“Ha!” cried Dolly.
Merry started. What, did I say that out loud? Her face reddened. Is it so laughable that my writing could actually be influential in some way? An unwelcome thought crept in. Mother would certainly agree.
“Sorry, just finally got that bitch of a knot sorted out.” Dolly held up her skein triumphantly. It was a gorgeous natural graphite color, speckled with lighter gray. “Boudie makes a beautiful ball of yarn, but she’ll tangle on you if you let her.”
“That’s Boudicca?”
“A year’s worth of her,” said Dolly, showing Merry a basket full of similar skeins.
Merry had an idea. “You sell the yarn by the alpaca? Like, each ball comes from just one?”
“Not all the time, but yeah, for the natural-colored wool I like to keep like with like. It’s kinda like a dye lot, if you get my drift.”
Merry did not, particularly, though this morning had been a real education in esoterica like gauge, handspun versus mill spun, and fiber quality. “What if you put a little picture of each alpaca on the label of the skein? And a minibio of the beastie? Like those stuffed animals you see at zoo gift shops, that have the tags that tell a whole tale about their habitat and backstory.”
Dolly looked thoughtful. “Think folks would like that?”
“Like it? I think you’d sell out of Boudie and her besties in five minutes flat. And if you sold these little arigoofoofoos—”
“Amigurumi!” chorused the two women.
“—amiguwhatnots on your website, I think you could really make some nice money.”
Dolly’s smile faded.
“What?” Merry asked, concerned.
“I ain’t got a website for my wool,” Dolly said—a bit sheepishly, Merry thought.
Merry was scandalized. “No website? I don’t understand, Dolly. Didn’t you tell me the yarn is a big part of your business? Without online advertising, how can you stay afloat?”
“You’re assuming I do stay afloat,” Dolly said with a wry twist of her lips. “I don’t advertise because I figured no one who wasn’t local would have the slightest interest in my shop,” she went on. “But since yesterday, well, I might be coming around to the idea of casting a wider net.”
“Why, what happened yesterday?”
“It was the darnedest thing, Merry. I got three big phone orders for my yarn, from people I never even heard of before! They said they got wind of me through what you wrote on your blog—”
“Column,” Merry corrected automatically.
“—and they were trying to order through the Internet, but couldn’t because I didn’t have a proper site. It got me thinking, if that magazine of yours can get the word out to more folks, well, maybe that’s no bad thing, and maybe it’s time I got with the times myself.” She paused, looking at Merry almost shyly. “You think you could see your way clear to showing me a thing or two about the Internet?”
“Of course! Dolly, of course I’ll help. I’m happy to tell my readers all about your products and how to get them. Hell, I can build you your own virtual storefront.” Merry had learned quite a lot about the Internet this past year, and to her surprise, she’d found she had rather a knack for web development. Not something she’d ever imagined herself doing during her ski-racing days. “The least I can do is get you going with an Etsy store.”
“A what now?”
“Never mind, I’ll show you.” Merry made to rise.
“Later, hon,” Dolly said. “I’ve about exhausted my ability to absorb new things for the day. That Extol spreadsheet pretty much wiped me out.”
Merry shared a smile with Jane.
“You mean Excel?” Jane asked.
“Excel, expel—whatever. It about maxed me out in the learning department.”
“I hear that,” Merry said. “Speaking of learning new things, how long did it take you guys to learn to crochet?”
“Oh, I’ve always known how,” Dolly said. “Pretty sure I came out of the womb with a hook in my hand.” She paused thoughtfully. “Might be that’s why my mother liked my brother best.” She laughed that rumbling smoker’s laugh.
“I learned to crochet in vet school,” Jane put in. “Got pretty boring when I’d be on call to keep watch over a high-risk birth all night, and I needed something to occupy my mind. Plus, crocheting keeps the fingers nimble, so it’s great practice for suturing too. I can teach you, Merry. Just let me get my implements of destruction.” Jane started rummaging in the same doctor bag she’d carried yesterday, but today she wasn’t looking for liniment. She came out with a sheaf that looked like a chef’s knife sleeve, unrolling it with a flourish to display a row of slender metal sticks.
“Those are the needles?”
Jane rolled her eyes. “Hooks,” she corrected. “The uninitiated never get that.”
“Give the gal a break. Our Merry was a skier, not a crafter.” She patted Merry’s knee, and Merry experienced a flush of warmth in her cheeks at the word our. It felt nice to be claimed. “Do you know your downhill skis from your cross-country, Jane?”
“As a matter of fact I…”
“Anyhow, Merry,” Dolly interrupted, “you don’t have to know anything at the beginning, except how to be patient.” She came over to the futon, plopping herself down so that Merry was wedged between her and Jane, then reached across Merry to unsheathe the largest of Jane’s hooks. She snagged the topmost ball of yarn from the pyramid display Merry had carefully stacked not an hour earlier, unraveled a few feet, and wrapped the end around the hook, tying it off tight against the metal tool.
“First you make some chain stitches,” Dolly instructed, her fingers looping yarn until she had about six inches of yarn chained. “And then you build off them from there. We’ll start you off with a simple single crochet, and save the hard stuff for later.” She demonstrated, dipping the hook, wrapping yarn, dipping again. “Ta-da! You got yourself a row, Miz Merry!”
Dolly handed Merry the yarn, and Jane, leaning in from Merry’s other side, helped position her hands correctly around the hook and fiber. Merry was pretty sure if she twitched so much as a finger, a bomb might go off, or a busload of school kids fly off a cliff. “Um, guys…I don’t think I can both hold all this stuff and make stitches out of it.”
“Patience, child,” Dolly said again, adjusting Merry’s death grip. “You’ll get the hang of it.”
There was quiet in the shop while the women worked. Dolly’s amigurumi chinchilla gained little feet, a tail, and adorable whiskers. Jane began whipping up a Princess Leia action figure to keep Boba Fett on his toes. And Merry…? Well, Merry did a great job getting started on an ulcer. She scowled down at her yarn, or what had been her yarn before her clumsy fingers had mangled it. This has to be good for the soul, right? Because it sure as hell is not good for my mood. Getting yarn to do what you wanted was right up there with Zen Buddhism and quantum physics—theoretically possible, but unlikely to be mastered in one lifetime. At this rate, global warming will have made this scarf pointless by the time I get it done.
As hobbies went, crocheting was not for sissies.
Back and forth. Dip and yarn-over. Chain one, turn. Merry could once again hear The Good, the Bad and the Ugly music undulating in her mind. Sweat popped out on her brow, and her tongue ached from being gripped in the vise of her teeth. Still, Merry had to admit to a certain satisfaction when she’d gotten ten whole stitches off her hook successfully. Hey! Maybe I’m getting the hang of this crafty business after all! she thought. Then she looked at what she’d wrought.
Fishing nets had fewer holes.
“Argh! Dolly, I think this hook is defective. Can I try another?”
“I started you on the biggest one, hon. That’s the size I use to teach kindergarteners on, down at the schoolhouse.”
“Great. Another thing I suck at.” The string snapped under her frustrated grip. “Damn it!” Merry pitched the sweaty ball of yarn across the shop.
The skein sailed through the a
ir, unwinding as it went. It arced through the half-open door…
And thwapped Dolly’s nephew in the face, just as he started inside the shop.
The fine fiber clung for a moment to his stubble before gravity sent the skein tumbling away, the end of the string still held loosely between Merry’s surprise-slackened fingers.
There was a pause while a peculiar expression worked its way across Sam’s face. It looked to be equal parts chagrin, irritation, and humor. On seeing the source of the projectile, however, his features reassembled themselves into their customary grouchy expression. In a move more balletic than his bulk would indicate, Sam scooped the yarn off the floor and started winding it like a kite string toward the end Merry still held, walking toward the seated women as he wrapped. “Drop something, Wookiee?” he asked as he flipped the ball back into her lap. “Or are you farming Tribbles now?”
“Way to mangle your sci-fi metaphors, Sam-o,” Jane said, surfacing from an intricate series of stitches that were shaping up to be Princess Leia’s teeny cinnamon bun hair rolls.
“At least I’m not mangling the merchandise,” he said, looking pointedly at the crap-fiesta that was the scarf Merry had been making.
Merry winced. Her store of goodwill with Sam—scant as it had been—seemed to have dried up overnight. Atop his frayed flannel work shirt and shapeless jeans, he was armored with a heavy coat of animosity. What’s pissed him off now? she wondered. Llama crap in his coffee?
“Something you wanted, Sam?” Dolly asked. “Or just stirring up the heifers like an ornery ol’ bull today?”
Sam flushed. As usual, his aunt’s presence seemed to recall him to his manners. “I just came in to see if you needed anything before I headed out to check on Dashiell.”
“Dashiell Hammett’s one of Dolly’s pregnant alpacas,” Jane whispered to Merry. At Merry’s raised eyebrow, she added, “Dolly was so deep in her noir detective novel phase when li’l Dashie was born, she didn’t much care that ‘he’ was a ‘she.’ You should really take a look through Doll’s pulp fiction collection sometime, Mer. Pretty sure she’s got first editions of every story that guy ever wrote.” She turned her attention to Sam. “I’ll tag along with you on that welfare check if you like, Sam-o,” she told him. “Don’t think Dashie’s gonna drop cri for a couple weeks yet, but I’m happy to give her another look-see if you’re concerned.”
Sam shrugged, as if uncomfortable being caught fretting. “I’m sure she’s fine, but seeing as she took it so hard when she lost her cria last year, I want to make sure she’s got plenty of that enriched feed blend you mixed up for her, and some good fresh hay for bedding so she’s comfortable. The mutts are already keeping her company at night. I think they know she’s due pretty soon.”
Merry felt a pang. It’s supposed to be my job to feed the fluffies. “I can do it,” she said, starting to rise. The not-entirely-un-scarf-like object in her lap slid to the floor. “Just point me to the right paddock.”
Dolly caught Merry’s shoulder and set her firmly back on the futon. “You’re right where you’re supposed to be today, child,” said Dolly. “Sam can see to Dashie just fine on his own.” She gave Sam a level glance. “Ain’t that so?”
“Of course I can.” His gimlet glare was laser-focused on Merry. Something about her seemed to be agitating him…a lot.
“What?” Merry demanded, flustered.
His glance skittered away. “Nothing.”
But Merry saw his eyes dart in her direction once more—and this time she followed that gaze…
Below the belt.
Understanding dawned. The skinny jeans. When she’d shifted to get up, she’d dislodged the needlework in her lap, exposing the tragically hip designer denim her mother had so thoughtfully included in Merry’s last care package. For a wonder, the pants were long enough, but they sure as hell weren’t generous in any other respect. Will Mother ever stop mistaking me for someone stylish? she wondered. Round here, fashion sense would get her precisely nowhere. More to the point, it was becoming eminently clear that Sam Cassidy was no fan of fashionable ladies. At the sight of the stupid stretch jeans, his homely brow had crinkled with disapproval, his lips—those lips she’d crashed into not twenty-four hours earlier—thinned with what looked very much like anger. She could practically see the thought bubble above his head.
City girl.
Spoiled little rich girl.
Useless.
Merry’s throat tightened and her eyes stung with unexpected moisture. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m just a broken chick, with a busted bank account, hiding out at a llama ranch.
A broken chick staring up at a broken cowboy.
Who did not seem best pleased to be sharing his little corner of the Wild West with the likes of Merry Manning.
Well, tough shit, Sam Cassidy, she thought, suddenly angry. I may be nobody special anymore, but I ain’t your whipping boy either.
“Is there a problem, Mr. Cassidy? You seem rather fixated on my…nether regions.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Wookiee,” Sam snorted, crossing his arms across that barrel chest. “If I’m staring, it’s only because I’m concerned for your circulation.”
And he smirked.
Oh no you didn’t.
Visions of schoolyards in six countries swamped Merry—the same snotty kids in every private school, boarding school, and diplomat-brat farm her parents had ever shunted her off to, always eager to make fun of her for her size, her social awkwardness; hell, even her damn Raggedy Ann freckles. Look at the freak! Is it a boy or a girl? I wouldn’t touch that chick with a ten-foot pole. Dude, she IS a ten-foot pole! Ha, ha, ha-ha! And so it had gone. Across Europe and all the way to Hong Kong, Tokyo, and Berlin. Taunts and ostracism, until Merry had taken the only refuge open to a girl who didn’t fit the usual mold. Sports.
Which weren’t an option anymore.
Like Betty the goat, Merry was left with a single choice when a big, braying menace got up in her grille. A red haze misted her eyes, and she forgot her hostess for the moment, forgot Jane at her side watching the two of them square off with humor fading to concern in her kind brown eyes. The only thing in Merry’s mind was knock the bully down before he senses your weakness. She didn’t know exactly what she had in mind—only that she wasn’t about to let the insult slide. Merry rose, wanting the advantage her superior height would give her.
And she had it too—for as long as it took to round the coffee table. But the high ground was lost as her sore leg locked up.
Abort! her nervous system screamed. Abort!
Merry had been sitting too long. And she was about to pay for it—spectacularly.
While a small, resigned part of her mind looked on with detachment, Merry’s body pitched forward. Her arms windmilled, but there was nothing to break her fall. She toppled…
Right into the pyramid of yarn balls she’d spent half the morning setting up.
Visions of bad sitcom grocery store snafus danced through Merry’s head as she sent skeins scattering every which way.
“Merry!”
“Child, are you alright?”
Jane and Dolly spoke almost simultaneously.
“I’m fine,” she muttered, facedown in fluff balls. “Just gimme a sec while I muster up some self-esteem.” At least the wool cushioned the fall some, she thought. Yet nothing could cushion the embarrassment as she looked up and saw the expression on Sam’s face.
Klutz, it said.
Hopeless, it said.
But—small mercies—he didn’t say any of it aloud. He simply stretched out a hand.
Merry didn’t want to take it, in the worst way. She’d rather have sucked snake venom straight from the fang, as a matter of fact. Dolly and Jane were watching, however, and it would have seemed churlish to spurn Sam’s gesture. So she surrendered her hand into his enormous, callused paw, and a second later she was flying.
Straight into his arms.
“Oof!”
There came a
very peculiar instant when time wobbled, and, of its own volition, Merry’s circulation took itself a breather. Sam’s arms instinctively clamped around her back as she wavered on her feet, and Merry’s senses could detect nothing but man and muscle for a long, disconcerting moment. A woodsy, musky odor swamped her scent receptors, and Merry suddenly remembered Jane’s words about Sam’s je nais sais quoi earlier.
Man-juice.
Despite topping him by a good three inches, in Sam Cassidy’s arms, Merry felt suddenly, bewilderingly petite.
Which, all precedent to the contrary, was not a way Merry wanted to feel.
“Would you please remove your hands, Mr. Cassidy?” she hissed, trying to keep her voice down so their wide-eyed audience wouldn’t overhear.
“Sorry,” he grunted, shoving her away from him as if she were coated in six types of oobleck. “Don’t get any ideas in that Wookiee head of yours,” he continued, as low as she. “I’m not asking you to the prom. I just overestimated the force I’d need to budge a woman your size.”
Who’s the klutz now? Merry thought, more than her old injuries stinging. She opened her mouth…
But Dolly beat her to it. “Sam Cassidy, that was a mean thing to say!”
His homely face reddened. “Didn’t think you heard that, Aunt Dolly.”
“Whether I heard it or not ain’t the point, now is it?” Dolly shot back. “You shouldn’t have said anything like that either way.”
Sam reddened. “I’m sorry, Meredith,” he said stiffly.
Last Chance Llama Ranch Page 16