, giving Merry a pat on the back as she propelled her gently toward the door of the cabin. “I could use a hose-down myself. Let yourself in through the mudroom when you're ready, and help yourself to the guest bath. Oh, you might see my nephew over at the café, since he eats there most nights. If you do see him, tell him we got two for the morning tour. I'll send you out to give him a hand with it tomorrow since the feed we laid down will keep the 'packies happy for a day or two.”

Crap. More Sam?
Merry wasn't up to sparring with that ogre again. Not after the day she'd had. And God knew gallivanting about with him in the wilderness all day would surely be a nightmare. But she just smiled and wished Dolly good evening.

Merry hung on to that smile for dear life as she watched Dolly depart. As soon as the door shut behind her, however, she let it, along with her screamingly sore body, slide down until it hit the floor with a thunk.

“Fuck,” she swore.

It seemed to help, so she swore it some more.

“Fuck,” she told her aching arms. “Fuck-fuck,” she informed her abs. “Fuck, fuck, fuckity-fuck with a fuck on top,” she told her spasming back.

To her leg, she merely said, “You are dead to me.”

And then she cried, as quietly as she could manage.

There were many kinds of pain, and Merry had known most of them. There was strain-pain, where your muscles protested your inconsiderate overuse. And squishy, bruisy pain, that arrived when you decided to make acquaintance with solid objects better left to their own devices. Stabby pain, and thumpy pain, and even my-boyfriend-forgot-our-anniversary pain. But there was one kind of pain Merry wished she'd never met. And that was
damage
pain. The kind that said,
You ain't comin' back from this, sistah
.

The kind of pain she'd been married to since the day of the accident, and couldn't seem to walk out on, no matter how badly she wanted a divorce.

I can barely walk at all
, she thought, digging her dirty fingernails into the rough pine floorboards as a wave of agony swept from the tip of her big toe all the way up to the third moon of Jupiter.

She'd hidden it from Dolly, she was pretty sure. They'd hoofed it what felt like miles circumnavigating the ranch, visiting each pen and pasture, getting to know the animals and their needs. She'd fed them, watered them, petted them, and been thoroughly gunked on by the smelly, if otherwise rather winning animals. She'd even managed to stay apace with her hostess, who, despite her claims of getting “past it,” was admirably spry. She'd picked cactus off the hocks of patient alpacas, broken open ginormous bales of hay to feed them, even helped mend a fence or two. And all while walking what had to be miles under a sun that, though not blazing hot, was brighter and certainly burn-ier than most she'd encountered. Thank God Dolly had loaned her an old hat—one of her deadbeat husband's, as it turned out, but far more reliable than he'd turned out to be. She'd actually felt less silly than she'd expected in the brown, broad-brimmed cowboy chapeau, though she wouldn't be posting selfies anytime soon.

All in all, working the Last Chance
had
been pretty cool—for about the first half of the day.

Then her muscles had begun to sing German opera. And by the end of the day, there'd been
Carmina Burana
competing with the “Ride of the Valkyries” to express their thundering disapproval of Merry's unaccustomed activity. She couldn't imagine hiking in the mountains for hours tomorrow, trying to keep up with Sam Cassidy, who would surely brook no laggards.

For a moment, Merry was tempted to slink out to her car and head for the nearest airport. But then she pictured the look on Jimby's face, should he ever catch her committing such a colossal act of wussery.

Jim Beardsley, her former coach and dear friend, would never have let her get away with that kind of cowardice, neither before nor after the accident. Merry hadn't forgotten the gentle schooling he'd given her, when, months after she'd been discharged from the rehab facility, she still hadn't started returning phone calls, or, for that matter, bothering to brush her hair or put on anything snazzier than the moth-eaten bathrobe a previous tenant had left in the back of her condo's closet.

Merry had been lolling on her sofa, listlessly watching an old rerun of
Hoarders
on TV when Jimby rang her doorbell. Then pounded on the door itself, for a solid five minutes. Then yelled that he was going to call the gas company to report a leak if she didn't open up.

So Merry opened up. An inch, then a couple more when her eyes couldn't quite take in what she was seeing. Her coach, she saw with a dull sort of surprise, was struggling under the weight of an enormous rectangular package wrapped in what looked to be Hanukkah paper.

“It was all I could find at the store,” he said, gesturing at the dreidel-adorned wrapping. He hitched the burden up gingerly with his leg to rest on one hip in a motion that clearly said, “Um, this ain't getting any lighter, here.”

“Hey Jimby,” she said, moving only reluctantly to allow him inside her condo, and then only after it became apparent he wasn't going to take a hint and bugger off. “I didn't realize you were in town. If I'd known you were coming, I would have tidied up the place.”

Jim's gaze skidded over the living room, taking in the coffee table strewn with pizza boxes, ice cream cartons, and crumpled cans of Diet Coke, the floor festooned with wadded-up tissues and candy wrappers. His nose crinkled at the funk Merry had grown so accustomed to she no longer could smell herself. “If you'd pick up the phone once in a while, you'd have known I was coming,” he pointed out. “I've been leaving you messages for days.”

Merry's phone had died of lack-of-charge-itis some days earlier and been jettisoned under the very sofa she was longing to get back to now. “Sorry, Jimby,” she muttered. “Did you need something?”

“I need a landing place for this big-ass present I brought you, for starters.”

The manners her mother had so painstakingly instilled in her kicked in. Merry ditched the roll of raw cookie dough she was holding in one sticky paw and limped over to help Jim set the package on her coffee table. Together they sat staring at it, while Merry maintained a sullen silence. She was not in the mood for one of Jim's chipper pep talks, and she had a feeling that was what this was.
I'm not going to ask. I'm not going to ask.

Okay, fuck it, I'll ask.

“Alright, Jim. What is this?”

“Unwrap it and see.”

Merry sighed and shredded Hanukkah paper.

“A
turtle
?”

“He's a metaphor,” Jim said, hooking a strand of Merry's lank hair back behind her ear as they stared into the terrarium at the terrapin it contained. There was no hint of head, no tip of tail, nary a limb in sight. Just a shell.

Like me
, Merry thought.

“It looks like a turtle to me, Jimby.”

“Think more literary, less literal.”

Merry shook her head. “I'm a jock, remember? Not an English professor.”

“Please,” Jim scoffed. “The girl who read James Joyce between time trials? The one who quoted Keats and Shelley on the plane to lull her teammates to sleep—”

“Clearly a useful hobby—”

“Merry, the rest of us always admired how you spent your downtime studying when you could have been goofing off. You think Annika Schimmerman reads Kafka on her off-hours? Sure's shit Mikaela Shiffren can't quote
War and Peace
, but I bet you can.”

Merry could, but she couldn't see the relevance.

“Fine. I'm halfway literate. But I'm still totally clueless here. I give up. What's it mean?”

“Think Ancient Greeks.”

“The unturtled life is not worth living?” Merry examined the greenish beast. “He doesn't look like a Plato to me.”


Hellooooo
…Aesop?”

Merry drew a blank. Maybe it was all the cookie dough, or the crap reality TV, but her brain wasn't firing on all cylinders. “Aesop might make a cute name for it, but…”


Slow and steady wins the race
,” Jim said, throwing his hands out in a “ta-da” gesture.


Ba-dum-pssh
,” Merry said tonelessly. And then, to her great shame, her eyes had welled up.

She hadn't cried since it happened. Champions didn't cry. But Merry wasn't a champ anymore. She was just a big, gawky cripple with cookie dough on her bathrobe and no conceivable future. Her voice broke. “Fuck, Jimby. What am I gonna do?”

“Oh, honey. It'll get better.” He'd kissed her cheek and wrapped his arm around her. “
You'll
get better. And like this little guy, you've got plenty of hidden chutzpah under your shell. You'll find your way, sooner or later.”

He'd sat there patiently and held Merry's shaking, sobbing form, while on TV, they watched people with messier problems than hers slowly dismantle the defenses of a lifetime. And ever since, Jim had been a comforting presence, just as his gift, which they'd named Cleese after their favorite Python, had turned out to be.

Shit. Cleese.
Merry looked around the cabin until she recalled where she'd put his travel terrarium. He had to be hungry by now.

Must. Get. Up. Must. Be. Responsible. Turtle. Mama.

Seven and a half minutes later, Merry had scraped herself off the floor, fed and cosseted her pet, and managed to find her strongest antibacterial soap.

Five long minutes after that, she made it to Dolly's place to degunk. Twenty more and, freshly scrubbed, she crossed the thirty feet to her car, ready to find that Internet café.

Please, God, let them have burritos.

D
eadheads, rejoice! I have news. Your spiritual leader, much like Elvis, lives on. I know, for I have this very day met Jerry himself. He lives out his life quietly, modestly, in a wisp of a New Mexico mountain town. He swears his name is Needlepoint Bob.

And he makes a mean latte.

*  *  *

Bob's café was part fifties diner, part general store, and all tongue-in-cheek. Merry glanced at the sign stenciled in flaking paint above the low adobe lintel. “
Café Con Kvetch?
” she murmured incredulously. “This I gotta see.”

She ducked a net of draggling Christmas lights and headed inside what looked to be the only public building in Aguas Milagros that was actually open. “Town” was a generous description for the dusty streak of slightly less desolate high desert she'd nearly missed on her way in yesterday due to her need to blink once in a while. If she hadn't spotted the single faded sign for Aguas Milagros at the last second, practically obscured by a clump of cottonwood trees that lined the two-lane access road, she'd have cruised on by—all the way to Colorado, probably. From what she'd seen so far—primarily shacks that ran the gamut from “almost falling down” to “
Blair Witch Project
”—it seemed as if the town might dry up and blow away like a tumbleweed any second. The tiny library-cum-visitors' center a few yards down had a sign promising to “Be Back in 5,” but judging by the curling, yellowed corners of said sign, “5” was more likely decades than minutes. A feed store looked lean and hungry across the dusty street, and a defunct dollar store down the way didn't make any cents.

But Bob's was quite the happening joint. Or at least, so the many pickup trucks and battered SUVs parked outside, and the music and laughter she could hear from inside would indicate. As Merry swung open the door, her arrival announced by a chiming bell, she was accosted with a wave of scents and sights that told her, in no uncertain terms, that she was going to be
A-OK
.

Coffee, rich and bold.

Cinnamon, cocoa, and vanilla.

Nuts from hazel to pecan, emanating from pies and floating from flavored frappés.

Fried foods both savory and sweet.

Chile, cheese, and refried beans; rice and posole, fresh corn tortillas.

The ancient jukebox in the corner was playing the Four Seasons' “Sherry,” but thankfully at a volume that didn't cause Frankie's falsetto to grate overmuch on the nerves.

Best of all, a little sign beside the host station/cash register read: “Free Wi-Fi.”

Tears welled in Merry's eyes, and she let out a hitching breath. “
Civilization!

She hoisted her laptop bag higher on her shoulder, ignoring the thrill of pain the motion brought to her hay-bale-challenged muscles. Four Advil, a hot shower, and a great deal of teeth grinding had provided a measure of relief, and Merry was ready for her second wind. And firsts, seconds, and thirds on dinner. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been this ravenous.
Guess there's a reason for the saying “Hungry as a farmhand,”
she thought.

She looked around for a server, at last spotting a chunky, cherub-cheeked woman in an apron that had seen better centuries, and inky hair done up in a handsome knot of braids. Unfortunately for Merry's stomach, which was currently gnawing on her spine like a virulent zombie, the woman ducked by with her eyes averted in the universal waitress-who-thinks-you-can't-see-her-if-she-doesn't-see-you maneuver.

“Miss…?” Merry began, intending to ask if she should seat herself. The woman just waved a spatula toward an empty booth by the back wall in a gesture that could have been anything from cordial to threatening, then hustled behind the pass and into the café's tiny kitchen.
Cook then, not waitress
, Merry decided. Or both? In a town this small, people probably wore a lot of different hats. Most of them Stetson.

“Okay then,” Merry muttered, and made her way haltingly to the table in question, trying her best not to let her limp show. She passed several weathered-looking couples, all upwards of sixty, staking out the other booths, and a few men at the bar sucking down brewskis with their backs to Merry. She paid them little attention, sinking gratefully onto the patched vinyl bench and laying her computer beside her on the Formica-topped table.

Better
.
Now, if only I had a menu. And perhaps a small cadre of masseurs.
An image of Sam Cassidy popped into her mind, for no reason she could possibly fathom. But this was Sam as she'd written him, handsome and gallant, waving a bottle of warm jojoba oil and an aromatherapy candle. Not Sam as he was.

Ha
, she thought.
The real Sam would probably fire me for being dead weight if I let on how hard this is for me.
The image in her mind slowly shifted to reflect the rather disappointing reality of Mr. Cassidy. Stocky, scruffy, with rough-hewn features that had seen too much sun and too little laughter, and that stupid, scraggly braid down his back…

A braid like the guy at the end of the bar has?

Merry sucked in a breath and quickly flipped her laptop open, ducking her head behind the screen as best someone her height could manage.
Tomorrow is soon enough to deal with curmudgeonly Cassidy
. She powered up the computer and was relieved to see the antenna icon at the top register a network. Then she clicked on it, and chuckled. “FBI Surveillance Van,” it read. Apparently the Wi-Fi provider had a sense of humor.

Someone plopped down across from her in the booth.

“Hiya, Merry.”

Who else would know her name? Merry glanced up in alarm, but it wasn't Sam. It was…

The man saw her expression. “Nope! Not him,” he said cheerfully. “Jerry's gone to that great acid-rock festival in the sky, I'm afraid. I'm Needlepoint Bob.”

“Is that supposed to be more or less weird than Jerry Garcia?” she blurted.

“Well, I can't speak to weird, but it's more accurate anyway,” said the man, whose salt-and-pepper hair waved wildly about his head. His bushy beard all but obscured his smile, but the humor twinkled plenty bright in his warm brown eyes. He pointed to a banner Merry hadn't noticed before, hanging over their heads.

Welcome to Bob's Café!

It was stitched in an exquisitely fine hand on a background of fanciful animals and trees. The sign looked like something out of a monk's illustrated manuscript, or a medieval tapestry.

“You made that?” Merry marveled.

“Yup.”

“Cool! Where'd you learn…?”

“It's a long story,” Bob said, “and I doubt you'd be able to hear it over the sound of your stomach growling. So let's save it for a less desperate occasion.”

Merry blushed. “Um, yeah. I guess if you wouldn't mind sending over a waitress with a menu…”

“I'm your waitress,” Bob said peaceably. “Your menu too. We don't like to set things in stone here. I find it messes with the metaphysics I'm trying to foster. Just tell me what you'd like, and I'll make sure you get it. After a day like you've probably had, Merry, I imagine you're ravenous.”

He wasn't kidding. But Merry was puzzled. “How did you know my—”

Bob's eyes twinkled, if possible, even brighter. “My friend,” he said, “there's about fifty-seven people—total—in this town. We tend to notice when the number clicks up to fifty-eight. Besides which, I recognize you from your past life.”

For a second Merry wondered if Bob was talking karma, but then she realized.
He knows who I was…before the accident.
She squirmed at the realization. Once, she'd been accosted for autographs everywhere she went. Over the past year, however, that had died down, as other athletes had taken her place in the spotlight, and the public's fickle attention had waned. It had been a relief to feel those pitying gazes on her less and less as time went by. And somehow she'd thought that in a town this small…she might enjoy a measure of anonymity.
No such luck, I guess.
“I'm just a travel writer now.”

“I don't know about ‘just,'” he said, “but you're definitely grooving on that second career, Merry. I checked you out online when Jane told me you were coming. Fantastic stuff. That piece about the hamam? Man, could I ever relate. There was one time, back in '68…” Bob shook his head, reminiscing. “Well, I won't bore you with the story.” He waved a mellow hand, and Merry wondered if he was still seeing tracers. “Suffice it to say, the whole town's buzzing over the travel writer who's descended on our little slice of heaven.”

Merry looked around the café. Half the people in the place looked half-asleep, and the others looked all the way there. Her brow rose.

“Well,” he allowed, “maybe ‘buzzing' is stretching things a bit. But the news got around, and we're all very glad you're here. I know Dolly is, even if she won't unbend enough to tell me as much herself.”

Merry put two and two together.
Ah, the great llama fob-off.
She could see how Dolly had been suckered into taking in Bob's livestock. The man had a definite charm about him. Unlike some others Merry could name…

“I don't think
he's
any too glad,” Merry said, nodding over at the bar, where a certain mountain man was putting away a frosty one. “From minute one he's looked at me as if he thinks I'm here to piss in his coffee, or, I don't know…rip his aunt off or something.”

Bob followed her gaze. “That one's a tough nut to crack,” he said, looking solemnly at Sam. “‘Where there is anger, there is always pain underneath.'”

Merry looked at him, bemused.

“Eckhart Tolle,” he explained. “Guy's a bit of a charlatan if you ask me, but every once in a while he stumbles on something wise to say. I'll quote you Socrates next time if you prefer.”

Merry smiled. Needlepoint Bob, it seemed, was a bit of a philosopher. “What I
prefer
is that Sam Cassidy give me a break,” she said. “It's hard enough getting the hang of this ranching business without him giving me side-eye all the time.”

“Side-eye?” Bob asked with a laugh.

Merry demonstrated, shooting him her best
Mean Girls
gaze.

“Ah.” He laid his arms over the back of the booth, grinning. “I'm so glad you're here, Meredith Manning. I think I'm going to learn a lot from you in this lifetime.”

“It's actually Meriadoc,” Merry found herself saying. Instantly, her hands flew to cover her mouth.
Holy shit. I have never, ever confessed that in my life!
Why would I tell a stranger…?

“Cool,” said Bob. “It suits you.”

Merry blessed Bob's blasé reaction. “Just don't tell anyone, okay? Especially not…” She side-eyed Sam, who was engaged in what looked to be a crossword puzzle now, completely oblivious to her regard.

“No worries. Your secret is safe with me, Lady Hobbit.” He winked and slapped the palms of his hands down on the table, as if to declare the subject closed. “Anyhow, let me get Feliciana working her magic on the grill for you. 'Licia can make pretty much anything New Mexican in about five seconds flat, and she does a mean green chile cheeseburger. What'll you have?”

Suddenly, Merry slammed face-first into her breaking point. Her mind was just…
done
…and she couldn't remember the name of her favorite ski wax, let alone favorite food. “I…” She dropped her head into her hands and peeked up at him with a wry half smile. “Honestly? I have no idea.”

Bob took pity on her. “One of everything, then.” He hefted his comfortable paunch out of the booth, patted her on the shoulder, and wended his way on surprisingly light feet to the kitchen.

By the time Merry had gone through two days of accumulated email, updated her Twitter feed with a witty one-liner, and fired up her content management interface, Bob was back.

He hadn't come alone.

Plate after plate of glorious food plunked down on the table in front of her. Enchiladas. Rellenos. Burritos, and sopaipillas, and tostadas…just for a start. Green chile and red, tomatillo salsa and guacamole played sidekick. There were refried beans, and rice, and posole, all swimming in a lake of melted cheese.

Merry looked up to the heavens and whispered, “Thank you.” And dug in.

“Well, that was a religious experience,” she sighed to herself when she finally came up for air. Mere hunger alone couldn't account for how ecstatic her taste buds were. Unlike her muscles, which were still working through Wagner's Ring Cycle, they were offering up a rousing chorus of Beethoven's
Ode to Joy
. Feliciana might not be much of a hostess, but holy jinkies, that woman could cook. “Somebody needs to nominate that lady for sainthood.”

“Martyrdom, more like.” Bob had returned, beaming approvingly at the damage she'd done to the dinner. “At least, if you ask her husband.” With delicacy, he settled a steaming cup in front of her. She looked down.

BOOK: Last Chance Llama Ranch
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