Inside, it’s even trippier.
“Shawl-chic” is how I’d describe Mazel’s overriding ethos when it comes to home decor. Tie-dyed pareos, Spanish mantillas, African batik, Indonesian ikat…you name it, it’s hanging from the walls, draping the seats, or carpeting the floors of the lovebirds’ abode. I entered with some hesitation, seeing that they’d removed the seats from the back half of the bus, replacing them with a makeshift kitchen, and a futon bed plumped high with what I at first assumed was the family sheepdog, but only belatedly realized was a hand-woven blankie of some sort. (Mazel is a sometime member of Dolly’s hookers, though she practices something called “arm knitting” that involves using—you guessed it—your arms in place of knitting needles. Imagine wrestling with an octopus and you’ll have a fair idea.)
SSW and MT were seated on the sheepdog, but they rose to greet me with eager hugs.
“No, no,” I demurred, “please don’t get up.” Please, I was thinking, do not, for the love of God, get up.
But alas, I got a heaping helping of hippie hospitality. Naked, balls-out hospitality. For you see, the Wind-Tovs do not believe clothing has any place in the home. Most folks leave their shoes by the door. My new friends leave everything.
“Care for a cocktail, hon?” Mazel inquired.
I did.
Soon we were sitting around the sheepdog, Rob Roys in hand, my gaze hopping overtime to evade exposure to the bits of my hosts I’d already had seared into my memory at the springs. They were eager to share the good word about their little side business, and I was eager to think about anything other than nudity.
“So what are you selling?” I asked brightly.
“Good karma,” they told me. “Good vibes.”
* * *
Merry wobbled out of the bus, a grin on her face so huge it threatened to go sliding off into the night. She squinted, her eyes reddened from the smudge-stick fumes, and tried to locate her car. She found it at last under a cottonwood tree by the little acequia that ran along Only Street. It seemed to swell and shrink, breathing like a puffer fish as she approached. “Hey, Minnie!” Merry said to the rental. “Thanks for being such a great l’il car. You really are my best friend, you know?” She fumbled in the pocket of Sam’s sheepskin coat, looking for her keys. The pocket seemed as deep as a mine shaft, her arm lengthening endlessly into its depths. She stumbled and bumped her hip against the car door, giggling helplessly.
Something roared behind her, and Merry wobbled around to see what was what.
The floof-mobile was idling in the middle of the road, headlights and fog lights ablaze. Sam stuck his head out of the window. “You doing okay over there?” he called.
“Heeeeeyyyyyyyy, Sam!” Merry cried, the smile floating around her like fireflies. “How’s it hanging, man?”
Sam’s eyebrows shot up, and then his head disappeared back into the truck. A second later she heard the parking brake engage, and the rusty squeal as the driver’s door creaked open, then slammed shut. Hobbit feet hit the dirt and padded around the front of the vehicle. Merry squinted against the light at Sam’s silhouetted figure.
“Are you drunk?”
“I only had one Rubbery. I mean, Roy Rogers. Dang it—Rob Roy!” Merry dissolved in another fit of giggles.
Sam looked back in the direction from whence she’d come, seeing the Wind-Tovs’ bus lit up from within and leaking smoke from every open window. His nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply.
“Jesus, Merry. You didn’t let them smudge you, did you?” He sounded alarmed.
Merry’s head was suddenly very, very heavy. The beehive weighed a hundred tons. She leaned it against the door of the car—or tried to, but missed. She slid down the side of the MINI, her butt thumping into the dirt. “Smudge, fudge, drudge, pudge,” she sang, looking up at him with a wondering expression. “Man, that sage is some powerful juju.”
Sam scrubbed a hand down his face. “That wasn’t sage, Merry.”
Merry blinked owlishly at him. “They said it was sage.” She paused, considered. “Or maybe they said sense…sensi…sinsemilla?” She shook her head, then shrugged. “Something like that. Oh, look, here are my keys!” She thrust her fist up at him triumphantly, fingers clutched around her pocket hairbrush.
He rolled his eyes. “C’mon, sweetheart. You’re clearly in no shape to drive. I’ll give you a ride home, and you can get your car tomorrow when you’ve come down.” He extended one callused paw.
“But Minnie might get lonely,” Merry protested, patting the tire nearest her.
“Okay, time to go!” Sam padded up to her, giving Merry a close-up view of his bare feet. They’re really not that bad, she thought. Not even all that furry. She reached out to pet one, but before she knew it, he’d gotten an arm around her and lifted her as if she weren’t a full three inches taller than he was.
“Whee!” she shouted, directly in his ear. Her nose landed in the crook of his neck, and she snuffled. “Hey, you smell good, you know? Like man-juice.” She laughed hysterically.
Sam peeled her nose away from his neck, but he was smiling. “Maybe I’d better take you to my place instead,” he said. “I don’t think I can trust you alone in the cabin tonight. You might go chasing centipedes with an axe.”
“Oooooooh, Sam. You naughty boy.” Merry threw both arms around him. “I’d love to come back to your hobbit hole. Let’s Bag End it, baby!”
Sam bit his lip, but a smile leaked out anyway. “Okay, honey. Let’s get you in the truck.” He suited words to actions, hauling her around to the passenger door despite her efforts to play peekaboo with his poncho.
“This is like pushing Jell-O through a sieve—with chopsticks,” Sam muttered.
Merry found this uproariously funny. She did not, however, find the starch to keep her legs from folding up underneath her, and Sam was forced to keep her upright. Finally, he got her settled inside the vehicle, leaning her head against the door. She was still snickering softly, her hair bent like Marge Simpson’s against the roof of the vehicle.
“Haven’t you ever smoked pot before?” Sam asked, giving her the side-eye.
Merry shook her head. “Random drug testing,” she said, turtling her head deeper into his jacket, then nibbling experimentally on the collar. “Couldn’t take the risk.”
Sam gave her a look.
“Ski team, not prison.” Merry gnawed on the jacket some more, looking pensive. “Same diff, some of the time.”
* * *
My dear ones, when a man takes you back to his lair, it’s just good form not to go ravaging through his kitchen, scaring his bunny rabbit while you go scaring up something to eat. Unfortunately, your fearless heroine displayed very poor form indeed, a veritable Tasmanian Devil devouring PB&Js, cold pizza (Sam makes the pizza himself, in a kiva brick oven of his own devising), and guzzling fresh goat milk from a pitcher in the fridge (only because I did not know it was goat milk, I assure you).
Sam was patient throughout the scourge, allowing me to ravish his larder to my heart’s content. As for other sorts of ravishments, well, that’s between a girl and her llama wrangler…
Merry lay in Sam’s loft, tummy full of stolen treats, admiring the view. She wasn’t looking at the skylight he’d installed in the roof above his surprisingly cushy bed, through which she could see a thousand pinpoints of light. She wasn’t looking at the beautiful woodwork of the loft, which was essentially a tree house, nor the rustic-yet-handsome furnishings that decorated the space in Lothlórien chic.
She was watching the mountain man who hovered above her, tucking her tenderly between his sheets.
She liked this view indeed.
Merry sat up against the carved headboard of his bed, then took a deep breath of Sam-scented air, wondering if his pheromones were making her dizzy. Or maybe it was still the smudging the Wind-Tovs had given her. Because suddenly, she felt the urge to confess her innermost secrets. Here goes nothing, she thought. “You may as well know, my name’s not Mer
edith.” She bit her lip as she watched his face. “It’s Meriadoc.”
“Oh, honey,” said Sam.
His eyes watered. His lips curled upward. His chest lurched and hitched as he tried manfully to stifle it. But the laughter leaked out, in snorts and chortles and snuffles, until finally it burst forth full blown. Even as she stiffened with affront, his arms wrapped round her, hot against her sinsemilla-sensitized skin. “Oh, honey.” His hands came up to frame her face, and his mirth-filled eyes were lively. He laid a smiling, yet tender kiss upon her lips. “If you got any cuter, I don’t think I could stand it.”
“I’m not cute,” she sniffed, even as her own lips curled in a smile. “I’m statuesque.”
“You’re adorable, is what you are.” He set her back gently against the pillows again, being careful of the battered bouffant. “And I may as well admit, my name is…” He paused dramatically. “…not Samwise. It’s Samuel. Samuel Adams Cassidy.” He shrugged. “What can I say. My dad liked patriots. And beer.”
“I like beer,” Merry told him. “And I like you.” She made a grab for his arm. “C’mere.”
“Merry, you’re in no condition,” Sam protested.
“I’m totally fine!” she said…or tried to say. An enormous yawn threatened to crack her face in two. She tried to cover it with her hand and ended up slapping herself in the face.
“Not fine,” Sam said firmly. “But adorable.” He kissed her forehead, stroked her cheek lightly. “Get some rest.” He made to get up.
Merry had captured one of his fingers and was nibbling it, though the munchies were gone now. Somehow, in the course of one day, she’d grown very fond of sleeping next to Sam Cassidy. She suspected the experience would be much nicer without the bed of branches and the freezing-cold cave. “Can’t rest,” she said, “unless you stay.”
“And I can’t rest if I do, honey. You’re too tempting by half.”
“Tough shit,” Merry said, yanking him down beside her. She wrapped his arm around her like an extra coverlet, and within seconds, her breathing had grown slow and regular.
“Wookiee,” said Sam around a mouthful of beehive, “you are so going to pay for that.”
“Mm, hm.” Merry smiled into the darkness. “G’night Sam.”
Two seconds later she was fast asleep.
* * *
She awoke the next morning deeply refreshed…and deeply in need.
“Hey, Sam…?” Merry poked his shoulder. Dawn light was flooding the loft, giving Sam’s messy hair a golden glow, and burnishing his deeply tanned skin. How did I ever think this man wasn’t sexy? she wondered. Was I blind? She saw him clearly now—and she loved what she saw. The man sleeping at her side was so much better than the “Studly Sam” of her column. This was a real, flesh-and-blood hero. A man who cared deeply for his family, his home, and all those in his charge—even, she hoped, herself. He was warm, and kind, and soulful, even if at times he did jump to conclusions or stomp around like a grumpy bear. He was funny, and passionate, and exactly the guy you’d want to find yourself with in a hairy situation. Someone who made you feel safe.
Also, horny.
At some point in the night Sam had removed his shirt and seemed to be sporting only a faded pair of jeans—and a faint, boyish smile. He looked peaceful, Merry thought. Not for long, boyo, she vowed.
“Saaa-aaaam…” She poked him some more, until those blue eyes blinked open.
His blunt features lit up at the sight of her, as if she were a prize he’d just won. It made Merry flush with pleasure.
“What, honey?”
“You know how you said I was in no condition last night?”
His eyes crinkled. “Mm, hm.”
“Well…I’m pretty sure I’m in condition now…”
“Is that right?” He smiled some more.
“Mm, hm.”
Sam proceeded to show her exactly what condition he was in.
It was quite an impressive condition.
He slid atop her like he was born to be there, and his lips captured hers in a kiss that spoke volumes about his desire for her, his pleasure in her company, the playful tenderness he wanted to share. His hands came up to cup her face, and for a moment Merry went still, remembering the tiny surgical screws beneath her skin, aware of all the subtle flaws he must surely see, with his face so close to hers in the full light of day. In the cave, in the kindness of firelight, she’d been brave, but now, suddenly, her bravado evaporated.
She was raw. Vulnerable. And about to be naked.
With Sam as her lover.
She looked up at him, seeking some truth in his eyes. He stopped, aware of her regard. “What is it, Merry?” His thumbs traced her cheekbones, featherlight. There was nothing in his gaze but desire.
“You really see me, don’t you?” Her tone was wondering. And you’re not repulsed. Just the opposite, if the hardness growing against her belly was any indication.
He didn’t laugh, or make a joke. He didn’t try to pretend he didn’t know what she was talking about. “I see you,” he said. And he kissed her like he was seeing her very soul.
Merry kissed him back like he was saving it.
Tongues twined, breath exchanged in little sighs and gasps while their hands roamed, stroked, told each other without words of their delight in this moment, the strength of the desire that washed over them in Sam’s sunlit loft. His scent engulfed her, his body pressed against hers with an urgency she shared. Merry’s skin seemed to know his, somehow, to recognize it as something she had been missing far too long, and she couldn’t seem to get close enough. Sam matched her every step of the way. His hands tangled in the mass of her mangled hairdo, and instead of being mortified to realize how she must look in the forgotten bouffant, Merry just laughed and yanked out the pins, shaking her head to let her coppery hair cascade around her shoulders.
“Better,” Sam growled. His arms came around her and he flipped them both with an effortless twist so Merry was on top, her hair blanketing them both in messy waves. He held her tight to him, clamping one big hand around her nape to kiss her deeply, ravishing her mouth.
Merry had never enjoyed being on top, never liked the reminder of her size. Now, she was aware of nothing but Sam, his heat, his passion, the pleasure she took in the strength of his body and the kindness in his soul. “You’re beautiful,” he told her, and in that moment she believed him. She felt beautiful.
“You’re better than beautiful,” she said. “You’re mine.” Then belatedly, hesitance took hold. She bit her lip, staring shyly down at him. “That is…if you want to be.”
“I want to be.”
And for the next two hours, he showed her how much.
* * *
“Dolly’s probably wondering what became of me,” Merry said. Her body felt like six kinds of awesome, and climbing out of Sam’s bed was the last thing she wanted to contemplate. But duty called. Thanksgiving was tomorrow, and Merry was sure Dolly could use help with kitchen prep, even though she’d claimed to have everything well in hand. It was just going to be Dolly, Sam, Jane (whose family was far away, and none too keen on holistic medicine practitioners), and Merry. It probably wouldn’t be an occasion for much thankfulness, however, with the specter of John’s return on the horizon. He could be back any day now, waving papers and demanding they pay up or sign away the ranch. Least I can do is help make the holiday as nice for Dolly as I can, she thought. Even if I cook about as well as I dodge llama spit. And hell, I can celebrate having evaded my own family, anyway. She’d been ducking them like mad these past couple of weeks, not wanting to face their ultimatums or expectations while she was so busy facing the immediate crisis at the ranch. They must have gotten the message, because she hadn’t heard anything further about having to spend Thanksgiving with them, and it was too late now to meet them anywhere even if she’d wanted to.
Yay, she thought. So much yay.
“I’d better get dressed,” she sighed. Boo. So much boo. “I don’t wan
t Dolly to send the search llamas after us.”
“She knows where we are,” Sam said on a yawn, tugging Merry back down when she made to rise. “I went by and dropped her a note after you fell asleep, so she wouldn’t worry.”
“Oh my God,” she groaned. “So embarrassing.” She buried her face against Sam’s chest. “It’s like some corny old joke where the traveling salesman seduces the farmer’s daughter.”
Sam chuckled. “I’m happy to be the butt of that joke. Especially if it brings me into contact with this butt.” His palm glided over her hip to grasp the area in question, and Merry purred with pleasure.
She stopped purring, however, as Sam ran his finger down the line of her hip to her thigh…the mangled thigh. His fingertip traced gently around the edges of the longest of the scars. “I hate that you went through so much pain,” he said when she twitched.
Merry rolled away, drawing the comforter around her. Her body was suddenly tense.
“Why do you do that?” he asked.
“Do what?” Merry burrowed deeper under the covers, refusing to meet his eyes.
“Hide your body like that.”
It must seem stupid to him, after the intimacy they’d just shared. But that had been under covers, in the moment. Now…Merry was suddenly shy all over again. She didn’t want him to see her as damaged goods. The scars belied that. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“About your scars? Merry, I’ve seen them, a few times now. They don’t change anything—except to make me admire you more.”
“Admire me? For what, being a loser?”
“A loser?” Sam looked shocked.
“I lost, didn’t I?”
“Maybe one race, Merry. Not your worth as a human being.”
Merry looked away. She wanted to believe him. And these past weeks, here at the Last Chance…maybe she was coming to believe that—slowly. Yet the years of being drilled to come home with gold or not at all…it was hard to truly see herself the way the Sam, Dolly, and the others here in Aguas Milagros seemed to. As enough. She recalled the despairing look on her mother’s face at her sweet sixteen. Remembered how her parents had erased all traces of her skiing career after the accident, as if she were a dirty secret. She shrugged uncomfortably. “I know I’m nobody’s idea of the ideal woman.”
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