Last Chance Llama Ranch by Hilary Fields

unnerving sight, like watching a Mister Softee truck crash and burn while the cheerful jingle played on. And then it was gone. Merry wasn’t sure if that evanescent smile had been disarming or alarming, but somehow she was glad she’d pierced his paranoid attitude, if only for a second. Underneath the prickly hedgehog exterior, maybe the grumpy galoot had a sense of humor?
    “Touché,” murmured Sam. Then louder, “Alright then, let’s see what you can do. How about you change into something a bit more…appropriate…and we’ll get you started.”
    Merry remembered the reason she’d run out into the yard en déshabillé . She opened her mouth to explain why she’d dashed out of the cabin like a silk-swathed wraith, to blurt out the eerie encounter she’d had, then shut it with a snap. In the light of day—which was beginning to spread spectacularly across the valley in streaks of rose and gold—it seemed ridiculous to start raving about poltergeists. They’ll think I’m loony . Some total stranger, clearly a ranch noob, comes bumbling into their lives and starts rambling about disappearing socks in the dark…? No, Merry , she told herself. Better save this story for the mag. Sam might try to use it as a reason to get Merry ousted from the ranch. He was obviously not pleased with her presence, though she’d done nothing she could think of to warrant his instantaneous dislike.
    Dolly obviously agreed. She harrumphed. “Who runs this ranch, Sam Cassidy?” she asked acerbically. “Me or you? I assign the work around here, at least with my alpacas. Why don’t you go see to the llamas while I give Merry here the lay of the land. You’ve got a tour running this afternoon up at the preserve, don’t you? So why don’t you go see if the boys are all set for their stroll.”
    It wasn’t a question.
    “Yes ma’am,” said Sam. He turned from Merry with an inscrutable backward glance—warning? Speculation? Merry decided she didn’t care. She also decided she loved Dolly.
    “All right then, Merry. First thing, shower. Then clothes. Then breakfast,” Dolly said decisively.
    Yup. I love her. “Yes, ma’am!”
    With that, Merry had dashed back to the cabin to write up her post before the events of the morning could escape her. A hot minute later, she arrived on Dolly’s doorstep with her toiletries and a change of clothes, jonesing for the promised shower and some grub. Dolly was happy to grant both to her new hire. After a shower just slightly longer than the hot water held out, clad in a loose-fitting pair of men’s jeans and a tank top worn under an Abercrombie hoodie that had been a present from her brother (swag from a recent catalog shoot), Merry eased herself down at Dolly’s kitchen table. She allowed herself to look around again—last night she’d been too tired to take much in, and Dolly had kept the lights pretty low.
    Home on the range.
    “I love your kitchen, Mrs. Cassidy,” she told the older woman. “Seriously, the whole hacienda is just…I don’t know… delicious .”
    Delicious was exactly the right word. While the rest of the ranch seemed a bit dilapidated to Merry, Dolly’s home was snug and charming, with whitewashed stucco-over-adobe walls, nichos filled with dried wildflowers, and fluttering lacework curtains draping gauzily over old-fashioned wood-paned windows left open to catch the morning’s cool breeze. Bookshelves stuffed to bursting with well-thumbed paperbacks of every stripe from pulp to Pulitzer winner lined most every wall. The ceiling was fairly low, supported by vigas—chunky, rough-hewn logs that ran right through the walls and protruded beyond the adobe exterior, log-cabin-style. Open-planned, with just a half-height wall and a couple of shallow steps up to separate the kitchen from the living room, one could see everything of the house from the dining table except the bedrooms and baths. Rag rugs warmed the knotty pine floorboards, and crocheted doilies