Last Chance Llama Ranch

by Hilary Fields

  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.

  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 pr
etty 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.”