Last Chance Llama Ranch (25 page)

“I guess that is me,” Merry acknowledged. “But I'm really here to learn about
your
stories, not bore everybody with my background.”

“
Bore
us?” Randi snorted. “You're talking to a woman who lives fifty miles from the nearest human being and spends most of her evenings having conversations with her cats just so she won't forget the English language. Woman, you're the
least
boring thing to happen in Aguas Milagros since the meteorite splashed down in Wayde Williams's water tank, and that was seven years back!”

“It was really just a little meteorite,” Rebecca said primly. “Barely made a ripple.”

“Well, if we'd had a newspaper, it would have been front-page news around here,” Pam said with some asperity, and Jane nodded in agreement.

“His cows wouldn't give milk for a week. Finally had to give them udder massage, but I think it was my singing that brought 'em back to themselves.”

Randi rolled her eyes. “Do
not
let Jane get notions of grandeur in her head. And do
not
let her up on that stage to sing!” She reached over to pat Jane's knee. “I'm sorry, Janey. But while you're a woman of many talents, no one wants to hear your caterwauling.”

And speaking of caterwauling…The duo onstage finally wound down into such a fit of hilarity they could no longer keep their banjos straight. Cordial applause ushered them off, and Bob stepped up to usher
on
the next participant.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I'm delighted to introduce this next act, which promises to tickle your ears while it expands your consciousness. Please welcome, direct from the yodeling championships in El Paso…Maxwell McCoy!”

A man in a ten-gallon hat that might have actually fit twelve or fifteen trotted up, to a thunderous welcome of woo-hoos and a few amateur attempts at yodels from the crowd.

What followed made Merry wish fondly for Ricola commercials.

“You might want to stuff these in your ears,” Dolly advised. Her clever fingers plucked a wad of unspun wool from her bag and rolled it into two little balls, then made as if to toss them to Merry.

Merry grinned, but she wanted to keep her ears sharp, despite the assault from the stage. “Thanks Dolly, I'm good.”

“Suit yourself.” Dolly made use of the makeshift earplugs herself, then withdrew a length of fine-gauge yarn from her bag. In moments, she was deeply engaged in whipping up what looked to be a tiny alpaca figurine.

“Amazing, huh?” Jane said, unfolding a sheet of paper filled with arcane symbols and laying it on her lap. “How she does it without even using a pattern, I'll never know. Me, I always have to use a book or download instructions from Ravelry.com.” She dug out a half-made woolen Wookiee from her bag and went to work. “In your honor, my friend,” she said with a wink.

Guess Sam's as good at giving nicknames as he is at taming llamas
, she thought. Of the man himself, there was no sign tonight, and Merry wasn't sure whether to be sorry or relieved. Because what she'd seen of him with the Survivors? Snoring aside, he'd been
…

Let's face it. He was amazing with those kids. There's no other word for it
. As softer sides went, Cassidy's was positively cuddly. And it wasn't just her readers who had eaten it up. Merry had found herself looking at him with new eyes—eyes that could
almost
justify how thick she'd been laying on the “Studly Sam” schtick in her column.

Better not get all moony,
Merry
, she warned herself.
He might not be giving you as much
shit as he was, but he's still obviously not interested in getting with some half-mangled has-been. Don't you dare start digging him. You'll be leaving soon, and the last thing you need is to bring home a suitcase full of heartache.

At the thought, her heart did give a pang, but it wasn't all about Sam. Her short time at Dolly's ranch, and in Aguas Milagros itself, had made Merry feel more at home than all the legendary palaces, Ritz-Carltons, and pleasure cruises she'd visited over the last year working for
Pulse
. And of course, during her years on the circuit, there'd been no such thing as home; just an ever-rotating series of sports clinics and ski resorts and team hostels in cities all over the world—anywhere there was powder to carve. She'd loved that life, but it was nothing she'd ever call home. Hell, home was where she'd felt
least
at home. In the Manning household, every move she made had been scrutinized, judged, and disapproved of. You could never just relax, hang out in your pj's, shoot the shit. You had to be
on
, and heaven help you if you were less than socially acceptable.

Here…everybody was a bit of a weirdo. And nobody seemed to mind that Merry was a weirdo too. Even the Happy Hookers seemed to be taking her in stride.

Realizing she'd been woolgathering too long, Merry shook herself and looked over at Sage, whose project was truly out of this world. “What is that?” she asked her. “It's really, um…wild.”

Sage grinned. “I modeled it after Katniss's outfit in the second
Hunger Games
.” She held up the piece, which was some sort of free-form cowl made to look distressed though it wasn't even off the needles yet. The effect was somehow very chic.
Maybe Sage can make a male version for Marcus, and he can wear it on the runway during Fashion Week. It's better than half the stuff his designer friends put out
. The woman would be up to her eyeballs in orders. “It's part of my postapocalyptic young adult series,” Sage went on. “I've also got snoods, and fingerless gloves, and skirts…”

“It's fantastic! Mind if I snap a shot of it to post with my next article?” Merry looked around the greater circle. “And how about you ladies? Could I maybe feature you and your pieces too? And contact info so people can get in touch with you in case they want to place orders for your stuff?”

“Are you kidding?” Randi said, slugging her drink. “Woman, we're counting on you to put us on the map!”

“I wouldn't mind,” Rebecca said with more dignity. She felt around in her braids and found the needle she needed by touch. “I do fairly well selling my socks at Doll's shop, but winter'll be along soon and I wouldn't say no to more work to see me through the long snowy nights.”

Merry felt a surge of excitement. Now
here
was something she could do to pay her membership dues in the hookers' circle. “I think—now, I don't want to promise anything, but I think I may be able to really help with that. I don't mean to brag, but a fair number of people are tuning in to my column lately, and they really seem to like what they're seeing of Aguas Milagros. I haven't been as much use as I'd have liked over at Dolly's, but hopefully I'll be able to earn my keep a little this way. That is…” Merry stumbled to a halt, embarrassed by her own torrent of words. “That is, if you'd like me to.”

The women all looked at one another, and for a moment Merry's stomach clenched.
They don't look pleased
, she thought.

“Hon,” said Dolly. “We're all glad of the publicity, and we'll take you up on it for sure. But you need to know…you don't have to do anything to be welcome here. Just relax. Take a load off. You're off the clock—hell, we all are. So hush with all that ‘earning your keep' crap, will ya? We're trying to have fun.”

Merry's eyes got a little misty. “Okay…yeah, okay, thanks, Dolly. Sorry, I didn't mean to…”

“Shut up and stitch, woman,” Jane advised. She handed Merry a set of perfect chain stitches and a hook.

Bob wafted by just then with a pitcher of margaritas in one hand. “Ready for another round, ladies?”

“Need you ask?” Randi drawled. She slugged the remainder of her glass down and held it up for a refill. The others—including Merry—took libations gratefully from their host. At last Bob and the pitcher came round to Dolly.

“Doll, care for a tot?” Bob asked.

Dolly sniffed. “It's Mrs. Cassidy to you. And no, thank you. I don't accept drinks from deceitful, two-faced llama fobber-off-ers.”

Merry saw Bob wince, but he quickly pasted on a smile. “True forgiveness is when you can say, ‘thank you for that experience.'”

“Whoever said that never had to feed sixteen hungry ruminants!”

“I believe it was Oprah Winfrey,” Bob said mildly.

“Well,
Oprah
has enough staff to care for half the llamas in Peru,” Dolly snapped. “Sam and me have to look after ours ourselves. Not that you give a damn.”

Bob's air of Zen cracked again. “You're really still holding that against me, Dolls? Can't you forgive me? It's been near eight years.”

“‘Everyone thinks forgiveness is a lovely idea until he has something to forgive,'” snapped Dolly. “Or so C. S. Lewis tells me.”

“‘Always forgive your enemies; nothing annoys them so much,'” Merry put in.

“And what genius said that?” Dolly wanted to know.

“Pretty sure it was Oscar Wilde.”

“Well, alright then.” Dolly subsided back in her chair, swiped Jane's margarita glass before the vet could protest, and held it up for Bob to pour. “I always was partial to his books. I've got a cria named Dorian Gray. And I am a mite parched, so I'll take a margarita. But that doesn't mean I want you in my sewing circle, Bob Henderson!”

“Desolate as I am to hear that, Dolly, I'm afraid tonight's festivities preclude my enjoying the pleasure of your company in any case. I've got emcee duties, and thirsty customers too.” He hefted his pitcher. “I'll leave you ladies to your needlework. Next time, however, I intend to work on that new sampler!”

And so I was introduced to the world of women who have mastered the abstruse art of making string into…things. As we sucked back several spectacular margaritas and enjoyed the acts on the stage (more about these in a moment), I watched baby blankets, socks, hats, and even something Sage referred to as “dystopian knitwear” spring from the fingers of these talented ladies.

Me? Well, I actually managed quite a decent set of stitches, which one might charitably call straight. But I was far more interested in the goings-on around me than I was in learning a new life skill. For the folks here in Aguas Milagros have any number of odd and intriguing talents, and they're not shy about showing them off.

The yodeler had been followed by an aspiring snake handler—quickly ushered offstage by Bob with the help of a couple of local cowboys—and a blood-stirring flamenco number by a dapper Spaniard named Federico Rios y Valles. Now Steve and Mazel rose to the occasion, waving for silence.

“This oughta be good,” Jane whispered in Merry's ear. Several rounds of excellent margaritas had blurred the edges off her consonants and added a mischievous tinge to her already cheerful voice. “They always come up with something spectacular.”

“Really?” Merry set aside her stitchery and reached for her smartphone, which was already filling up with candid shots of the night. Her Twitter feed was awash with commentary and retweets of her photos and blow-by-blow commentary under the hashtag #DontDoWhatIDid, and she could hardly keep up with her followers. “Spectacularly good, or spectacularly awful?”

“Depends on your point of view,” Sage said, overhearing them. “Personally, I'm a fan, but then, I'm all about the drama.”

“Shhh!” Rebecca said. “It's about to start.”

Merry turned her eyes to the stage.

Mazel, with great dignity, was unbinding her braids. She shook them out into knee-length ripples of gray cascading down the back of the flowy white goddess dress she'd worn to the event. She ascended to the creaky little platform with deliberate steps. She inhaled deeply, waiting for the crowd to hush.

“Stronger than lover's love is lover's hate. Incurable, in each, the wounds they make,” intoned Mazel, henna-adorned arm upraised to the gods.

“That's Euripides,” Merry murmured. “I'm sure of it!”

“You know it?” Jane raised a brow.

“Yeah, it's from
Medea
. I studied it in…well, during one of my boarding school adventures. Always loved the Greeks.”

And then Steve joined her.

In a sheet.

“Escape, O woman, your ungoverned tongue!” Steve struck a pose that threatened to send his improvised toga to Tartarus.

Merry's eyes widened as the hippies launched into the famous scene where Medea harangues Jason for spurning her. Mazel railed, wept, rent her hair and her blouse. Steve, as the unfaithful Jason, pleaded for understanding, then turned sullen, prideful, and at last angry. Spittle flew from impassioned lips. Breasts were beaten, gods called down to witness vengeful vows. The bedsheet flapped, swished, and flashed glimpses of Steve's nether regions. The crowd was riveted.

“But nothing good can please thee,” Steve railed, in his guise as the beleaguered hero. “In sheer savageness of mood thou drivest from thee every friend. Wherefore I warrant thee, thy pains shall be the more!” With regretful backward looks, he hitched up his bedsheet and trudged off the stage, disappearing in the direction of Bob's restrooms, where presumably he'd hop back into his regular hemp attire.

Mazel stood alone in the spotlight. “Go,” she thundered after her husband. “Thou art weary for the new delight thou wooest, so long tarrying out of sight of her sweet chamber. Go, fulfill thy pride, O bridegroom! For it may be, such a bride shall wait thee—yea, God heareth me in this—as thine own heart shall sicken ere it kiss!”

She let the promise of vengeance hover in the air of the overcrowded café, in which a pin drop could now have been heard. Then Mazel's withered lips broke into a grin, and she curled her fingers in front of her face in the unmistakable gesture of drama majors everywhere. “Annnnnd—
scene
!” she cried.