Cavanaugh Cowboy. Marie Ferrarella

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       Chapter 3

      Sully looked at the woman, wondering if Rae was trying to goad him or if this was actually her opinion. He couldn’t help wondering what Seamus would have thought of this feisty five-four embodiment of womanhood.

      He probably would have liked her, Sully decided. His great-uncle liked women with fire in their blood who weren’t afraid to speak their mind.

      “Never had a reason to believe that before,” Sully finally replied.

      Rae shrugged, her shoulders moving carelessly beneath her checked work shirt.

      “Have it your way. Anyway, you’re in luck,” she told him. “Early this morning I found a whole length of fence that needs to be replaced and you look more able-bodied, like you could probably do a better job of it than the two wranglers I’ve got here working on the ranch now.”

      Leading the way to her truck so she could drive him over to the location, Rae stopped walking for a moment. She decided it would be more prudent for her to ask rather than just to assume. “You do know how to dig post holes and swing a sledgehammer, don’t you?”

      There was a fifty-fifty chance she wasn’t trying to insult him, Sully thought. In either case, he answered, “I think I can manage.”

      Rae nodded. She’d thought as much. “Good. At any rate, you probably can’t be any worse at it than Rawlings and Warren are.”

      “Rawlings and Warren?” he echoed. He was trying to keep all the names straight, having a feeling that Rae Mulcahy wasn’t much for repetition.

      Rae nodded. “Those are the current two drifters that Miss Joan okayed to work on the ranch. Actually,” she reflected, “Mr. Harry was the one who gave the okay in this case.”

      “Mr. Harry, that would be Miss Joan’s husband?” Sully asked.

      He was fairly certain that Miss Joan’s husband and Mr. Harry were the same person, but he didn’t want to take anything for granted and make a mistake. He had a feeling that people around here were pretty touchy. He wasn’t really familiar with the names and dynamics of this hamlet yet, and he didn’t want to step on any toes if he could help it.

      This time Rae didn’t stop walking as she spared him a quick glance. “Is that just a lucky guess on your part or are you bucking for sharpest tool in the tool box?” she asked.

      He got the feeling that he was attempting to maneuver across a chasm walking on a tightrope and trying not to lose his balance—while his foreman was rooting for the rope.

      “Why don’t we split the difference and just move on?” Sully suggested diplomatically.

      “Get in,” she told him, indicating the truck. When she got in behind the steering wheel, she waited for him to sit down on his side before she asked, “What’s your name, anyway?” Rae had suddenly realized that while this new man knew her name, she hadn’t bothered finding out his.

      “Sully,” he answered just as she started up the truck.

      Rae frowned, obviously rolling the name over in her head. “What kind of a name is Sully for a man?” she asked.

      “What kind of name is Ray for a woman?” he countered.

      “It’s Rachel,” she reminded him pointedly. “But men don’t seem to be able to take orders very well from a Rachel out here. They will, though, take orders from someone named Rae.”

      Sully nodded. “Point taken. And it’s Sullivan,” he told her after a beat. “My full name,” he added when she made no response.

      She ran the name through her mind. “Sully’s faster to say.”

      “That’s what I thought.”

      “You got a last name, Sully?” she asked, sparing him a glance now that they were out in completely open country. “Or is that it?”

      “Cavanaugh,” Sully told her. “My last name’s Cavanaugh.”

      “Sullivan Cavanaugh,” Rae repeated. He wasn’t sure if she was mocking him or trying it on for size. “That’s quite a mouthful. Anyway, when you get a chance, you can store your gear in there,” she told him, indicating the single-story structure they were passing at the moment. “You can sleep in there at the end of the day, too.”

      The structure wasn’t very much to look at, he thought as they made their way to the open range. “Was that the bunkhouse?”

      “You guessed it. It’s closer than the hotel,” she told him drily. “I’ll introduce you to Rawlings and Warren—they should be working on the fencing by now—and then you can get started. Dinner’s at six—unless the job runs over. It’s served in the main house,” she told him, then in case he wondered about the logistics, she explained, “There’s no kitchen in the bunkhouse.”

      He figured СКАЧАТЬ