The thing she always disliked about this work was the general sense of entitlement so common in the very rich, characterized by a tendency to treat the staff like servants, leave unconscionable messes wherever they went—seriously, no one was grosser in the bathroom than a billionaire after too many beans at the Chuck Wagon Dinner—make ridiculous, unmeetable demands, and just generally be assholes. A wealthy bride was often all that in concentrate.
This wedding’s bride, however, a woman in her late thirties marrying for the first time, had been fairly mellow, all things considered. If there had been a tantrum, Ellen hadn’t been privy to it or to whispers about it.
Though they would book single cabins or even single rooms when they had odd ones out, their primary focus at the Moondancer was large groups. The original owner, Catherine Spelling, had first identified that strategy—marketing to corporate concerns and at trade shows, and with event-planning organizations—and it was a good one. With large groups, you already had an audience looking to do things together, and it was much easier to manage the activities, from trail rides to herding and roping lessons to the Chuck Wagon Dinner, when everyone was already familiar with each other—or, at least, had a significant commonality.
Catherine had been the owner who’d given her guests free rein to behave as they would with her staff, and she’d lost controlling interest in the ranch because of it—for that and other reasons pertaining to her shady running of things. But booking large groups had been an excellent strategy. It was just about the only thing left at the Moondancer with her fingerprints on it.
That and the uniforms. The hospitality staff still wore boots, denim bottoms—jeans, shorts, or skirts, their choice—and embroidered Western-style shirts, as Catherine had decreed. Ellen was a country girl through and through, but she hated these shirts, which no actual rancher would be caught dead in. She could have changed the uniforms after Catherine sold out her remaining share in the ranch and took off to Arizona, but it was a dude ranch, after all. The Hollywood Cowboy aesthetic was expected.
As she stood just outside the main door of the big house and said final goodbyes to the guests heading to the line of limos and Town Cars from Boise—no ride-share apps in these parts—Ellen’s phone buzzed, she excused herself and stepped to the corner of the wraparound porch.
The name on the screen was Hermione Townley—the personal assistant to Jameson Cabot, CEO of the company holding their retreat here starting this afternoon. Ellen and Hermione had spoken repeatedly over the past several months, and with increasing frequency as the date of the booking approached. Always, Hermione called with questions that were really politely-couched demands and conditions that were equally softly-intoned ultimatums. The British were quite deft at appearing to be meek while threatening to tear your throat out.
A call at this late hour—only three before Hermione was set to arrive—goosed Ellen with a little worry. She could be calling only to say she’d touched down in Boise; Hermione was one to provide updates for every single development, which, to Ellen, suggested that Mr. Jameson Cabot was a control freak extraordinaire. But if she were calling with a big problem, there wasn’t much time left to adjust.
Ellen answered the phone, “Hi, Hermione. How are you?”
Hermione answered with a little gasp in her elegant English accent. “I’m well, thank you, Ellen. I’ve just arrived in Idaho, but there’s no car waiting for me.”
The Moondancer had a standing contract with a Boise car service for pickups at the airport. She was looking at a long row of their black vehicles right now.
“I’m so sorry, Hermione. I’ll handle it right now. Let me make a call, and I’ll get right back to you.”
“Thank, you, Ellen. I’d so hate for everything not to be properly arranged for Mr. Cabot.” The threat oozed over her friendly, worried tone.
“So would I. Would you like to stay on the line while I straighten this out?”
“No, I’ve got to sort out the baggage claim. Call me back, please.”
“Of course.” Ellen ended the call and scrolled through her contacts to the number she needed. When that rolled to voice mail, she tried another without leaving a message.
“Mountain Vista Car Service, Mandy speaking. How may I help you?”
“Mandy, it’s Ellen Emerson. I need to talk to your dad right now.” Mountain Vista Car Service had one of the best high-end fleets in Idaho, but it was run from the owner’s house, and his wife and oldest kids did the office work.
“Hi, Ellen. I’ll get him.” She set a handset down on a landline phone, and Ellen heard the soft rumble of family voices.
The phone was picked up, and a smoke-roughened male voice said, “Hey, Ellen. Was just about to call you. You’re callin’ about the little English girl at the airport, right? I’m on it. Paula’ll be there within five minutes. Might be there already.”
Ellen breathed out a burst of tension. “Okay, good. What happened?”
“Rolled over the leavings from a wreck and slashed straight through a tire. Brand damn new set, too. It’s fixed now and she’s rolling. Sorry, ‘bout that.”
“No worries, Sam. I’ll call and let her know. We’re all good for pickups through the rest of the day, right? I’ve got the bigwig landing in five hours.”
“My whole fleet is yours all day long. And Jameson Cabot? I’m doing that pickup myself.”
“Thanks, Sam. You’re a star.”
“You’re my best customer, Ellen. If you ain’t happy, I ain’t happy.”
After ending the call with a quick pleasantry, Ellen called Hermione again.
“All’s well, Ellen,” the assistant answered, “I’ve my bag and a driver, and we’re on our way.”
“Excellent. See you soon. It’s a lovely drive to the ranch, and today’s a perfect day. Enjoy!”
As Ellen slid her phone back into her pocket, she allowed herself a second to sag back against the log wall of the house. Though little fires like that happened all the time and were easily handled, they exhausted her; they were so often beyond her control. Big problems that needed complex solutions? She wouldn’t say she enjoyed them, but they didn’t make her anxious. She was confident she could solve a problem in her control.
“Ellen?” a disembodied voice called from inside the house.
Ellen stood up. “Out here.”
Becky, a new girl this year who was taking far too long to learn the ropes, peeked shyly through the front door. “Marcie needs you at the desk. There’s a problem with a checkout.”
With a sigh, Ellen went back in to douse the next little fire.
*****
The trouble at the desk turned out to be a cousin of the groom who was disputing a room service charge of more than a thousand dollars. Ellen was inclined to accommodate guests in most incidental charge disputes, but this one was huge and the result of a wild party three nights earlier that had done considerable damage to the room and boiled over into the public areas of the hotel in the middle of the night. In fact, at the very moment she had the obnoxious guest in her office to discuss the matter, there was a team of workmen in the room, laying new carpet and repairing and repapering a wall so that the room could be turned for a new guest by three o’clock that afternoon.