Читать книгу Her Right-Hand Cowboy - Marie Ferrarella, Marie Ferrarella - Страница 13

Chapter Four

“Take a seat at the counter, girl,” Miss Joan instructed without sparing Ena so much as a glance over her shoulder.

Miss Joan waved a very thin hand toward an empty stool that just happened to be right in the middle of the counter. It was also directly in front of where the woman usually stood when she was observing the various activities that were going on within her diner.

When Ena complied, Miss Joan got behind the counter and asked, “You still take your coffee black?”

“I do,” Ena answered.

Nodding, Miss Joan filled up a cup straight from the urn. The coffee in the cup was hot enough to generate its own cloud directly above the shimmering black liquid. Years of practice had the woman placing the cup and its saucer in front of Ena without spilling so much as a single drop.

“Are you hungry?” Miss Joan asked.

Ena shook her head. “No, ma’am, I’m fine,” she answered.

Miss Joan’s eyes narrowed as they pinned hers with a penetrating look. “When did you eat last?” she asked.

She should have known that she couldn’t get away with such a vague answer. She would have no peace until she gave Miss Joan something a little more specific. “I had something at a drive-through early this morning,” she told the woman.

“You’re hungry,” Miss Joan declared in her no-nonsense voice. “Angel,” she called out to the chef she had come to rely on so heavily. “I need an order of two eggs, sunny-side up, two strips of bacon, crisp, and one slice of white toast, buttered.” Her eyes met Ena’s. “Did I forget anything?”

Ena moved her head from side to side. “No. You never do.” It was as much of an observation as it was a compliment.

Other than the fact that Miss Joan’s hair looked a little redder than it had when she’d left Forever, the woman hadn’t changed a bit, nor had she missed so much as a beat, Ena thought. There was something to be said for that.

Waiting on the order, Miss Joan crossed back to Ena. “You back for good?” the woman asked bluntly, not wasting any time beating around the bush.

She wanted to yell out “No,” but instead, she proceeded with caution. “I’m taking it one day at a time.”

Miss Joan surprised her by letting the response stand. “That’s as good a plan as any,” the woman allowed. One of her old-timers seated at the end of the counter called out her name and Miss Joan glared in the man’s direction. “Can’t you see I’m busy talking to Bruce O’Rourke’s prodigal daughter?” Shaking her head, she looked back at Ena. “Some people act as if they were raised by she-wolves and have no idea what it means to have manners.”

Just then, Angel placed the order on the counter between the kitchen and the main room. “Your order’s ready, Miss Joan,” Angel told her.

“I see it, I see it. Keep your shirt on,” Miss Joan replied testily. Picking the plate up, she brought it over to Ena and put the meal in front of her beside the half-empty coffee cup. Moving seamlessly, she automatically filled the cup up. “Let me know if there’s anything else that you need.”

Ena had been debating whether or not to say something from the moment she had finally walked into the diner. She decided that she had nothing to lose. “There is something.”

Miss Joan retraced her steps and returned to the center of the counter. She looked at the young woman expectantly. “Okay, go on.” But before Ena said a word, Miss Joan held her hand up to temporarily stop her. The man at the end of the counter had apparently leaned in to listen to what was about to be said. “This doesn’t concern you, Ed,” Miss Joan said sharply. “Drink your coffee.” It was an order.

“Yes, ma’am,” the old-timer murmured, picking up his cup.

Miss Joan’s eyes shifted back to Ena. “All right, go ahead.”

Ena pulled her courage to her. “Why didn’t you try to find a way to get word to me?” she asked, the question emerging without any preamble.

Miss Joan raised one of her carefully penciled-in eyebrows. “About?”

The woman knew damn well what this was about, Ena thought, exasperated. But because this was Miss Joan, she played along and answered, “My father. And before you say that you didn’t know how to reach me, your step-grandson knew where to find me in order to send that letter notifying me about my father’s death and the fact that there was a will. We both know that nobody knows anything in this town without you knowing it first.”

“You’re giving me way too much credit, girl,” Miss Joan said, deflecting the comment.

“That’s not true, Miss Joan, and you and I know it,” Ena informed her. Her voice grew even more serious. “Why didn’t you let me know my father was dying?”

Miss Joan moved in closer over the counter, lowering her voice. “Because your father didn’t want me to let you know.”

Anger mingled with frustration flashed through Ena’s soul. “The noble warrior, dying alone, was that it?” she asked sarcastically.

Miss Joan didn’t react well to sarcasm, but for once, she let it slide. She answered the question honestly. “You left ten years ago and stayed away all that time. Your father didn’t want some spark of belated guilt being the reason you came back. Besides,” she continued, “your father wanted you to remember him the way he was, not the shell of a man he became just before he died.”

Ena stared at Miss Joan. She wasn’t sure what to believe. “So it was vanity that kept him from getting in touch with me?”

Miss Joan shrugged at Ena’s conclusion. “If that’s how you want to see it. But I always thought you were smarter than that.”

“How else am I supposed to see it?” Ena asked, raising her voice.

Miss Joan looked at her sharply. “Eat your breakfast before it gets cold,” she ordered just before finally turning her attention to the man seated at the end of the counter.

Any appetite she might have had was gone now, but Ena knew better than to just walk away without at least eating some of the breakfast in front of her. Miss Joan would take that as an insult, not just to her but also to the woman she had working in her kitchen. Miss Joan had never been big on compliments, but in her own way she was fiercely protective of the people she took under her wing.

So Ena forced herself to eat as much as she could keep safely down, then, when she was certain Miss Joan was otherwise occupied, she quietly slipped away from the counter. Ena left a twenty-dollar bill beside her plate, thinking that would cover breakfast and then some.

She had reached the entrance and had almost made good her getaway when she felt a hand on her arm. Startled, she looked and saw that the hand belonged to a waitress she didn’t recognize.

The waitress, a girl who might have barely been out of high school, pressed the twenty she’d left on the counter into her hand. Ena looked at the waitress quizzically.

“Miss Joan told me to tell you that she never said anything about charging for the meal,” the waitress told her.

Ena looked down at the twenty. Damn that woman, always getting in the last word, she thought. Just like her father.

Out loud, she observed, “I guess she never said a lot of things.”

“Do you want me to tell her that?” the waitress asked.

Ena shook her head. “No, never mind. Here,” she said, trying to give the money to the waitress. “Consider this a tip.”

But the other woman kept her hand tightly closed. “Can’t,” the waitress protested. “I didn’t earn it and Miss Joan wouldn’t like me taking money like this for no reason.”

With that, the waitress turned on her heel and retreated back into the diner.

Ena sighed. Looks like we’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto, she thought. Ten years in Dallas had caused her to forget just how frustratingly set in her ways Miss Joan could be.

The next six months were going to be hell.

But that didn’t change the fact that Miss Joan’s step-grandson was right. If she walked away from the ranch, her father would have won their final battle. There was no way she was about to allow that to happen. She couldn’t bear it.

“Into the valley of death rode the six hundred,” Ena murmured under her breath, quoting Tennyson’s epic poem “The Charge of the Light Brigade.” She felt as if she were going through the motions of reliving the actual events depicted in the poem.

Except that she was determined to come out of this alive and victorious.

“Hey, boss,” Roy Bailey, one of the hands working on the Double E, called out into the stable. Mitch was inside working with an orphaned foal that was having a great deal of trouble taking his nourishment from the bottle that was being offered to it. “I think she’s back.”

“You’re going to have to be more specific,” Mitch responded, raising his voice while keeping his attention on the foal. “Which she are you talking about?”

“He means Mr. Bruce’s daughter,” Wade answered, speaking up for the other ranch hand. “And from what I can see, she doesn’t look all that happy.”

“I’m guessing she’s had the terms of the will spelled out for her,” Mitch said. “Hey, Bailey, take over trying to feed this little guy,” he instructed the ranch hand, holding out the bottle to him.

Bailey looked rather reluctant, although the hired hand took the bottle from Mitch. “I’m not good with a bottle,” he protested.

“That’s not the way I hear it,” Mitch said with a laugh. “Just hold the bottle. With any luck, the foal will do the rest,” he told Bailey.

Rising to his feet, Mitch dusted off his hands. He stepped out of the stables just as Ena was making her way to the ranch house.

He cut her off before she had a chance to mount the steps leading to the porch. Bailey was right about Ena’s appearance, he thought.

Out loud, Mitch observed, “Well, you certainly don’t look very happy.”

Startled, she looked in his direction. Her expression hardened. “I’m not,” she told him.

“I take it that your dad’s lawyer told you the terms of the will?”

Mitch put it in the form of a question, but he already knew the answer. She wouldn’t have been frowning that way if she had been on the receiving end of news that she welcomed.

“Yes, he did,” Ena said grimly.

He looked at her for a long moment. “Is that scowl on your face because you’ve decided not to stay—or because you have?”

Diplomacy was obviously a lost art out here, Ena thought.

“That’s pretty blunt,” she observed. “You certainly don’t believe in beating around the bush, do you, Mitch?”

“Only when it’s fun,” he said. Then he sobered and added, “But no, not usually. And not, apparently, in this case.” His eyes searched her face, looking for a clue. “So, you haven’t told me. Are you staying?” he asked, phrasing his question in another form.

Her eyes narrowed. Was he being cute or was he just toying with her? “Do I have a choice in the matter?”

He spread his arms wide. “You could leave,” he reminded her.

“Right,” she said sarcastically. “And forfeit my birthright?” she asked, stunned that he would even suggest that.

“Is that important to you?” Mitch asked. He was curious to hear what her response to that would be.

“Honestly?” she asked. When Mitch nodded, she told him, “What’s important to me is not letting that old man win.”

There was that stubborn spirit of hers again, Mitch thought. “Despite whatever I might have alluded to earlier, I don’t really think it matters all that much to him one way or the other,” he told her, covertly observing her expression. “The old man is past the point of caring.”

“Well, I’m not and it does to me,” Ena informed him. “And I’ll be damned if he gets to ace me out of something that’s been in the family for three generations just because I had the audacity to be born a female and not his male heir.”

He, for one, thought that her having been born a female was a great boon to the world, and especially to him, but he wasn’t about to voice that sentiment to her, at least not right now. It would get him into a lot of hot water for a hell of a whole lot of reasons.

“Just so I’m clear on this, you’re going to stay on and run the ranch?” he asked, waiting for a confirmation from her.

Ena closed her eyes. The frustrated sigh came up from the bottom of her very toes. “It certainly looks that way,” she replied, opening her eyes again.

If he let himself, he could get lost in those eyes, Mitch thought. He always could.

“You’re going to need help,” he concluded.

“Ordinarily, I would take that as an insult,” she told him. She liked to think of herself as self-sufficient and independent, but she also knew her limitations. “But right now, I have to admit that you’re right. I’m going to need help. A lot of help. To be perfectly honest, I don’t really know the first thing about running a ranch—” She saw him opening his mouth to say something and she got ahead of what she knew he was going to say. “And yes, I know I grew up here, but just because you grow up next to a bakery doesn’t mean you have the slightest idea how bread is made. Especially if the baker won’t let you into the kitchen.”

He looked impressed by the fact that she could admit that. “Best way I know how to get started is to just jump right into the thick of things and start working,” he told her. She was looking at him quizzically, so he explained, “There’s a foal in the stables whose mama died giving birth to him and he needs to be fed if he has any chance of surviving.”

The very abbreviated story unintentionally brought back painful memories for Ena. Her mother hadn’t died in childbirth, but her twin had. She could definitely relate to that foal on some level.

“Take me to him,” she told Mitch.

Mitch suppressed a smile. He’d been hoping for that sort of reaction from her.

“Right this way, Ms. O’Rourke,” he said politely, leading the way into the stable.

The foal was skittish when she came up to him. Ena was slightly uncomfortable as she glanced toward Mitch for guidance.

“Just start talking to him,” he told her.

“What am I supposed to say?” Ena asked, at a loss for how to proceed.

Mitch shrugged. He’d never had to think about it before. “Anything that comes to mind. Pretend you’re talking to a little kid,” he suggested.

But she shook her head. “Still not helping. Not many little kids need an accountant,” she pointed out.

He thought for a moment, searching for something she could work with. “Tell him how good-looking he is. Every living creature likes to hear that,” he told her.

Ena wasn’t sure about that. “Really?” she asked him uncertainly.

“Really.” Rather than demonstrate, he thought it best to leave it up to her. “Come on,” he coaxed. “You can do it. You know how to talk. I know you do,” he insisted. “I’ve heard you.”

Ena looked at him sharply. Was he telling her that he remembered going to school with her? That he’d eavesdropped on her talking to someone? Just how much did he remember? Because she instantly recalled the less-than-flattering memories of all but throwing herself at the mysterious new stud who had walked into her school and her life. She also painfully recollected having him politely ignore each and every one of her passes. If he did remember all those passes that fell by the wayside, then working with him to run the ranch was not an option. She didn’t handle humiliation well and she’d worry that he was laughing at her.

“What do you mean by that?” she asked suspiciously, bracing herself.

“Just what I said,” he answered innocently. “I’ve heard you. You talked to me when you came here this morning.”

“Oh,” she responded, simmering down. “That’s what you meant.”

“Yes. Why?” Mitch asked. “What did you think I meant?”

“Never mind,” Ena told him, waving away the foreman’s question.

Taking the bottle from one of the men she gathered was working with Mitch, she turned her attention to the foal. The wobbly colt all but attacked the bottle, sucking on it as if his very life depended on it.

He was probably right, Ena thought. “What a good boy,” she murmured to the foal, pleased by the success she was having.