Marie Ferrarella - Her Right-Hand Cowboy

“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.

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