Arizona Cowboy

When Liz had asked if Lauren could spend the summer with him while she honeymooned in Mexico with her fifth husband, Clint hadn’t hesitated. He’d hoped he and his daughter would grow closer—that is, if he could coax Lauren out of her bedroom. She considered her stay at Five Star Ranch a jail sentence and was determined to make Clint as miserable as she was.

Speaking of miserable, Clint couldn’t help thinking of the sassy woman he’d rescued Curly from a short while ago. The lady’s fiery spirit amused him and he doubted he’d forget those sleek, sexy legs of hers any time soon. Clint had kicked himself all the way back to the ranch for forgetting to check the car’s license plate—not that it would have mattered, but he wanted to know if the blonde lived in the area.

Shoving thoughts of the pretty bull-hater aside, he guzzled a water bottle from the fridge, then strolled down the hallway off the kitchen. He rapped his knuckles against his daughter’s door. “Can I come in?”

No answer.

Eyes closed he prayed for patience—a virtue in short supply since he’d learned of P.T.’s cancer diagnosis. The older man’s health weighed heavily on Clint’s mind. He hated not being able to fight P.T.’s cancer for him but would do his damnedest to make sure the summer rodeos went on as scheduled while P.T. received medical treatment in Phoenix.

“I’m coming in.” Clint knocked on the door a second time, then counted to ten before stepping into the room. Lauren was sprawled across the bed, with iPod headphones stuck in her ears. He waved his arm to catch her attention.

“What?” she snapped.

“Did you do the chores on the list I left in the kitchen?” Simple chores—scrubbing the toilet and straightening the bathroom. There wasn’t an inch of available counter space for his razor or aftershave. Lauren had claimed the bathroom as her own, forcing Clint to stow his toiletries on the top of his bedroom dresser.

“I didn’t see a list.”

Hadn’t she left her room all day? Maybe she was ill. He approached the bed and placed his palm against her forehead.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Just checking for a fever.”

“I’m not sick.” She glared. “I’m bored.”

“There’s plenty to do on the ranch if you’ll haul your keister out of bed.” He’d offered to teach Lauren how to feed the livestock, muck the barn and ride a horse, but she’d turned him down.

“It’s too hot outside.”

Not much he could do about the heat—summer months in Southwest Arizona were hotter than Hades. “The laundry hasn’t been done in a while.”

“I’m not your slave!” Lauren’s nostrils flared.

Wishing he had more experience handling rebellious teenagers, Clint was forced to wing it with his daughter. “Want to see a movie tonight?”

“No.”

Clint had risen earlier than usual the past few days. He worked his butt off, even skipping lunch to free up time to be with Lauren in the evenings. So far she’d evaded his attempts to bond with her. “What would you like to do?”

“Drive back to California.”

“Sorry, kiddo. No can do.”

“I hate it when you do that.”

“Do what?” Clint had a hell of a time following the female train of thought.

“Talk to me like I’m twelve.”

Huh?

“Why did Mom have to get married again?” Lauren crushed the pillow to her mouth and released a muffled scream.

Lauren had grown up with stepfathers entering and leaving her life in short intervals, but Clint suspected she resented him most. He was her biological father, yet he’d never been there for her. This summer he hoped to make up for his absence in her life, but Lauren appeared intent on sabotaging his efforts.

“You might feel better if you eat.” His daughter was small in stature and too slim for his liking.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Maybe you’ll be hungry in an hour. I’ve got to check in with P.T., then afterward we’ll drive into town for supper.”

P.T. had asked Clint to stop by the main house to discuss a few business details. He expected P.T. to officially hand over the reins of his rodeo-production company to him before checking into the Phoenix cancer clinic tomorrow. The income from Five Star Rodeos paid for the feed and care of the retired rough stock, and P.T. worried about the company failing to bring in enough money to support the sanctuary ranch.

“I’m tired of eating out.” Lauren’s whining returned Clint’s focus to the present.

“We’ll drive into Yuma and grab a handful of microwavable meals at the grocery store.”

“Mmm…tasty.” Lauren curled her nose.

His daughter wouldn’t give an inch. “Want to buy ingredients and make a meal from scratch?”

“No.” She swung her legs over the side of the bed. “I’ll get up if you stop badgering me.”

Clint backed out of the room and made it halfway down the hall before Lauren shouted, “Dad!”

As much as he didn’t deserve it, he liked hearing his daughter call him Dad. He returned to the doorway. “What?”

“I didn’t want to spend the summer before my senior year of high school stuck in the middle of a desert.” Angry tears shimmered in Lauren’s eyes.

“I’m sorry things didn’t work out the way you wanted.” Although Lauren had become an adult a month ago, the apartment she shared with her mother wasn’t in the safest area of L.A. and he and Liz agreed that the best place for Lauren this summer was at the ranch.

Hoping to goad his daughter into a better mood, he said, “I’ll pay to have your hair done while we’re in Yuma.”

“No one’s touching my hair.”

When Clint had fetched Lauren in L.A., his jaw had dropped to the ground at the sight of her neon-pink hair and piercings—a silver hoop in her eyebrow and a fake-diamond stud in her nose. Deciding the best course of action was no comment, he retreated to the kitchen and washed the previous days’ dishes left in the sink.

“If I drive into Yuma with you, I want a Caramel Frappuccino at Starbucks,” Lauren said from the kitchen doorway.

Didn’t his daughter own a pair of shorts longer than two inches? He studied her outfit, careful to keep his expression neutral. At least her T-shirt wasn’t ripped or torn. “Did you pack any jeans this summer?”

“Only stupid people wear long pants when it’s over a hundred degrees.”

“Are you calling your father stupid?”

Eye roll. “You know what I mean.” Lauren helped herself to a bottle of apple juice in the fridge, then sat at the table and stared into space.

Clint dried the dishes, wondering if he and his daughter would ever have a conversation that didn’t turn into an argument. They’d bickered more in the past two weeks than they had the past eighteen years. He glanced at the wall clock. He had a few minutes to blow before his chat with P.T. “Have you decided what you want to do after you graduate from high school?”

“Most of my friends are going off to universities or enrolling in community colleges.”

Clint joined her at the table.

“I’d like to go away to college. Maybe study green technology.”

Whoa. Where had that come from? The term green technology brought back memories of the pretty blonde Curly had tangled with.

“My chemistry teacher, Mrs. Benton, taught a unit on cutting-edge technology. She said lots of jobs in the future are going to be tied to green energy.”

“Sounds interesting.” And way over Clint’s head.

“Mrs. Benton said green jobs pay well.”

“You’re a smart girl.” His comment erased the frown line across Lauren’s forehead.

“You think so?”

Why did she act surprised? “You’ll be successful at whatever career you choose.”

She opened her mouth then snapped it shut.

“What?”

“Mom said you don’t like to talk about your childhood.”

“She’s right, I don’t.” Clint had lost count of the foster homes he’d been raised in—some decent, but most best forgotten.

“How come you didn’t go to college?” she asked.

“Got sidetracked by rodeo.” Because P.T. owned a rodeo-production company, Clint had taken a liking to the sport. Rodeo had given Clint a worthy goal to focus on and a way to put the pain of a lonely childhood behind him and find his own identity.

“Mom said you rode bulls.”

Hadn’t he discussed his rodeo days with Lauren? He and his daughter really were strangers. “I rode a few broncs, but mostly bulls.”

“Did you get injured a lot?”

“Enough.” Clint wiggled the crooked pinkie on his left hand. He neglected to tell Lauren that he’d continued to compete with the broken finger and as a result the bone had never healed properly.

“Cowboys who rodeo are crazy.”

“Teens who dye their hair neon-pink are crazy.” The comment tugged a smile from his daughter.

“Why’d you quit rodeo?” she asked.

“Got too old.” Thirty was old by rodeo standards. “After I retired from competing, I became a bullfighter.”

“What’s that?”

Happy Lauren appeared interested in his past, Clint looked for ways to draw out the discussion. “A bullfighter protects a fallen cowboy by distracting the bull.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Yep, but in all the years I worked as a bullfighter I only got gored once.”

“Was it bad?”

“Split my thigh from knee to hip. Luckily, the wound wasn’t deep.” Afterward, P.T. had convinced Clint to quit bullfighting and become the official foreman of Five Star Ranch. By then, Clint had been more than ready to retire his bright-colored jersey, shorts and socks.

“The worst injury I ever suffered was a sprained ankle during badminton practice. I had to use crutches for a week before I could put weight on my foot.”

“Sprains can be tricky.” Neither Liz nor Lauren had shared that incident with Clint. How many other events in his daughter’s life had he never known about? He headed for the door. “I’d better go. P.T.’s waiting.”

“Is P.T. okay?”

“He’s fine.” Lauren knew about the old man’s cancer and felt sorry for him. Clint was relieved that beneath his daughter’s disgruntled, unhappy exterior resided a sympathetic heart. “P.T. wants to discuss the summer’s rodeo schedule.”

Lauren sat straighter in the chair. “Does this mean I have to go to the rodeos with you?”

“Looks that way.” Clint grabbed his hat from the hook by the back door.

“Cool.”

Her comment brought Clint up short. “I thought you couldn’t stand cowboys and ranching.”

“Some of the cowboys are cute.”

Even though his gut insisted his wayward daughter wasn’t a virgin, the last thing he wanted to deal with this summer was his daughter’s love life. “We leave for Yuma in an hour.”

RACHEL STOOD IN HER father’s foyer searching for the right words to break the tension. She settled on… “Your home is beautiful.”

“I expect you don’t remember living here.”

“No, I don’t,” she said, refusing to lie. She motioned to the terra-cotta tile. “I like the floor.”

“The kitchen’s in the back.” P.T. cut through a great room with an adobe fireplace and chunky furnishings—cowboy furniture. The kitchen was large and airy. A colorful mosaic-tile backsplash in deep gold, blue and red popped against the whitewashed walls. The cabinets were a dark distressed wood—the space above them held an array of brightly painted metal roosters. A wooden chopping block served as an island. P.T. caught Rachel studying the décor. “Anne—” he cleared his throat “—your mother had a rooster fetish.”

“I like them.” Rachel wondered if the bold, colorful fowl were indicative of her mother’s personality.

“This was Anne’s favorite room in the house.”

The love in her father’s voice when he spoke of her mother pierced Rachel’s heart. Why couldn’t he offer her a smidgen of that affection? She shifted under his scrutiny.

“You look like your mother,” P.T. said.

Rachel had seen photos of Anne Lewis and agreed she was every inch her mother’s daughter. “I could use a drink.”

“Where are my manners?” Her father fetched a glass from the cupboard. “Lemonade or iced tea?”

A green-apple martini would have been better. “Iced tea.” Rachel stared out the large picture window overlooking a courtyard. Trellises covered with red bougainvilleas had been mounted against the adobe wall and mounds of pink and yellow lantana grew in several planters. She couldn’t picture the father she knew as someone who nurtured flowers. In the center of the patio sat a fountain with a bucking horse that spewed water from its mouth.

P.T. set Rachel’s tea on the bistro table then leaned a hip against the butcher block. “That’s Dust Devil.” He pointed to the fountain. “He’s the reason Five Star Ranch exists.”

“How’s that?”

“Anne caught Dust Devil being abused by a stock contractor.” P.T. stared unseeingly across the room as if reliving the moment. “Your mother gave that cowboy a piece of her mind and threatened to call the authorities on him if he didn’t hand over Dust Devil to her. Anne had a soft spot for abused animals and she convinced me that it was my duty to provide a sanctuary for retired rough stock since I made a living off them.” P.T. rubbed his chin. “Your mother was an astute woman, so I listened to her.”

P.T. had loved Rachel’s mother very much—what had happened to that man? “Was my mother happy living here?”

“Anne got lonely. There wasn’t much for her to do until you came along.” P.T.’s gaze slid away. “You were a precocious child.”

“Aunt Edith talked about Mom often, but I was too young to remember any details about her.” Rachel sipped her tea. “For some reason, though, when I smell the scent of roses I think of her.”

A pained expression crossed her father’s face. “Anne misted your bed sheets with rosewater before she tucked you in at night.” P.T. cleared his throat then changed the subject. “You like working as a school psychologist? Teenagers can be a pain in the arse.”

What did he know about teenage behaviors? He’d never visited Rachel during her high-school years. “I enjoy helping teens navigate difficult issues.”

“Sounds as if you’ve found your calling.”

Until this moment, Rachel had never expressed her appreciation to her father for paying her college tuition and graduate-school costs. She blamed her bad manners on the anger and resentment she harbored toward him. In light of P.T.’s recent cancer diagnosis, it was time to let a few things pass. “Thank you for paying off my student loans.”

“The least I could do considering…”

Considering what? Had he been on the verge of apologizing for keeping his daughter at arm’s length through the years? The air crackled with tension.

Rachel took pity on him. “Another thing I don’t remember about my childhood is the heat.”

“By the end of August even the natives have had enough of the sweltering temperatures.” P.T. shook his head. “I’m sorry you had to come out here during the hottest part of the year.”

“It’s an adventure.” One she hoped she wouldn’t regret. “What have the doctors said about your condition?”

“Stage II prostate cancer.”

“Which means?” Rachel knew nothing about prostate cancer except that stage I was better than stage II.

“The cancer hasn’t spread outside the prostate, but if I don’t get treatment soon, cancer cells could migrate to my lymph nodes.”

“What kind of treatment plan has the doctor prescribed?”

“They’re going to place a radioactive pellet in my prostate.”

Ouch. “Why don’t they take out your prostate?”

“Because of my age they believe this is the best way for now.”

Her father was fifty-six. She guessed he was still sexually active…don’t go there. “And the doctors are positive the cancer hasn’t spread?”

“They’ll do more tests once I check into the clinic in Phoenix.”

Rachel worried about P.T. having to undergo a battery of procedures even though the tests were necessary for the doctors to determine the best course of treatment. “I could stay with you in Phoenix.” As soon as the words left her mouth, she wanted to snatch them back. She hardly knew her father. Surely he wouldn’t want her involved in his personal business.

“I’ll be sitting on my duff doing nothing for weeks on end. I need you here.” He glanced at his watch. “As a matter of fact, I asked my foreman to meet with me this afternoon. Let’s head into my office and wait for him there.”

After setting her glass in the sink, Rachel trailed her father to the front of the house. They entered a room off the main foyer. Two leather chairs faced a massive desk littered with folders and loose papers. Was she expected to make heads or tails out of the mess? Before she asked the question the front door banged open.

“P.T., I can explain!” The frantic shout carried into the study.

Rachel pulled in a quick breath when she recognized the cowboy who burst into the room—the very same one whose blasted bull had dented the hood of her car.

No wonder her father had asked for her help this summer—if the ranch foreman couldn’t keep a bull behind a fence, then he had no business running Five Star Rodeos.

Chapter Three

Clint stopped on a dime in the hallway outside P.T.’s office and stared at the woman who’d terrorized Curly.

Blue. Her eyes were a transparent blue like the Arizona sky on a cloudless day. The only sign she was surprised to see him was the subtle arch of a light-brown eyebrow.

Of all the rotten luck. How had the blonde tracked down Curly’s home? She must have stopped in Stagecoach and asked questions. Shoot, every person within a hundred-mile radius of Five Star Ranch had butted heads with the bull on one occasion or another. Curly was a local legend.

“For God’s sake, Clint.” P.T. frowned. “What’s got you riled?”

Clint wanted to shout “her.” Instead, he said, “I can explain the dents in her—” sissified “—Prius.”

“You hit my daughter’s car?”

Daughter—as in the estranged Rachel P.T. rarely mentioned?

The woman whose sexy mouth he’d craved to taste a short while ago?

The woman who hadn’t bothered to visit her father once since Clint had lived at the ranch? That Rachel?

Why had she shown up now? Had she heard about her father’s cancer and felt guilty? Clint’s gut insisted he shouldn’t trust this woman. Caught up in staring at Rachel he remembered he hadn’t answered P.T.’s question. “Curly dented the hood of her car.”

“Blast it, Clint.” P.T. motioned to the empty chair in front of the desk and Clint slid onto the leather seat. “You’ve got to keep that bull locked up. One of these days he’ll roam onto the road and get someone killed.” P.T. swung his gaze to Rachel. “You weren’t injured, were you?”

“I’m fine.”

“Clint will see to it that your car gets fixed.”

Add auto repairs to the list of his duties this week. “I’m heading into Yuma later. I’ll stop by Mel’s place and make an appointment with the repair shop.”

“No rush,” P.T. said. “Rachel’s staying all summer.”

The bossy, no-sense-of-humor, sexy blonde was hanging around for three months?

You like her eyes.

True.

And she has great legs.

No argument there.

He wondered how long her hair was and if it was naturally blond or from a bottle.

“I plan to leave for Phoenix early in the morning,” P.T. said.

“You’ll be accompanying P.T. to Phoenix?” Clint spoke to Rachel.

“Actually—”

“I’m putting Rachel in charge of the rodeos this summer,” P.T. said.

If he hadn’t already been seated, Clint’s legs would have buckled. He clenched the armrest until the skin over his knuckles threatened to split.

“Clint manages the rough-stock sanctuary but he’s helped plenty with the rodeo-production schedule. If you have any questions, he’s your go-to man,” P.T. said.

Go-to man?

Don’t lose your cool.

Not an easy task when P.T. had ripped Clint’s guts out with his bare hands. Why had P.T. chosen his estranged daughter over Clint to manage the rodeos? Had he failed P.T. in some way and lost his trust?

P.T. was the first person in Clint’s life who’d made him feel as if he mattered as a human being. He’d worked side by side with P.T. for twenty-one years and Rachel had avoided visiting the ranch—yet, the first crisis the old man encountered, he’d turned to his daughter and not Clint.

“What do you do for a living?” Clint asked Rachel.

“I’m a high-school psychologist and athletic trainer.”

Athletic trainer explained her toned, sleek legs but what the heck did a psychologist know about producing rodeos?

“My father assured me he has everything in order and all I need to do is make a few phone calls and follow up with vendors.” Rachel’s smile didn’t reach her eyes.

The woman knew she was out of her league. What possible motivation did she have for taking on a job she was destined to fail?

Waving a leather notebook, P.T. said, “This is my rodeo bible. All the vendors’ numbers are in here—contacts, dates and events. Keep track of the bottom line. We need to turn a profit this summer.” P.T. left his chair and stood before the window. “Damned medical insurance only covers half my treatment.”

“If you need money—”

Clint and Rachel stared at each other after blurting the same words. If Rachel thought it odd that her father’s employee offered financial assistance, she didn’t say.

“I’m worried about the rough stock,” P.T. said. “The money we make off the rodeos this summer has to buy enough feed and hay to get through next year.”

P.T. rambled on about the rodeos but Clint didn’t hear a word. He sat in a stupor, unable to comprehend how his longtime mentor, friend and the man he regarded as a father had chosen his estranged daughter to assume the helm of a company that had struggled the past few years to stay in the black.

“Although we got off on the wrong foot, I believe we’ll be able to work together well.” Rachel offered Clint her hand—firm and feminine, with neatly trimmed pink-painted nails. This woman did not belong on a ranch. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, tugging her hand free. “I’ll get my luggage.”

“Clint will fetch your bags,” P.T. said.

In less than ten minutes, Clint had gone from ranch foreman to mechanic to bellhop.

“I don’t have much.” Rachel left the room, leaving a trail of perfume-scented air in her wake.

Struggling to keep his mind from wandering outside with Rachel, Clint spoke to P.T. “Haven’t I proven I’m responsible enough to handle the rodeos?”

“Of course you can handle the rodeos.”

“Then why would you ask your daughter to drive clear across the country to run a business she has no experience with?” He smoothed a hand over his close-cropped hair. “Rachel’s a school shrink. Has she ever been to a rodeo before?”

“I’m not sure. You’ll have to ask her.”

“Is it because of Lauren? You’re worried my daughter will be a distraction?”

“Not at all. Rachel’s help will allow you to spend more time with Lauren.”

“You’re putting Rachel in charge to punish me because I haven’t paid enough attention to Lauren over the years?”

“Hell, no!” P.T. banged his fist on the desk. “This isn’t about you, Clint. It’s about me. I want Rachel in charge of the rodeos. End of discussion.”

“Whatever you say, boss.”

P.T.’s head jerked as if Clint had slapped him. Add remorse to the crazy emotions running rampant inside Clint. P.T. had taken him in, given him a home and taught him to be a decent man. He deserved better from Clint.

“I’ll make sure I’m available if Rachel needs me.” Even if it killed him.

“Good. The doctors insist that if I beat this cancer and go into remission, I need to cut out the stress in my life.”

“Are you talking retirement?” A sliver of excitement pricked Clint. He’d dreamed of one day running Five Star Rodeos.

“If Rachel does a good job this summer, I intend to ask her to stay on permanently.”