Last Chance Llama Ranch

by Hilary Fields

  Gwendolyn’s expression was serene. “That’s right. Whoever owns the ranch must continue to preserve it as is. Of course, Mr. Dixon, you could still take Mrs. Cassidy to court over the property, but without a buyer such as—what were they called, Massive Mistakes?—you’ll hardly find it worth your time. And if you’ll take a little friendly advice, I’ll tell you this for free: You don’t want to tangle with historical preservationists. Believe me, that’s a battle even Admiral Nelson couldn’t win.” She allowed herself a tiny smile. “Better to allow Mrs. Cassidy to buy you out for the fair market value of the ranch in its current state.” She turned to her hostess. “How much is that, Dolly dear?”

  Dolly looked dazed. “About a quarter of what the Massive Pains in the Ass are offering.”

  “I’m correct in assuming that Merry’s crowd-funding campaign can cover that much, am I not?” Gwendolyn looked to her daughter for confirmation.

  Merry felt like cheering. “Totally, Mom!”

  “Well then. That, as they say, would appear to be that.” Hands on hips, she stared Dixon down. “Now, I’m sure we’d all thank you if you and your toady would see fit to stop hounding this dear woman and bloody well shove off!”

  Bloody well shove off! echoed through the forest, bouncing off the steaming surface of the water. Birds stopped chirping. Bees stopped buzzing. Gwendolyn looked a bit taken aback at the volume she’d achieved, but that was alright. Everyone else was looking pretty poleaxed too.

  Not least, John Dixon. He sputtered. He blustered. But there was, in the end, nothing much he could say.

  “You can be sure we’ll check your story,” he vowed, hauling his towel off a branch and wrapping himself in it. “C’mon, Twat.”

  “Did you know about the plaque?” Watts asked, hustling his pruny feet back into his socks and shoes. “Because if you knew and you entered into negotiations with our organization anyway, you could be open to a nuisance suit.” His expression said that would be a legal battle he’d relish.

  John just shot the man a look. Then he turned his gaze on Dolly again, sizing her up and down, and all at once he seemed more rueful than wrathful. He shook his head. “Well played, woman. You always did have a knack for finding defenders wherever you went. Prob’ly why that fool Bob Henderson’s been in love with you since the day we hit this jerkwater town.”

  “Humph,” said Dolly, turning pink. “Well, feel free to leave this ‘jerkwater town,’” she suggested tartly. “But this time don’t forget to file the divorce papers on your way out. We’ll work out a settlement about the ranch later—a fair settlement.”

  As the group watched, Dixon settled his hat more firmly on his head, turned tail, and skedaddled, lawyer at his heels.

  “Now, who’s for a soak?” Gwendolyn asked when the two men had disappeared down the trail. “I, for one, could jolly well do with a bath after all this kerfuffle!”

  They weren’t out of hot water yet.

  “Your mother and I have been talking,” said Pierce.

  He sloshed about, settling his arm around his wife. Gwendolyn’s creamy skin flushed in the steam…or was it something else? Merry didn’t want to think about where her father’s other hand might rest. She was distracted enough by the very pleasurable sensation of Sam by her side—and the total weirdness of being naked with her entire family, plus Dolly, in a pool the size of one of Gwendolyn’s smaller limousines. Merry sank deeper under the water until it lapped at her lower lip. “Have you?” she murmured.

  “Yes,” said Pierce. Somehow, soaking in a mud puddle in the middle of nowhere did nothing to diminish his dignity. “We’ve done a lot of thinking in the course of the last twenty-four hours, and we have something to tell both you children.”

  Oh, goodie, thought Merry. She exchanged a look with her brother. Marcus, lolling in the shallow end where his body just happened to be most exposed, only shrugged. He clearly had no idea what was coming either.

  “You folks want some privacy for this?” Sam asked—rather too eagerly. He made to rise.

  “As a matter of fact, Sam—I may call you Sam, mayn’t I?”

  Sam nodded. “Of course, Gwendolyn.” He subsided back into the spring, giving Merry an “Oh, help” look.

  “Well, it’s partly because of yourself and your aunt that we need to say this, so, if you don’t mind, we’d like you to stay.”

  This was getting weirder by the minute. Merry looked about the pool, but there seemed no easy escape—for her or for Sam. Sorry, she mouthed to him. But she didn’t feel sorry, she realized. She felt happy. At peace, in a way that was unshakable, no matter what her parents might say next. She’d seen a side of her mother she’d never seen before today—the side that stuck up for her offspring and their friends—and it was something she’d cherish forever. All the money in the world meant nothing next to the support they’d just shown her.

  Feeling a spurt of mischief, she ran her hand up Sam’s thigh under the water. He went red and shot her a look that promised vengeance. Merry just grinned.

  “Sure thing, Gwen,” Dolly answered for them both when Sam couldn’t find the breath. “Please, Pierce, have your say.”

  Pierce looked at Merry and Marcus in turn. “The first thing we want to say is that your mother and I are both extremely proud of the people you two have grown into. Marcus, you may play the reprobate, but lately we’ve seen there’s far more to you, and we want you to know it hasn’t gone unnoticed. We think you’ll do well in your new career, make your mark the way a Manning should. And Merry—sweetheart—watching you yesterday with the people of this town…well, it’s clear you’ve made one hell of an impression.”

  “When I saw how deeply loved you are here,” Gwendolyn put in, “I was truly moved. And it’s clear to me you love these people too. You’re comfortable in Aguas Milagros in a way I’ve never seen you before, and—even though I’ll admit it’s somewhat foreign to me—I can see this is where you’re happy. That’s all we’ve ever wanted for you, darling.”

  Pierce patted his wife’s shoulder proudly. “The second thing we wanted to say is that you’ve helped us become better people.”

  Gwendolyn cleared her throat. “The fact is, you’ve shamed us into doing so. We’ve realized—well, I’ve realized—we never should have tried to control you by means of money—”

  “—and the fact that you’ve both refused it just lets us know you’re mature enough to handle it—” Pierce added.

  “—so your father and I have decided that, effective immediately, you will both have your inheritance from your grandmother, to do with as you wish.”

  Merry’s jaw dropped so hard she got a mouthful of mineral water. Sam put a finger under her chin and gently closed it for her.

  Marcus’s reaction was less subtle. “Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeee-hoooooooooooooooo!” he shouted, so loud he could have been heard all the way into town. He did a backflip in the water that drenched them all. “Yeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!”

  “Way to show you’re mature, Banana Hammock,” Merry snorted. Her mind was reeling. To be out of debt…to be able to breathe…but more than that, to do whatever felt right, without worrying about pleasing her mother or anyone else…Could it be true?

  “So, if I wanted to buy a million buckets of green paint with the money, and dye myself like the Jolly Green Giant, you wouldn’t have a problem with that?”

  “It would be none of our business, I should think.” Gwendolyn patted her perfect hair. “But do think twice. Green’s never been your color, darling.”

  Merry grinned. Her heart was soaring. “I have a better idea, anyway.” She turned to Dolly. “Didn’t you once tell me there’s a lot of lonely llamas out there, looking for love?”

  Well, it’s official. Cleese says we’re staying, and I make it a policy not to argue with the wisdom of turtles. (Besides, he’s formed a fast friendship with Sam’s bunny, Arwen, and I couldn’t bear to break them up.) From this day forth, my bedazzled reptile and I shall make our home in the tow
n of Aguas Milagros, where we will find ourselves in good company with the thirty…excuse me, now thirty-ONE alpacas, sixteen llamas, assorted goats, chickens, dogs, cat…and the single best people we’ve ever known.

  Stay tuned for more news from the Land of Enchantment. Until then, I’ll be…

  On My Merry Way.

  Oh, and Don’t Do What I Did. (Seriously, the hot springs can only hold so many at a time.)

  Epilogue

  Aguas Milagros

  Six months later

  Alright, alright. I know you’ve been clamoring for updates, and I’ve finally found the time to fill you in. So here’s the skinny on what’s been happening in Aguas Milagros since last I checked in.

  Dolly got her wish, dear ones. With the money we invested turning the ranch into a full-scale rescue outfit, her llamas (and several more from neighboring areas) are comfortable in their retirement, with the occasional tourist run to keep them in fine fettle. The alpacas continue to slay one with sweetness while producing the silkiest yarn anywhere in New Mexico. Luke (the ranch hand I had the good fortune to fill in for) finally made it back from his much-extended honeymoon, bringing his blushing bride with him. With the increased herd around here, they’ve both got their hands full. Sam still teaches survival classes (he’s even got my fire-building skills up to snuff!), and with Jane’s help, our amigurumi sell out faster than ever in the shop. Marcus stops in from time to time to take nature photographs (he’s making quite the name for himself in the art world), but I’m afraid Jane scarcely gives him the time of day. (Keep at it, Banana Hammock, I think she’s warming to you.)

  If you come to visit (and we hope you do!), be warned: You may not see much of Dolly. After years of tireless toil, she’s finally found the time to travel the world, and Bob accompanies her as often as his duties at the café permit. We get plenty of postcards to track their movements, however, each with a certain theme:

  Alpacas of the Andes

  Llamas of Tibet

  Candid Camels of Arabia

  (You get the idea.)

  And I? Well, I’m hard at work on my novel, and I’ve been loogie free for 107 days now. Yet my heart has been thoroughly captured: by this land, by these people, and by the second chances so freely offered at the Last Chance Llama Ranch.

  Acknowledgments

  And now the part where I tell on myself:

  Aguas Milagros, I’m afraid, does not exist. I pulled inspiration from real towns around New Mexico like Mora and Questa, but Aguas Milagros itself is a product of my imagination, hot springs, hippies, and all.

  Llamas and alpacas are known to spit upon occasion, but not nearly as much as I make them out to, and they mostly only do it to each other. Really. Don’t be scared.

  Generally speaking, if the powder base is good, ski season in the Taos Valley opens the weekend after Thanksgiving. I moved it up a few days for my own nefarious purposes.

  For similarly nefarious reasons, I moved the Wool Festival at Taos back about a month. It’s usually held the first weekend in October.

  Chief Manuelito, a fierce Navajo warrior and leader, obviously never spent time in a fictitious town, but he did move around northern New Mexico a lot in the 1860s, and he was well-known for his battles with the US military. I just created a little rest stop for him on his travels, for which I hope I may be forgiven.

  And now the part where I slobber with gratitude:

  To Susan Barnes at Redhook, for patience, guidance, and a truly humbling degree of faith in me. (And for obligingly squeeing every time I sent her another llama or alpaca picture.) It’s a privilege to work with you.

  To Holly Henderson Root, agent extraordinaire, for being as ever the voice of complete calm, competence, and professionalism. Never were there sweeter words than “Let me take care of this for you.”

  To my friends Rebecca Parish, Pam Watts, and Randi Ya’el Chaikind, the Santa Fe NaNoWriMos who made this last year a time of copious caffeine, laughs, and kick-ass fiction. I think we must’ve slurped coffee (and hogged outlets) in every café in Santa Fe.

  To Jim Garland and Diane Thomas of our little Eldorado writers’ group, for invaluable suggestions and generosity with their time. I hope to be able to return the favor someday.

  And lastly, to those who rescued me from rivers of tears this past year: my brother, Jason Fields, Amanda Morris, Leslie Kazanjian, Diane Schwartz, Caz McKinnon, Arna Elezovic, Bernard Balizet, Shana Hack, Lucinda Marker, Pierre Barrera, Susanna Kirk, and of course, the women of the sanity-restoring Eldorado Thursday night women’s meeting.

  Thank you, thank you, thank you.

  And now the part where I acknowledge my inspirations:

  I doubt I’d have dreamed up this novel without my serendipitous meeting with real-life mountain man Stuart Wilde of Wild Earth Llama Adventures up in Questa, New Mexico. The idea for “Lunch with the Llamas” began with a lunchtime trek with his majestic llamas, and he was gracious enough to share freely of his wisdom and expertise on several occasions while I plied him with llama questions. I recommend you check out Wild Earth at www.llamaadventures.com or on Facebook at www.facebook.com/llamatrek for a wonderful wilderness experience!

  The folks at Victory Ranch in Mora, New Mexico, were an invaluable resource. (Plus, they let me pet their alpacas to my heart’s content.) With two hundred of the cutest camelids you ever did see, set in a gorgeous, mountain-ringed valley, this is probably the squee-fulest ranch you can visit. Darcy Weisner and her family graciously fielded my many questions, and let me fondle all the yarn in their shop. They run visiting hours where you can meet and feed the animals year-round, and once a year, you can even watch the ’packies get shorn. (It’s not traumatic at all, I swear.) Visit them at www.victoryranch.com or on Facebook at www.facebook.com/victoryranch. (Oh, and I have to fess up: I stole the idea of “theme naming” cria from them.)

  Anne Stallcup at Que Sera Alpacas gave me a more thorough tutoring on the topic of microns, staple length, and “well-organized fleece” than I could possibly do justice. I’m just grateful she let me get to know her herd and take lots of adorable pictures. Check her out just outside Santa Fe proper at www.queseraalpacas.com or on Facebook at www.facebook.com/queseraalpacas.

  And of course, I have to acknowledge the inimitable Cody Lundin. I was lucky enough to attend Cody’s “Nothing” Course through his Aboriginal Living Skills School in Prescott, Arizona, last summer, where I learned all about being “the outside penguin,” garbage bag blankies, and roasting delicious ash cakes over an open fire. (Blech!) Cody, thanks for your wit, your wisdom, and for not razzing me too much about jonesing for Diet Coke. I hope you don’t mind my borrowing your bare feet for my character Sam! Information on the Aboriginal Living Skills School can be found on Cody’s website at www.codylundin.com.

  By Hilary Fields

  Bliss

  Last Chance Llama Ranch

  meet the author

  Photo Credit: Jenn Adams

  A scion of Manhattan’s Upper East Side, HILARY FIELDS wrote her first romance novel at sixteen, and continued to write women’s fiction even as she studied classics and philosophy at St. John’s College, a tiny liberal arts college in Santa Fe, New Mexico. In the spirit of cognitive dissonance, she continues to divide her time between Manhattan and the Land of Enchantment, and enjoys cooking, crocheting, and her obligatory feline companions.

  introducing

  If you enjoyed

  LAST CHANCE LLAMA RANCH,

  look out for

  Bliss

  by Hilary Fields

  Nothing says “oops” like your naked ass skidding in the salmon mousse…

  A year ago, pastry chef Serafina Wilde’s seemingly perfect life fell to pieces. So now, when her eccentric aunt Pauline calls from Santa Fe needing her help, Sera jumps at the chance to start over. Pauline even offers to let her take over the family business, “Pauline’s House of Passion,” and turn it into a bakery…provided she agrees not to ditch the “back room.” Cupc
akes and sex toys don’t exactly mix, but Sera is willing to try, and what she finds in the beautiful City Different is the best life has to offer—if she has the courage to go for it.

  Chapter 1

  Neither here nor there

  Albuquerque airport, present day

  Pauline Wilde didn’t look like a woman in mourning. Unless by widow’s weeds one envisioned a lemon yellow and sky blue broomstick skirt studded with what had to be at least half a quarry’s worth of turquoise and intricately worked Native American silver disks, topped with a ratty, oversized T-shirt proclaiming, in half-faded but still defiant lettering, “Orgasms Aren’t Just for the Young!” Add to that a fiercely pink headscarf barely binding a wild-and-woolly extravaganza of hip-length salt-and-pepper hair and a pair of ancient gardening clogs with roses and kittens hand-stenciled on them in flaking acrylic paint, and you had the very picture of a woman not suffering the loss of her beloved life partner. But then, Serafina thought, that was Pauline—she didn’t believe in catering to societal expectations. Never had, never would.

  “Bliss! Helloooooo, Bliss! Over here, kiddo!”

  Her aunt’s voice was exactly as it had always been—warm, slightly fruity, like a cross between Julia Child and Jane Goodall, blended with a dash of throaty Kathleen Turner for good measure. Sera smothered a grin at the sight of her impatiently elbowing past the rest of the folks waiting for friends and loved ones at the terminal. Only Pauline ever called her by her ridiculous middle name—a name Pauline herself had gifted her, and which was now echoing through the boarding area to the amusement of the other passengers disembarking from Sera’s flight.

  The Albuquerque airport was surprisingly posh, Sera saw as she took her first gander around at the fabled Southwest. Not at all what I imagined from the place where Bugs Bunny made his wrong turn. Airy, clean, and decorated in pinkish earth tones and expensive native pottery, it was a far cry from the chaos she’d left behind at JFK just a few hours earlier. But she didn’t have much time to absorb her surroundings—her aunt was treating the place like a linebacker in a championship game, barreling past all obstacles to get to her objective.