Last Chance Llama Ranch

by Hilary Fields

  Joel rubbed his stubble thoughtfully. “Well, a bit more falling on your fanny wouldn’t hurt, though it seems like that Sam character’s been there to catch you whenever you’re about to crash.”

  Merry forbore to enlighten him on the truth of that little fiction. “So you’re cool with the way it’s coming out so far?” If he wasn’t, Merry thought, she might well be out of a job, and “Shit’s Creek” would be more accurate than she cared to consider.

  “All I can say is Keep Doing What You Did, kid. And keep pouring on the Sam stuff. Your numbers among women are higher than ever, and you should see some of the comments from the ladies. Made me blush, and I’ve seen it all, for crying out loud. The guy’s like cowboy catnip. You got a thing for him or something?”

  “Um…” Should she tell him just how full of shit she was? Or would that get her in hot water for poor journalistic ethics? “Or something,” she said lamely.

  “Well, whatever. I’m not going to tell you to jump in bed with your subjects. But if you were to, I can only imagine how many hits you’d get…”

  “I can assure you, Joel, I will not be jumping into bed with anyone at the Last Chance Llama Ranch. I promised Dolly I’m not a fuzzy-fucker, and I mean to keep that promise.”

  Joel cracked a smile. “Well, whatever. Just keep the Sam posts coming.”

  “I’ve just finished another article,” she told him. “There’s plenty of Sam in there.”

  “I’ll check it right after I finish obliterating this zombie dirtbag.” Joel was already fumbling for his joystick. “Need anything from the world?”

  Merry thought about it. “Maybe some Sani-Wipes.”

  Joel snorted. “Talk to you later, kiddo. Nice work.” He severed the zombie’s head, then severed their connection.

  And suddenly, Merry felt rather cut off herself. Alone in a small town with virtual strangers, so vastly different from everyone and everything she’d ever known growing up. Aside from Sam, she’d been welcomed so far with open arms, but she was still very much alone in Aguas Milagros. Usually on her travels, she didn’t mind being on her own—she was there to file a story and move on—but this mission was different. She was supposed to bring these people’s daily lives to life for her readers, but she was still so much an outsider. She wondered if she’d ever truly feel a sense of belonging.

  As if it had heard her thoughts, Merry’s phone, now recharged, bleated the single blat that indicated she had a voice mail. She grabbed it, saw that the message had been sent earlier today. It was from Marcus. She smiled with genuine delight and hit the “Playback” button.

  Thirty seconds of hideous howling and gibbering ensued. This only made Merry grin wider, as she recognized her brother’s traditional rendition of “Happy Birthday to You.” When the nightmare macaque noises wound down, his normal voice came on.

  “Hey, Squatcheroo! Happy belated birthday. I would have screeched that stupid song in your ear sooner but I’ve been on location in the Seychelles and the damn director’s kept me naked the whole frickin’ week, lying on the beach with only a starfish to cover my junk and sand all up my ass. Fucking Vogue Italia. Couldn’t get near my mobile, and then I was caught up letting this sweet little chickie rub the local equivalent of aloe all over my poor abused body, and of course one thing led to another…yadda, yadda, yadda, and the time got away from me. Anyhow, just wanted to tell you I love you, Sis. Hope your day was great. Oh, and I read your blog—”

  “Column,” Merry muttered at the phone.

  “—and I think the new stuff is frickin’ awesome. Just a heads-up though, Sis. I don’t think the parental units agreed. I’d think twice before opening your email.” There was a sound of a woman’s voice in the background, sleepily calling Marcus back to bed. “Anyhow, gotta go, Squatchy. Try to duck the llama loogies next time!”

  Merry smiled fondly at the phone. “Love you too, Banana Hammock,” she said to it. Then she sighed and logged into her email. She’d better get the inevitable parental rant out of the way.

  And indeed, there it was.

  To: MerryWay@pulsemag.com

  From: MrsP_Manning@state.gov

  Subject: It’s Not Too Late

  Meredith, this is your mother. Darling, are you alright? Your father and I were very much distressed to learn that you have found yourself in some sort of horrid backwater, forced to do manual labor amongst the beasts of the field. Darling, do you need money? Are they holding you against your will? Send us a sign if you’re being held under duress. We can have you out of there within a day, two at the most. Simply say the word and Pierce will send his adjutant to make the arrangements. It’s not too late to call off this ill-conceived stunt. I think we may still be able to salvage something of your dignity and your reputation if only you will quit now. Come home. We will take care of everything.

  Your loving mother,

  Gwendolyn Hollingsworth Manning

  P.S.: Darling, you know the time is fast approaching for you to claim your inheritance, and you know what you must do to make this happen. Do not be foolish. Make your family proud and return to take up your responsibilities. It will be worth your while.

  P.P.S.: Be sure to use that special toner I sent you for your face. One must always look after one’s complexion, and that goes doubly for women unfortunate enough to have freckles.

  “Hey, Bob?” Merry called. “I think I will have that shot of whiskey now, if it’s still on offer.”

  “You got it, Lady Hobbit.”

  Pronk (v.): A stiff-legged bouncing up into the air that llamas and alpacas occasionally demonstrate when playing with each other, or to scout and elude predators.

  Author’s note: Immature goats are also known to perform this gobsmackingly hilarious maneuver. Imagine Pepe le Pew when he’s in love, leisurely skipping and bounding after poor Penelope Pussycat. Remove the reek—and the disturbing rapey-ness—and that’s what you’re seeing when an animal pronks. At least, that was what I was seeing when I came across the baby goats this afternoon. They were so excited to welcome their new playmate they couldn’t contain themselves.

  And after I met the object of their affection, I felt like I’d gained a new best friend too.

  * * *

  The goats were…swarming?

  Yes, distinctly, if unbelievably, this was the case. A pile of bleating, baaing, pronking brown-and-white bodies had something down on the ground and wouldn’t let it up.

  That something, as it turned out, was a veterinarian.

  A holistic veterinarian.

  Jane Kraslowski, as a matter of fact.

  And she was laughing so hard she couldn’t catch her breath. “Help!” she squeaked. “Dolly, come get your fool kids off of me.”

  Dolly rolled her eyes at Merry, whom she’d been leading over to the goat enclosure. “Come, child. I want you to meet the Last Chance’s guardian angel,” she said. “We couldn’t hardly manage a day without this lady, even if she is a goofball sometimes.” She strode the last few feet to the fence, and Merry trailed stiffly behind, pasting a smile atop her pained wince. Neither the Advil nor Bob’s booze-boosted latte had done much to eradicate today’s ill-advised excesses.

  “Hang on, Jane. Help’s coming.” Dolly let herself into the pen while Merry leaned against the outside rail, grateful to let it take the weight off her leg for a minute. Dolly reached into the pocket of the worn smock she wore over her jeans and chamois work shirt, rooting around. “Lucy! Ricardo! Ethel! C’mere!” she called. The goats ignored her, continuing their efforts to engulf the veterinarian.

  “I Love Lucy?” Merry asked. She was watching the goat swarm with equal parts horror and humor. So this is what being loved to death looks like.

  “Yeah. I named this year’s kids after my favorite black-and-white-era TV characters.”

  “Niiiice. Keepin’ it classic.”

  “I try,” Dolly said. She moved toward her recalcitrant ruminants. “C’mon now, kiddies, leave the nice vet alone.” Oblivious, t
he goats continued their scrum, leaving Jane half smothered in playful animals, rolling and squealing with merriment as they tried to lick her face. Dolly snorted. “I swear Jane must wash her hair in alfalfa-scented shampoo. Watch this,” she said to Merry. “Never fails.” She held up a fistful of grain pellets. “Treats!”

  Boi-oi-oing! The baby goats bounced up and practically somersaulted in midair, turning their attention away from Jane and charging Dolly. Hopping on pogo-stick legs, ears flapping with excitement, they stretched their little necks up, bleating and sticking their tongues out for the feed Dolly held in her palm. The pellets were gone in milliseconds.

  And I thought llamas were greedy.

  “Jane, quit your foolin’ and come meet our Merry. Merry, this is Jane, our resident vet and just about my best friend in the world,” Dolly said.

  Merry, safely on the outside of the pen, studied the woman. Probably in her late thirties or early forties, she was grinning ear to ear and plain as the day was long. She had buckteeth, wide-spaced eyes, and no lips to speak of, with hair cut short as a man’s and of no particular color. And yet…her joy was so radiant she would turn heads anywhere she went. “Hi, Jane,” Merry said, waving shyly.

  Jane rose to her feet, expelling a few lingering chuckles, and brushed at her clothes. “Ah, the famous travel writer!” She strode over to the fence, sticking her hand out.

  Merry shook the proffered hand. “I don’t know about famous, but the writer part is true.” She smiled politely. “Dolly tells me you’re a…”

  “A holistic vet. Guilty as charged. Certified naturopath but it’s not as woo-woo as it sounds. I went through veterinary school same as any other vet. Got my large animal certification, but, well…” She looked fondly at the kids, who, along with their mama, had surrounded her and were currently testing her pants legs for numminess. “The more research I did, the more convinced I became that the first line of treatment for our four-footed friends should always be close to nature whenever possible. Natural sunscreen, natural nutritional supplements, that sort of thing.” She spoke like a woman who was often forced to defend her opinions.

  “Sunscreen? But aren’t alpacas buried under, like, four feet of fur? Er, I mean wool. Sorry, Dolly.”

  Dolly waved off the apology.

  “Oh, you should see the alpacas right after we shear ’em. With their crew cuts, their skin’s all pink and tender, and quite vulnerable to the sun.”

  Merry tried, but she just couldn’t picture a shorn alpaca. Q-tip? Show poodle? “Speaking as a certified ginger, I can relate,” she said. She touched her cheeks with tentative fingertips. Yup, tight and hot. She’d gotten too much of that strong New Mexico sun today. “Maybe I can hit you up for some of that sunscreen. Snape kinda ate my sun protection this morning. Sorry about that, Dolly. I tried, but the rascal just wore me down.”

  “Eh, what the hell. I never liked that hat anyway,” said Dolly. “Nor the head it rode in on.”

  Jane smiled that sunbeam of a smile. “Happy to,” she told Merry. “I make a nice lavender lip balm too.”

  “You gals can talk beauty products later,” Dolly said. “Now, come and meet Betty White,” she urged Merry. “That’s their mama. She’s quite a scamp, but she gives the best damn milk in four counties. Half the cheese in Northern New Mexico comes from Betty.”

  “I’m good here,” Merry demurred. The fence was pretty much the only thing holding her upright.

  “’Sakes, child. Can’t work a ranch without getting to know the goats. Betty and her sisters Bea and Rue need milking every morning, and the least we humans can do is provide a little polite chitchat before we wrap our hands around their nether bits. So come sweet-talk this little mama.”

  “Oh! Right, sorry.” For a moment there Merry had forgotten she was here to work, not just gawk at the fuzzies from afar. “Coming.” She let herself into the pen, walking slowly to hide her stiffness. And her apprehension. As far as she was concerned there was a good reason goats were associated with the devil. Their alien eyes alone were enough to give Merry the heebie-jeebies, and no amount of cute pronk action was going to dispel that dismay. “Um, howdy Betty…how’s it…” She eyed the goat’s bulging udder. “…hanging?”

  “Bleh,” said the goat.

  “I feel ya,” Merry muttered.

  “Go on, give her a treat. She’ll be your friend for life.” Dolly shoved a handful of grain into Merry’s tentative hand.

  It’s not going to steal your soul. Probably. Just get it over with. Taking a deep breath, Merry strode forward.

  “Hang on, you might want to slow d—” Jane called, but it was too late. She’d spooked the beast.

  Being a creature of nature, a goat faces only two choices when confronted by six feet, three inches of klutz. Fight, or flight. Apparently, Betty White subscribed to the “fight” school of thought. Her head went down, her hooves pawed the dirt…

  And she butted Merry for all she was worth.

  Smack on Merry’s mangled left thigh.

  Merry went down hard, but that was okay because she wasn’t actually there for it. She was somewhere deep, and black, and swirly, about a thousand miles distant from her body.

  When the stars cleared from her field of vision, Merry found three pairs of worried eyes staring down at her. Only two had round pupils—the third was Betty White, Satan orbs wide and innocent as if she hadn’t just precipitated Merry’s blackout.

  “Bah,” said Betty.

  “To you too,” groaned Merry, her ears still ringing.

  She tried to rise, but Jane held her down with a hand on her shoulder. “Whoa there, cowgirl. You hit the dirt pretty hard. Let me check you out first before you try to move.”

  “I’m fine,” said Merry, who wasn’t. Pain was playing a violin solo all down her left leg, and not very expertly at that. The grating, shrilling thrill of it was making her nauseated, and chilly sweat had broken out all over her body. Don’t barf on the nice holistic vet, Merry. It isn’t polite.

  “Slowly now,” said Jane, wedging a strong arm beneath Merry’s shoulders. “A bit at a time. We don’t want you blacking out again.”

  Merry nodded and started to gather herself.

  “You eat today, hon?” asked Dolly, face puckered with concern as she looked down at her fainting farmhand. She fanned Merry with her enormous hat. “I know you skipped breakfast. Sam better have fed you well at lunch, I hope.”

  Merry had burned off that lavish lunch surprisingly quickly, which was fortunate, or it might now be spewed all over the goat pen. Where she was currently lying. In the dirt. In the poop. In hell. “It’s not that,” she said, levering herself to a sitting position with Jane’s assistance.

  “What then? Hon, your eyes rolled back in your head like a porcelain doll’s.”

  “Old war wound,” Merry said, trying for flippancy. “No big deal.” Teeth gritted, she managed to achieve her feet with Jane’s help.

  Jane looked at Merry more closely as she led the taller woman over to the fence, and recognition dawned in her eyes. She steadied Merry as they walked, taking a lot of her weight. “Wait a second…I knew you looked familiar. You’re that skier, aren’t you. The one that crashed?”

  Merry rubbed a filthy hand over a face that was probably equally awful. “Yeah,” she admitted. “The one that crashed.”

  Dolly looked puzzled, so Jane explained. “Remember a couple years ago, there was a story in the news about this big-shot skier, odds-on favorite to win at the Olympics, but she had herself a terrible accident during trials?”

  Dolly shook her head. “Can’t say I do, but then I ain’t much for the news. Or sports. John always hogged the TV for his damn bowling tournaments…as if bowling ain’t boring enough in person.”

  Jane grimaced at the truth of that. “Well, if I remember correctly, the woman was setting crazy records for herself all day long…seriously leaving everyone else in the dust. Then, on her last run…boom! She crossed paths with a tree instead of the fini
sh line.” Jane illustrated by smacking a fist into her palm, then fluttering her fingers as if they were debris from an explosion. “Pshhhhh…splat!” She looked over at Merry. “Is that about right?”

  Shame curled in Merry’s gut. “About.”

  “Damn, woman. I thought you were on life support in a coma in Switzerland or something.”

  “I wish,” Merry muttered. It would save her the humiliation of this moment. The great Merry Manning…felled by a goat.

  “How’d you end up here?”

  “Funny story,” Merry said. “Mind if I tell it from a chair?”

  “Shit! Sorry. Let’s get you sitting down.”

  Between the two women, they managed to support Merry back to Dolly’s house, and get her seated on the sofa.

  “Left or right, hon?” Dolly asked.

  Merry, woozy from their jolting progress across the yard, didn’t catch on right away. “Huh?”

  “Which leg’s gone gimp on ya?”

  “Oh. Left.”

  Dolly eased Merry’s dirty boots off and fetched a cushion, tucking it under her heel as the two women gingerly got Merry’s left leg propped up on the chest that served as Dolly’s coffee table.

  “Let me take a look,” said Jane, kneeling on the floor at Merry’s feet between couch and coffee table.

  “Um…no offense, but aren’t you a veterinarian?”

  “Physiology is physiology.” She was already palpating Merry’s leg through her jeans, ignoring her hiss of pain, but working as gently as a person could. “Dolly, hand me those pinking shears from over there.”

  Dolly went to her sewing basket.

  “Wait—” Merry protested, but Jane already had her pants leg split halfway up her thigh. Crap. Those were the only comfy jeans I owned. Now I’m going to have to wear the skinny jeans Mother sent me.

  When the thigh was fully exposed, both women sucked in a breath.

  “Well, that ain’t good,” Dolly said.

  The muscles had knotted around Merry’s scars in fierce balls of protest, locked up tighter than a Swiss banker’s vault at tax time. The scars were livid, and the damaged quadriceps twitched involuntarily around the worst of them. “Dolly, fetch me my bag from the truck, will you?” Jane said calmly.