Marie Ferrarella - Her Right-Hand Cowboy

She shook her head. “Ten years and you still haven’t learned how to come up with a decent excuse. Not that that’s a bad thing,” Miss Joan said. “At least they didn’t teach you how to lie in Dallas. Well?” she asked expectantly when Ena continued to stand where she was. “Are you posing for a statue? Because if you’re not, stop blocking the stairs to my diner. Use them and come in, girl.”

Miss Joan didn’t raise her voice, but the command was clearly there.

Moving like a queen, Miss Joan turned around and walked back into the diner. Everything about the way she moved clearly said that she expected Ena to follow her inside.

Ena’s internal debate was very short-lived. She decided that coming into the diner was far easier than walking away from what was clearly a mandate from Miss Joan.

Ena quickly hurried up the three steps. With each step she took, she told herself that she wasn’t going to regret this. After all, she had spoken to Miss Joan hundreds of times before. This would just be another one of those times. Lightning was not going to streak across the sky and strike her the moment she entered. She was just paying her respects to an old friend.

A rather scary old friend , she thought as she pushed the diner door open with fingertips that were positively icy.

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.