Last Chance Llama Ranch (38 page)

She blew out a breath, knuckled away the moisture that had gathered in her eyes. “I'm afraid I'm not…
whole
anymore, Sam. That I'll never be whole again.”

Sam looked at her levelly. Then he rolled to his feet, naked as the day he was born, and planted his hands on his hips. “Get up, Meriadoc Manning. We're going skiing.”

T
he Taos ski area doesn't announce itself with any great fanfare. Though it's got runs that can compare to some of the hairiest in the world, and those in the know treat the mountain with caution and respect, you'd hardly guess it was there from the casual—okay, haphazard—signage along the road. Which was fine with me, as I'd rather slink in under the radar, if I had to go at all.

Sam seemed to think I did.

“I'm tired of your shit,” quoth he. “You're no more broken than I am, and I'm going to prove it to you.”

How he intended to prove I wasn't crippled by asking me to perform the action that had crippled me, I wasn't sure, and I told him so in rather vociferous terms. (There may have been a few imprecations, aspersions, and—to be frank—pillows cast at his head during this exchange.) But Sam would not be dissuaded. It was opening day at the Taos Ski Valley, and we would, damn the torpedoes, be amongst the first to carve the pow.

We took the drive in a sort of charged silence, determined on Sam's part, fearful on mine. All I could think of was the last time I'd skied. How I'd stood at the top of that run, so sure of myself, so ready to take on the world—and how I'd been taken off the mountain, unconscious, hardly expected to live.

I don't talk about this much, my friends. Those of you who read this column regularly know I'm not about airing my dirty laundry (whatever my mother says), nor maudlin maunderings about the past. But the fact is, skiing was my life for many years. And when I lost it,
I kind of lost my way.

Sam was determined to help me find it again—whether I liked it or not.

With his permission, I'm going to tell it like it was. So here's the truth:

Sam sucked.

I sucked.

And sucking was a beautiful thing.

Merry leaned on her rented poles, staring down the slope. “You, Sam Cassidy, are an asshole.”

“And you, Merry Manning, are chickenshit.” Sam adjusted his hand-crocheted hat atop his head and gave her a look that dared her to tuck tail and run.

Talking smack was not exactly unfamiliar territory to a professional athlete. But Merry was in no mood just now. She glided her feet back and forth on the unfamiliar skis, digging grooves into the fresh powder. Using rented gear felt weird, but no weirder than being up here in the first place. Taos didn't have many beginners' runs—it was a notoriously steep and wild valley, great for the experienced but offering less for the novice than the more commercial areas nearby, like Sipapu or Telluride. Still, of all the slopes here, this was the bunniest of the bunny.

And Merry was scared shitless of it.

Two kids, who couldn't have been above seven, whizzed by, hollering “Yeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh!” as they dive-bombed the slope without benefit of poles.

Merry watched them go.

A man in his seventies gingerly duckwalked to the edge of the hill, and then glided over it, shushing and swooshing with no visible effort.

Merry watched him go.

She watched the next dozen skiers too, hearing their whoops and hollers and giddy laughter as they took advantage of the glorious early-winter day. Sunlight glanced off the fresh dusting of crystalline snow. Evergreens scented the thin mountain air with a crisp, sharp flavor that prickled in the nostrils, exactly as Merry remembered. What she did
not
remember was the abject terror that suffused her now. She'd strapped on her first set of skis at the age of three, and she'd been conquering runs ever since. Today, her fingers shook as she clutched her poles, staring down at the mildest slope in the valley.

“You can do this, Merry,” Sam said.

“Can
you
do this?” she snapped. On skis, wrapped in donated knitwear from the Happy Hookers to replace the coat he'd given her, burly Sam looked about as comfortable as a potato balancing on toothpicks.

“Probably not,” he said…and launched himself over the edge.

…Only to tumble, ass over teakettle, helplessly down the hill.

To Merry's horrified eyes, Sam was a blur of arms and legs and scruffy blond hair, the hat Dolly had crocheted for him flying off into the snow, his skis unlatching and skidding every which way. He pinwheeled down the slope, past openmouthed moms and dads and kids and ski patrol alike.

“Sam!” Unthinking, Merry launched herself after him.

She skied like she'd never skied before.

Muscle memory took over. She didn't think, she just acted, carving and turning, leaning into the slope to give her speed, flashing past the startled parents with their kids, the ski patrol dudes who were just beginning to turn toward the commotion.

When she caught up to him, Sam was sputtering and spitting snow, his blue eyes watering and his cheeks flushed red. He was making little hitching noises, as if the wind had been knocked out of him.

“Sam, are you okay? Can you hear me?” She'd tossed her poles and was kneeling at his side, feeling his limbs for breaks. “Say something!”

Sam scraped hair out of his eyes, shook his head as if to clear out cobwebs. His breath was coming in little sobs that sounded scary to Merry. Then she realized what the sounds were.

He was laughing his ass off.

“Knew you could do it,” he said once he'd stopped sucking air.

Merry's jaw dropped open. “You fell
deliberately
?”

Sam struggled to sit upright. “I wish I could say that,” he said ruefully, “but no, that stunning display of grace and athleticism was all natural.”

“Have you never skied before?” she asked, incredulous.

He shook his head. “First time.”

“Not even a lesson? Sam, you could have seriously injured yourself.”

“I knew you'd come rescue me.” He gave her a smug smile.

Merry's eyes narrowed. “You think this is funny? You scared the
shit
out of me, Sam Cassidy!”

“Got you to the bottom, didn't it?” The grin he gave Merry was utterly unrepentant.

She smashed a handful of snow in his face.

We chased each other down the slopes all morning, snowballs flying, skis sliding out from under us, until the ski patrol had to sit our asses down and give us a stern talking-to. (We were setting a poor example for the kids, they said.)

Fact is, I'll never compete again. That much hasn't changed. My leg isn't up for the kind of strain the pros routinely subject themselves to, and it never will be. But what I
can
still have is
fun. Long before skiing was a career—and quite frankly, an obsession—once upon a time it was just something that made a little girl named Merry happy.

It made me happy again today.

And so did Sam Cassidy.

“I don't know how to thank you, Sam.” They were back in his truck, sweaty, disheveled, and flushed from the morning's exertions. Merry's legs were shaky and sore, but hardly worse than anyone who was unused to a day of strenuous exercise—and fantastic sex—could expect to feel. Her weeks at the Last Chance had improved her body's physical condition much more than she'd have guessed was still possible. But it was what they'd done for her soul that had made all the difference. Merry's eyes grew misty as she looked at the man who had become her lover. “You've no idea what a gift you've given me today. I feel…I don't know…
healed
. Complete.” She smiled at him through trembling lips.

Sam ran his thumb over them, stilling the trembling with his touch. “That smile is reward enough.”

“Then let me give you that too,” Merry said, and pressed it to his lips.

She was, she thought, happier than she could remember being in a very long time.

And then Sam's phone rang.

W
e had some unexpected guests at the Last Chance for Thanksgiving. Visiting dignitaries, you might say.

Yup. Uh-huh. My parents.

A vision in Arctic fox alighted from the chartered Learjet, Manolo Blahnik boots barely seeming to touch the ground. Ice-blond hair didn't dare flutter in the breeze off the hangar, and ice-blue eyes scanned it as if surveying some new fiefdom. The woman's glamour made the Taos Regional Airport seem even more provincial than it actually was—and that was saying something. Behind her followed a tall, somber gentleman with dark hair graying at the temples and a greatcoat that could have graced a prime minister or James Bond equally well. And behind
them
, bounding down the stairs two at a time…the most gorgeous man in the world.

Fuck
.

All the joy of this incredible day drained from Merry.
It can't be
, she thought. The sight of the Manning clan in the wilds of New Mexico was so incongruous as to be hallucinatory. But of course, it only made sense.
If the mountain won't come to Mohammed…
the Mannings would come to Merry.

But had they had to come
today
, of all days?
It's like Mother has this radar that goes off anytime I dare to love myself just a little bit. And then she sends in the bombers to blow my self-esteem out of the sky.

“You
had
to answer your phone,” she muttered through teeth clenched in a simulacrum of a smile. “Since when do mountain men even
have
cell phones?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “I'm a survival expert, remember? Which means being prepared. I keep the phone for emergencies, in case my aunt needs me. Looks like it was a good thing I did. Can't believe Dolly forgot to tell me we were having tourists for the holiday. A few minutes later and we would have missed the call to pick them up. Would've been a shame for them to have to drive themselves all the way out to the ranch.”

“Yes. A shame,” Merry said woodenly.

Sam caught her tone. “I think it's sweet, a family wanting to spend Thanksgiving together at the Last Chance.”

“Sweet has nothing to do with it, Sam.” Merry sighed.

Understanding dawned in his eyes. “Wait—you know these people?”

“Hardly. They're my family.”

Whatever Sam might have said next was cut off by Gwendolyn's trill.

“Meredith! Darling, is that you? Pierce, are you quite sure we've landed in the right airport? Surely that cannot be our Meredith. Why, she's covered in filth!”

Merry looked down at her outfit.
She has a point
, she thought. The clothes she'd been sporting since she'd arrived at the ranch had not exactly benefited from constant contact with barnyard animals, and today's snow-tastic outing had left her both bedraggled and water stained. Her hair, which still hadn't recovered from yesterday's beehive, had to be a complete disaster.

“Your
mother
calls you Meredith?” Sam murmured. “Didn't you just tell me…?”

Merry didn't have time to explain her mother's idiosyncrasies. Smoothing her eyebrows nervously, she started forward.

And was tackled to the ground.

“Squatchy!!!!” Marcus snatched her off her feet and spun her in a circle—or tried to. Merry had a good couple of inches on him, and his model's diet, while great for ropy-looking muscles that showed well in underwear ads, left him less effective at hefting hefty sisters. They ended up crashing to the concrete together in a tumble of limbs and hair and outerwear.

“Oof!”

Marcus took flight again a second later as Sam yanked him off her. Merry blinked up at the two men.
Oh, my
. Sam had hold of her brother's collar in one massive fist, and he looked about ready to use the other one. “You wanna explain why you're assaulting my girlfriend, buddy?” he demanded. Though his tone was level, Sam's latent Jersey boy had most definitely risen to the surface.

Merry rose hurriedly, brushing herself off.
Girlfriend?
That's interesting
…“Sam, wait…”

Marcus's eyes widened as he took in the mountain man from head to toe. “Don't tell me
you're
Studly Sam,” he drawled. He turned his gaze to his sister. “Merry, your column did
not
do him justice.” The fist in his coat collar tightened, and Marcus gulped theatrically, rolling faux-terrified eyes at Merry. “Um, a little help here?”

Merry snorted. “Sam, you can let him go. That's just my idiot brother's way of saying hello.”

Sam's fingers slackened as he looked back and forth between Merry and the supermodel. A grin broke out across his blunt features, and he let go and stuck his hand out for Marcus to shake. “Sam Cassidy. Pleased to meet you.”

“Marcus Manning.” Marcus straightened his collar and smiled his blinding white-toothed smile. “That's my baby sister, if you hadn't guessed.”

“I see the resemblance.”

Merry rolled her eyes.
Yeah, right
.

“I didn't know Merry had a brother,” Sam said. “Actually, she hasn't told us much about her family at all, come to think of it…” His gaze took in Merry's parents, who were approaching at a more stately pace than their son, then slid over Marcus again. Light dawned.

He gets it now
, she thought. She knew what he was seeing.
The swans…and the ugly duckling.
She avoided his eyes, focusing on her parents instead. “Mother. Dad. I wasn't expecting you.”
The understatement of the year.
She bent to give her mother a kiss on one cool cheek, then accepted one from her father. They were distracted by the sight of Sam, however. Gwendolyn was eyeing him, clearly none too pleased about the roughhousing between her precious baby boy and this rough-hewn stranger. Pierce put a bracing arm around his wife, and she leaned into it as if she needed its strength. “Meredith, do introduce us to your…friend,” she said.

Merry's manners kicked in. “Mother, Dad, this is Samuel Cassidy. His aunt Dolly owns the Last Chance. Sam, these are my parents, Pierce and Gwendolyn Manning.”

“Pleasure to meet you, young man,” said Pierce, putting out a hand. Sam shook it gamely.

“Glad to meet you too, Mr. and Mrs. Manning. Let me get you settled in the truck and then I'll tend to your bags.” He ushered them toward the floof-mobile. “I hope your trip wasn't too tiring. Seems Dolly neglected to mention we'd be having guests for the holiday, so I'm afraid we've only got the utility truck with us today.” He eyed Gwendolyn's fur coat and impractical boots. “It's not much for looks, but it rides pretty smooth.”

One could say that about Sam, too
, Merry thought, distracted for a moment into smiling.

Gwendolyn's lips pursed, but she gave him her hand when he made to help her up into the truck's cab. “I'm sure it will do nicely, Mr. Cassidy.”

“I'll ride in the back,” Merry offered. “So will Marcus.”

“I will?”

“Yes, Banana Hammock,” she hissed, “you will.” She started dragging Marcus toward the rear of the vehicle, which was thankfully poop free today.

“You got some 'splainin' to do,” she growled as she shoved him up the ramp and locked the fold-down seats into place for them to sit on.

Marcus gave her his best ingénue face—the one that had allowed him to continue modeling for American Apparel well into his thirties. “Such as?”

“Such as, what the hell you three are doing in New Mexico!”

“Mrs. Cassidy invited us, of course. Didn't she tell you? Seems kinda odd that she wouldn't.”

Very odd indeed
, Merry thought. Dolly had some 'splainin' to do too.