Last Chance Llama Ranch (7 page)

But maybe that very lack of clarity was an opportunity, Merry thought. DDWID was uncharted territory. Virgin powder. And, damn it, they'd hired her for her adventurous instincts. It was time to trust them.

Let's just see what comes out
, Merry thought, and set her fingers back to the keys.

That's right. I said “coop.”

I'm staying in an adorable little outbuilding not far from the main house. Unlike the rest of the ranch, which is adobe, the cabin's made from clapboard, and apparently converted at
some point from an honest-to-goodness henhouse. (The current coops are now just a hop, skip, and a peck farther past Dolly's house, and I can hear the soothing sound of clucking from my bunk if I listen closely.) The view of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains from the front step is gobsmackingly stunning, and my little bed had been made up with the most gorgeous hand-crocheted afghan I've ever seen. There are cute little rag rugs and burlap curtains too. Dolly tells me she makes them herself from old flour sacks, and she's promised to show me the knack of it if I want. (Hey, Brooklyn hipsters, let me know if you want me to hit Dolly up for a set of shades. You'll be the envy of all your friends.)

Weathered, cozy, with a raised front stoop (originally to keep the coyotes from digging under the hens' nests and snapping up their handiwork, Dolly tells me), the cabin is perfect—so totally the picture of ranch-hand habitation, it made me wish I had brought my
Little House on the Prairie
omnibus for snug nights reading by the kerosene lantern. (Okay, she's got electricity, but that's about it.) Otherwise, just a cot, table, woodstove, a couple of pegs on the wall, and—you guessed it—an outhouse out back. (I'm sure that'll be an adventure.) Showers are in the main house, and I'm told there's a hot spring—for which the town is named—nearby if I want a long soak. I'm really psyched for my time staying here, and so is my turtle!

Ah, Cleese. Was there ever such a constant companion?

First thing, I got the ol' boy out of his terrarium and made sure he wasn't too carsick. (Those of you who are longtime followers know all about my turtle, Cleese. He's a real trooper about travel, as you'll recall if you read my Queen Elizabeth cruise series.) From the way he immediately started snooping around the cabin, I could tell he was a happy camper.

And, folks, I think I am too. “Don't Do What I Did?” Well, perhaps it's time we all do some of the things we shouldn't do, the things we don't dare do normally. Because that's the stuff of life, isn't it?

Stomach and heart both full, I stand now on the cusp of a one-of-a-kind adventure, and my friends, I'm glad you're along for the ride. As the last light fades, I think I shall take my ease (and my turtle) outside on my stoop and enjoy the cool of this quiet night at the Last Chance.

Bonne nuit
from the back of beyond.

Quiet and
lonely
, Merry thought, saving her entry. Yet maybe, just possibly, she hadn't been bullshitting her readers about looking forward to this adventure.

It wasn't your average thirtieth birthday, that was for sure. No cake, no noisemakers and party hats, no razzing about being “over the hill.” But Merry wasn't keen on rites of passage and “big birthdays” in any case. She'd purposely drifted away from her old friends over the past two years—most of them had been teammates or folks she'd met on the circuit, and she couldn't bear their awkward silences and pitying looks. Her parents had no doubt remembered—her mother kept track of other people's ages as assiduously as she denied her own—but Merry had found keeping her exact location from them to be a good rule of thumb, so there'd be no cards or presents from that front.

She told herself this was what she wanted—new experiences trumped sentimental remembrances. Still, for a moment she had a pang of longing—for what or whom she wasn't sure. Johnny? Nah. Johnny Black on a llama ranch made about as much sense as…well, as
Merry
on a llama ranch. Her brother, Marcus? Maybe. One of her big bro's comforting squeezes would definitely not go amiss right now. But Marcus, with his perennial puckishness, was not exactly a restful presence. No. Not the guy with whom you wanted to spend a quiet night on a ranch in the middle of nowhere.

Cleese would have to do. Merry rose from the table and reached for her boon companion. “C'mon, boy,” she said, plucking the somnolent turtle from his travel habitat. “Let's go gaze into the abyss.” She plunked herself down on the front step as the day's last lingering light faded from the sky, turtle on one knee and her elbow on the other, chin resting on her palm.

The abyss gazed back.

And it wasn't half-bad, Merry was surprised to find. She hadn't been exaggerating for her readers about the view from her little cabin. As she huddled into her sadly stained trench coat and curled her bare toes underneath her for warmth, Merry let her eyes go wide, her belly unclench, and just
observed
. It was a practice she'd developed this past year—turning off her brain and turning on her senses, trying to absorb the spirit of wherever she'd fetched up, trying to understand it, bond with it, even
become
it for a brief time. It was what travel was all about, Merry had come to discover, whether sailing the Aegean in a yacht or making a pilgrimage to the pyramids of Giza. It was why—and how—she did what she did.

And now she'd do it in Aguas Milagros, New Mexico.

A rusty glow limned the horizon, silhouetting mountains that could rival the Alps for splendor if not for height.
Good skiing
, she thought before she could stop herself, the inevitable pang zinging her heart. A sharp crescent moon had already hiked halfway up the deepening indigo backdrop of the sky, Venus twinkling like a beauty mark just below and to its left. No city lights blurred the twilight; no traffic noise intruded. There was a poignant silence that stole Merry's breath, making her hesitant to exhale into the quiet and somehow shatter it. After the bustle of Chicago, and the clamor of Istanbul before it, she felt as if she could tumble into that silence, like she'd misjudged her footing and stepped off a curb unexpectedly. It was a rush, a sensation of being unsupported and alone, with no one to catch her. It was a feeling Merry had had many times over the years, on ski slopes and off, though never in quite this way.

The air was giving up the day's scents—hay and dust, piñon and wildflowers. And yes, a hint of manure, emanating from the goat pen between Merry's accommodation and the main house. (She'd made brief acquaintance with the passel of bleating, yellow-eyed beasties on the way to her cabin, though she wasn't sure quite what to make of them with their bearded, constantly chewing countenances and creepy, horizontal pupils.) The smell wasn't as bad as she'd have thought, and certainly no worse than the Arabians that Mother kept at the stable in Virginia…

The thought brought Merry up short, sending her tumbling out of the moment. Her mother would, no doubt, be mortified by this latest adventure. She hadn't told her parents about the new slant of her series, knowing they'd find out about it soon enough. She sighed to herself.

Wouldn't it be great if, for once, they were proud? Impressed?

Ah, who am I kidding?
Merry thought.
There's pretty much just one way this can go. Straight to Hysteria-ville.
The only thing worse for Gwendolyn than knowing her daughter was gallivanting about, blabbing about her high-end travel mishaps, would be discovering that Merry was now elbow deep in excrement and shamelessly smearing these new down and dirty experiences all over the Internet—and destroying the last of her reputation in the process. Merry could picture the furrow of distaste that would be trying to carve its way through the Botox freezing her mother's brow, and her shoulders began to tighten in instinctive reaction.

Ixnay on the Endolyngway!
she barked to herself. It was a mantra that, if childish, had nonetheless kept her mother out of her mind many times in the past. Merry didn't want to think about Gwendolyn Manning right now.
No. Tonight's not for the past. Tonight is for tonight, and for looking forward to tomorrow.

As the stars winked on and the day breathed its last, Merry cradled Cleese in the crook of her arm and rose, heading for bed. She opened her laptop back up and added one more line to her entry.

I think I'm going to sleep really well.

F
riends, I did not sleep well.

Why? Because the Last Chance Llama Ranch is haunted.

Of all the things I expected of my first DDWID mission (and the things I didn't, like llama loogies), a predawn spectral visitation in my converted chicken coop was, frankly, so far off the radar as to be astronomically insignificant. And yet, there you have it.

I, Merry Manning, have been touched by the other side.

More specifically, the other side stole my left sock.

The hell you say? Yes, that's what
I
said, among quite a few other choice phrases when I felt my crocheted coverlet being eased off my body in the dark, dead stillness of the night. It felt like I'd been asleep for only a blink, but I was wide-awake, if utterly disoriented now. A ghastly smell accompanied the unearthly movement, like brimstone and people who use mass transit in summer without availing themselves of deodorant.

I caught my breath in the eerily cold confines of my formerly charming cabin. I failed, however, to catch the blankie, which was whisked away out of sight. I thought I heard it ruffle to the floor at the foot of my bed, but I was too paralyzed with fear to look over the side. And then…and
THEN…

The unseen force grabbed my left big toe!

It felt like pincers had hold of me—pincers from the great beyond. I wanted to scream but my voice had dried up and gone, quaking, somewhere deep into my lower intestines to hide from this terror. I felt a tugging. Was the infernal creature dragging me to a realm of eternal
damnation?

No—not me. Just my footwear.

I'd worn my old REI performance socks to bed, it being a tad chilly in my otherwise adorbs accommodations. Apparently, the ultra-padded moisture-wicking foot cozies (which have served me well from Vail to Portillo and beyond over the years) were irresistible to the phantasm, because before I knew it,
whoosh!
The admirable sock was no longer mine.

A creak sounded from the other end of the cabin, and a crack of reddish light appeared before my still sleep-fuzzed eyes. My mind boggled. A portal to the fires of hell?

I didn't want to find out. I really, stupendously did not want to find out. But then I remembered my obligation to you, my fine friends, and I wrapped my courage around me in place of the afghan of which the demon had divested me.
I must not quail before the supernatural,
I told myself,
lest I disappoint my dear readers, who are surely expecting more from their fearless heroine than to spend the next several hours gibbering beneath my bed.

So I set off to chase the specter back to the realm of the undead.

One-socked, I dared touch toes to floorboards and groped for my trusty smartphone, which, with handy flashlight app, did its electronic best to illuminate the small space. I quickly spied the only possible weapon in the cozy cabin (though what good such mundane armament might do against a phantom, I'm sure I don't know). A log from the small stack by the woodstove was in my hand before I knew it.

And with a “Hiiiiii-yaaaah!” that would have done Miss Piggy proud, I charged forward, toward the sullen slit of light that was all the spook had left in its wake, determined to dispatch the ghoulish garment thief. Charged…

Into Dolly Cassidy's front yard.

Dawn had come, I now discovered—the light I'd seen was not the entrance to the
underworld, but the rising sun shining through the crack in my abode's inexplicably open door. And with the dawn's arrival, so too entered my hosts, who were emerging from a barnlike structure (presumably the barn) with pails in hand.

“Hiya, honey,” said Mrs. Cassidy. “Sleep well?”

“Nice pj's,” said Major Gorgeous, giving my silken sleepwear the once-over with a glint in his eye.

Merry paused over her keyboard, smiling at her own hyperbole. She had only a minute to finish typing up her supernatural sunrise experience, save it to send later when she found her way into town, and get ready to start the day. The nearest reliable Internet connection was, apparently, at a café down the road, and the personal wireless hot spot she'd so naïvely brought along would be useless unless she could get better cellular reception. Instead of bars on her phone, Merry had a dismaying little dot that indicated service was unlikely anytime this century. Her stories were going to start backing up if she couldn't upload them to
Pulse
soon, and she wanted to space them out in as close to real time as she could manage. That was what Joel was paying her for, after all. The more often she updated her column, the more eyeballs, and the more eyeballs, the more potential click-throughs—ergo, the happier the advertisers were. And Merry was all about happy advertisers…even if it meant taking certain liberties with the truth.

I appear to be quite fanciful, pre-coffee
, she noted with a yawn
. I'm practically writing a gothic romance here
.

What Sam had
actually
said was, “You planning on working in that getup? Or should I ask, ‘You planning on working
at all
today?' We've already finished milking the goats and gathering the eggs, Miss Manning.” He'd shaken his head, his straw-blond plait swinging down his back. It was the most he'd said to her since she'd arrived. Curiously, though he looked like the Marlboro Man's homelier brother, he didn't have much of a western twang in his voice, not like Dolly did. His accent wouldn't have seemed out of place in New York or LA. His
tone
, however, was heavily laden with the universal language of disdain. “If you want to actually be of use instead of just exploiting my aunt for a story,” he'd continued, “you'll have to get up a bit earlier. Ranchers rise before the sun, you know.”

Merry had let the log drop through nerveless fingers, taken aback by Sam's hostility.

Fortunately, her hostess had stuck up for her. “Sam!” Dolly had scolded. “Give the gal a break. She just got here. She can't be expected to know our ways right out of the gate. Why, you were a newcomer here too, not so long ago.” She plopped her hands on her hips and gave her nephew a reproving look.

Sam, Merry was pleased to note, actually flushed. “I'm just looking out for you, Aunt Dolly,” he'd muttered. “I'm still not convinced hiring her on was a good idea. We don't know anything about this woman. She could just be using you as fodder for that blog of hers.”

Merry took a breath, feeling a flush of anger as red as the ridiculous pajamas her mother had sent her. Irritation made her forget why she'd charged outdoors in flimsy nightwear and one sock. “
This woman
,” she hissed, “is standing right here. And she may be a writer, but she's not a user. And it's not a
blog
, it's a magazine column. Yes, I'm going to write about this experience—Dolly already said she's cool with it—but I intend to pull my own weight while I'm here.”

Sam looked her over again, not failing to note her broad shoulders and sturdy frame. “Well, if that's true, I guess you'll pull a fair bit.”

Merry went scarlet.
Oh, so that's how we're going to play it?
Sam had already struck her as a bit of a butthole; now she suspected he might be an outright adversary.

I've faced worse
, she thought.
Hell, my mother's mildest critique makes
his
snark look like flattery. No way I'm letting him blow my first “Don't Do What I Did” gig. Even if DDWID
ends up meaning “don't kick your host's nephew in his hairy derriere.”

I. Am not. Quitting.

“We can't all be as low to the ground as you, Mr. Cassidy,” Merry said through clenched teeth, channeling her mother's iciest voice. “Perhaps I'll be able to hand you down bales from the hayloft.”

Sam scowled, as Merry had expected. But then something happened that she
hadn't
been expecting. As she studied her challenger, she saw it…one corner of his lips twitched upward. It was a smile so reluctant, so grudging, she'd wager it cost him a week's pay. It skidded across his craggy face, an unnerving sight, like watching a Mister Softee truck crash and burn while the cheerful jingle played on. And then it was gone. Merry wasn't sure if that evanescent smile had been disarming or alarming, but somehow she was glad she'd pierced his paranoid attitude, if only for a second. Underneath the prickly hedgehog exterior, maybe the grumpy galoot had a sense of humor?

“Touché,” murmured Sam. Then louder, “Alright then, let's see what you can do. How about you change into something a bit more…appropriate…and we'll get you started.”

Merry remembered the reason she'd run out into the yard
en déshabillé
. She opened her mouth to explain why she'd dashed out of the cabin like a silk-swathed wraith, to blurt out the eerie encounter she'd had, then shut it with a snap. In the light of day—which was beginning to spread spectacularly across the valley in streaks of rose and gold—it seemed ridiculous to start raving about poltergeists.
They'll think I'm loony
. Some total stranger, clearly a ranch noob, comes bumbling into their lives and starts rambling about disappearing socks in the dark…?
No, Merry
, she told herself.
Better save this story for the mag.
Sam might try to use it as a reason to get Merry ousted from the ranch. He was obviously not pleased with her presence, though she'd done nothing she could think of to warrant his instantaneous dislike.

Dolly obviously agreed. She harrumphed. “Who runs this ranch, Sam Cassidy?” she asked acerbically. “Me or you? I assign the work around here, at least with my alpacas. Why don't you go see to the llamas while I give Merry here the lay of the land. You've got a tour running this afternoon up at the preserve, don't you? So why don't you go see if the boys are all set for their stroll.”

It wasn't a question.

“Yes ma'am,” said Sam. He turned from Merry with an inscrutable backward glance—warning? Speculation? Merry decided she didn't care. She also decided she loved Dolly.

“All right then, Merry. First thing, shower. Then clothes. Then breakfast,” Dolly said decisively.

Yup. I love her.
“Yes, ma'am!”

With that, Merry had dashed back to the cabin to write up her post before the events of the morning could escape her. A hot minute later, she arrived on Dolly's doorstep with her toiletries and a change of clothes, jonesing for the promised shower and some grub. Dolly was happy to grant both to her new hire. After a shower just slightly longer than the hot water held out, clad in a loose-fitting pair of men's jeans and a tank top worn under an Abercrombie hoodie that had been a present from her brother (swag from a recent catalog shoot), Merry eased herself down at Dolly's kitchen table. She allowed herself to look around again—last night she'd been too tired to take much in, and Dolly had kept the lights pretty low.

Home on the range.

“I love your kitchen, Mrs. Cassidy,” she told the older woman. “Seriously, the whole hacienda is just…I don't know…
delicious
.”

Delicious
was exactly the right word. While the rest of the ranch seemed a bit dilapidated to Merry, Dolly's home was snug and charming, with whitewashed stucco-over-adobe walls,
nichos
filled with dried wildflowers, and fluttering lacework curtains draping gauzily over old-fashioned wood-paned windows left open to catch the morning's cool breeze. Bookshelves stuffed to bursting with well-thumbed paperbacks of every stripe from pulp to Pulitzer winner lined most every wall. The ceiling was fairly low, supported by vigas—chunky, rough-hewn logs that ran right through the walls and protruded beyond the adobe exterior, log-cabin-style. Open-planned, with just a half-height wall and a couple of shallow steps up to separate the kitchen from the living room, one could see everything of the house from the dining table except the bedrooms and baths. Rag rugs warmed the knotty pine floorboards, and crocheted doilies adorned the arms of the somewhat saggy chenille-upholstered sofa. An antique spinning wheel sat nearby, a basket of new-spun wool at its feet.
Wow
, she thought.
People actually still spin?
A calico cat, fat and placid, occupied the house's sunniest spot, blinking sleepily at Merry from the rug by the sofa.

The older woman beamed. “Ain't you a peach?” She plunked two steaming plates of
huevos divorciados
down on the scarred, round wooden table that dominated the sunny little kitchen, poured satisfyingly dark coffee from an old-fashioned Chemex carafe into two earthenware mugs, then seated herself. “This maybe ain't the life I imagined for myself, but I've got the house fairly well the way I like it.”

Merry was distracted into forgetting the astoundingly good smell of the food in front of her, though her stomach growled in protest at being denied the dish of fried eggs divided by a dam of refried beans and tortilla chips, one egg topped in
salsa verde
, the other in
salsa roja
.
This isn't the life she chose?
Dolly seemed so at home Merry could hardly envision her anyplace else. “Do you mind if I ask…?” she began. “I'd love to learn more about you. For the magazine, I mean. I mean, not
just
for the mag, but my readers would love to get to know you. Or,” she paused, concerned, “do you need me to get a move on? I do really want to pull my weight—my considerable weight, as your nephew would say.”