Last Chance Llama Ranch

by Hilary Fields

  Merry would prefer to stab herself in the eye with said spoon.

  Though she’d said nothing to Dolly, she was not what one would call “pumped” for tonight’s events. “Rather face a firing squad” might more accurately describe how Merry felt about the festivities ahead.

  “Darn it,” Dolly said, breaking into her apprehension. “Forgot my bag o’ tricks in the pickup.” She turned back for the truck.

  “I’ll fetch it for you,” Merry offered, a bit too eagerly.

  “No need.” Dolly was already tromping back to her vehicle. “You-all head inside and I’ll catch up.”

  “Right,” Merry muttered. And didn’t move.

  Jane rolled her eyes. “Let me guess. Crowds make you nervous.”

  “Yup.” One or two people at a time she could deal with, and still make like she was a normal, functional adult, but whole bunches tended to overload her limited stores of social grace. Gwendolyn had tried for years to beat Merry’s introversion out of her—being comfortable in society was second only to being impeccably dressed in Mother’s book—but it was just one of the many ways Merry had proved a disappointment to her mother.

  “Didn’t you used to compete in front of thousands of people?” Jane asked with some asperity.

  “Yeah, but I was wearing a helmet. And goggles. And whizzing by them really, really fast.”

  Jane snorted. “Seriously, woman, you need to get a grip. The Happy Hookers are harmless. What do you think a bunch of middle-aged broads are gonna do to you?”

  If they were anything like her mother’s circle of harpies—er, friends—these “middle-aged broads” would find fault with every aspect of Merry from her height to her personality and everything in between. She shrugged, fiddling with her satchel as if it might contain some excuse to bail. “Um…I think I left my yarn back at Dolly’s. Maybe I should skip—” She started back for the truck.

  “Liar. You’ve got it right here.” Jane flipped back the flap of Merry’s tote, exposing the ball of scrap yarn (“crap yarn,” Dolly called it) she’d been given to practice on. The fiber and the hooks she would no doubt use to mangle it rested securely atop her computer and smartphone. If the ladies allowed, she’d be documenting the event, and maybe even live-tweeting it for her Twitter followers too. If only real social interaction could be as easy as Twitter, Merry thought. One hundred forty characters and you’re out of there.

  “And even if you didn’t,” Jane continued, “collectively, the Happy Hookers have got about a Hobby Lobby’s worth of wool in their purses tonight. Pull it together, Mer, before Dolly catches wind that you’re not looking forward to meeting her friends. She’s been beside herself talking you up to them.”

  Oh, great. More expectations.

  Merry sucked in a breath. C’mon, woman. You befriended the terrifying teens. You can deal with a few old broads. “Right,” she said briskly. “Lay on, Macduff, and damned be him who first cries, ‘Hold, enough!’”

  Jane rolled her eyes. “Alright, Shakespeare, let’s get a move on.” She tucked her hand into Merry’s elbow and drew her forward as Dolly rejoined them.

  The joint was hoppin’.

  Café Con Kvetch was packed floor to rafters with what had to be all fifty-seven official residents of Aguas Milagros, plus at least a dozen more from the outlying areas. Couples in matching cowboy hats squeezed in by the bar. Kids fidgeted while their parents talked animatedly with their friends, or shushed them so they could pay attention to the performers. Steve and Mazel Tov had grabbed a little table right in front of the “stage” (really just a few shipping pallets stacked together at the rear of the restaurant, with some lamps clustered round to shed a bit of light). Their toes were tapping and their arms were uplifted as if conducting the music. Merry suspected they might be seeing tracers.

  Onstage at the moment were a couple of codgers playing bluegrass banjos with rather more enthusiasm than talent. White grizzled beards tucked into their shirts to keep them out of the way, cowboy boots thumping the worn floorboards to mark the beat, they were in finger-pickin’ Nirvana. Each time one would riff off the other, the first would get so tickled with delight he’d stop, slap his friend on the arm, and chortle with appreciation before trying to one-up him. It was hard not to grin along with them, even as they lost the rhythm more than once, dissolving into mirth (no doubt helped along by the impressive collection of empty beer steins and shot glasses littering the floor by their instrument cases).

  From his perch behind the host station, Bob presided over all, his beard and hair neatly combed and tied back, a magnificently tie-dyed top gracing his portly form. The hubbub being too great for prolonged hellos, he just nodded over to them, waving the women inside. As they passed within, Dolly raised her chin and sailed by without a how-d’ye-do for Bob, while Jane rolled her eyes and shrugged apologetically at their host. Merry gave him a little salute.

  Toward the back, Merry caught sight of Sam’s Survivors, clustered together in a booth, looking excitedly at the screen of a purple-sheathed tablet that could only be Zelda’s. Bernie happened to look up and see Merry, and he elbowed Joey, who elbowed Mikey, who blew his straw wrapper at Thad. Thad scowled until he saw where the others were pointing, and then his face broke into an endearingly boyish grin. Zel looked up from her beau to see who’d earned his smile, and cracked one of her own as she caught sight of Merry. The little crew waved enthusiastically at her, and Merry waved back, amused to see Thad using the opportunity to ever so casually drape his arm over the back of the booth (and not so incidentally Zelda’s shoulder).

  “Come on, hon. I want to introduce you to the gals.” Dolly steered Merry toward one side of the café, where a group of ladies who could not be other than the Happy Hookers sat by the fire. “Now, don’t let ’em scare you off—they may be crude, but they’re a close-knit bunch.”

  “Get it?” Jane asked, chucking Merry’s shoulder. “Close-kn—”

  “Oh, I get it,” Merry said. She pasted on Professional-Strength Smile Number Three as Dolly urged her forward.

  “Gals, here she is, just like I promised!”

  “Pleased to—” Merry started, but they were having none of it.

  “Dolly Cassidy, you are late! Get your ass in this-here chair right now, and bring the new blood!”

  * * *

  The Happy Hookers consider Dolly their madam, their mistress, and spiritual leader, and it’s easy to see why. Dolly enters their midst to cries of delight, genuflections, and calls for advice on certain “knotty” dilemmas, and she takes it all in her stride like the queen bee she is.

  Café Con Kvetch pulls out all the stops for the hookers’ get-togethers. Despite his ongoing feud with Dolly (a shame, as anyone can see they should be the best of friends), Needlepoint Bob arranges sofas, chairs, and side tables in a circle by the cozy kiva fireplace, and starts blending margaritas the minute the first hooker sashays in, tools of her trade in tow. I was roundly welcomed, provided with ample libation, and treated to a show of feminine solidarity that warmed my heart to no end.

  * * *

  “You brought us a new initiate, Dolly dear?” A woman with an old-fashioned coronet of braids wrapped round her head smiled as she looked up at Merry from her seat by the fire. Merry noticed that what was holding the heavy weight of her hair in place appeared to be a vast assortment of artisanal wooden crochet hooks, knitting needles, and even a pair of snipping scissors. She was, Merry saw, in the midst of making what might well be the world’s tiniest sock out of rainbow-dyed wool.

  “New victim, is more like,” another said. By far the youngest of the bunch, and up to her eyeballs in steampunk accoutrements, she had taken over half a love seat with her frothy full-length skirt, a pair of brass-and-leather mad scientist goggles perched atop her extravagance of auburn curls. Over a flowy white poet’s shirt, she wore a Victorian-esque vest that nipped in her waist and accentuated a very buxom set of breasts. A veritable Mr. T’s worth of pocket watches and iron key pendants n
estled in the woman’s cleavage. She had an enormous set of circular knitting needles in her lap, from which some sort of fantastically intricate and totally unidentifiable project dangled in shades of silver, pewter, and gold. “I’m Sage,” she said. “I’m a fashion designer, when I’m not immersed in the fiber arts. And the pincushion over there? That’s Rebecca. She’s our town archivist.”

  “Hi ladies,” Merry said shyly.

  “You’ll have to do better than that if you wanna hang with us hookers,” said a third woman. She was halfway into a huge margarita, and about two-thirds of the way into a positively Whovian scarf Tom Baker would have been proud to sport on the classic BBC show. “I’m Randi. Randi with an i, so get it right when you put it in your blog.” She emphasized her point by stabbing her crochet hook in Merry’s direction. “I got me a sheep farm, not too far past the springs. Glad to know ya, Merry Manning. Whatcha working on?”

  “Huh?” For a moment Merry thought the woman meant her next column, which was already coalescing in her mind. Then she realized Randi with an i was talking about yarn. “Oh. Well, tonight I thought I’d just watch you all, and take notes for my bl—I mean column. If that’s alright with you all.”

  “Well, it’s not alright.” This came from a stick-thin woman about Dolly’s age, who had more wrinkles than a Shar-Pei, a long ponytail of faded red curls, and a stack of crocheted granny squares piling up in her lap. “I’m Pam, and I’m here to tell you, you hang with the hookers, you better get those fingers flying. We all take it real serious. Even my Sage over there”—she nodded to the steampunk goddess—“has got herself a sideline in sci-fi outfits for the weirdos—’scuse me, ‘alternative set.’ Does pretty well for herself over in Taos and as far away as Santa Fe. Got a woman named Hortencia she sells to down there, at some fancy-pants yarn shop. To earn your seat with us, you better be one crafty lady.”

  “Get it? Crafty?” Jane elbowed Merry. Merry groaned. “Come sit next to me and I’ll get your chain stitches set so you can at least pretend to be making something.”

  “Rest of you gals, go ahead and introduce yourselves to Merry,” Dolly urged. The remaining three hookers looked up from their projects and smiled a hello.

  “I’m Marie.”

  “Susan.”

  “Lupita.”

  “Hey, ladies,” Merry said shyly. “Thanks for letting me crash your party.” The women—comfortable older ladies dressed in slacks or broomstick skirts for the most part, with scarves and shawls and all manner of stunning handmade sweaters layered on top—waved her into their conclave with welcoming smiles. Merry allowed herself to be tugged over to a bench while the women on either side of them made room. Between the music, the noise of the crowd, and the heat of so many bodies, she was feeling a bit dizzy, and more than a little overwhelmed. Yet this was nothing like the interminable cocktail parties and diplomatic events she’d been required to attend with her parents. It was nothing like the team events where athletes spent as much time measuring each other up and courting corporate sponsors as they did making friends.

  This was…fun?

  Merry found herself next to Sage, who grinned up at her while Jane did as promised and got Merry’s stitches started. “So, you’re a writer, huh? And a skier too? I heard the kids running around earlier telling everybody how they spent the night camping with this famous skier.”

  “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 sh
e’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.”