Last Cowboy—Or Cowgirl!—Standing…

Rachel Lewis is a bona fide city slicker. Still, when her estranged father asks for her help, she ends up in dusty Stagecoach, Arizona, to manage his rodeo company for the summer. Being clueless about rough stock is nothing, though, compared to the confused feelings Rachel has for sexy ranch foreman Clint McGraw…because he’s also her main competitor for her father’s affections.

Clint can hardly believe it when his boss hands over the reins to his long-gone daughter. What the heck does a spoiled city girl like Rachel know about rodeo? Why, she’s crazy enough to offer a competition event to women bull riders! And for sure she’s going to nudge her way back into her father’s heart—leaving Clint high and dry. Even so, he can’t help falling hard for Rachel.

But only one of them can be the head honcho of this round-up!

“Is that why you agreed to help your father this summer—so you two could mend your fences?”

“Yes.” A soft sigh escaped her. “But that was when I believed I was his only child.”

“You are his only child.”

“You might not be his son by birth, but it’s obvious he cares more about you than me.”

The truth was painful.

Rachel stepped past Clint, but he grasped her hand. His warm, callused fingers entwined with hers, sending shivers racing along her arm.

“This isn’t a competition between us,” he said.

Who was Clint kidding? They’d have to wait until the end of the summer to see which one of them came out on top in her father’s eyes.

Dear Reader,

While writing my cowboy books for Harlequin American Romance, I occasionally stumble across information about women’s rough-stock events, but usually never pay much attention to the details. After all, the average American woman has little in common with a female bull rider—right? Wrong. On a whim I began to research these courageous, spirited cowgirls and realized they’re more like you and me than I’d first believed. Whether women work in education, health care, business, are stay-at-home moms raising children or even romance writers, women face obstacles in the workplace and at home that most men don’t. Each and every day, women fight for recognition, respect, equal pay and equal benefits. When women fail, they pick themselves up, dust off their Wranglers and return for another go-round the next day.

I can’t think of a better example of bravery, dedication and resilience than a cowgirl who competes in rough-stock events. I hope you find inspiration from these courageous women and enjoy the wild world of rodeo!

For more information on my books and my Rodeo Rebels series for Harlequin American Romance, visit my website, www.marinthomas.com.

Happy reading!

Marin

Arizona Cowboy

Marin Thomas

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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To all the cowgirls who dare to dream big!

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter One

Stagecoach 10 Miles

Rachel Lewis strangled the steering wheel Sunday afternoon as she sped along the deserted Arizona highway southeast of Yuma. Although she’d been born in this desolate wasteland, the bone-dry landscape remained unfamiliar to her. The car’s thermometer displayed 100—it was only June seventh. After living two decades in Rhode Island, temps over eighty degrees constituted sweltering.

How did people survive this heat? Better yet…how would she handle three months of hundred-degree-plus temperatures on her father’s ranch?

You’re almost there. Eight hours in her car and the wavy heat lines hovering above the baking asphalt threatened to mesmerize Rachel. She gulped several swallows from her water bottle. Her concentration restored, she searched for a large rock, a mountain peak, a saguaro with too many arms—anything that might help her recall the first few years of her life in Hell’s backyard. Nothing. She felt like a tourist in a foreign land.

When Rachel was five years old, her mother had died in a horse accident and her father had shipped Rachel east to live with her aunt. Twenty-two years later she was returning to her birthplace—not because she wanted to but because her father had asked her to.

The speedometer nudged eighty and she eased her foot off the accelerator. Thoughts of P. T. Lewis sent her blood pressure soaring. A week before the public schools in Rhode Island had dismissed for the summer Rachel had learned her father had been diagnosed with prostate cancer and would be undergoing three months of treatment at a medical center in Phoenix. Before she’d uttered a single word of sympathy, he’d asked her to return to Stagecoach to run his rodeo-production company.

The phone call had been the first time her father had reached out to her since her mother’s death and the hurt, abandoned little girl in Rachel had yearned to shout, “No!”

But Rachel wasn’t a child. She was a grown woman with a successful career as a high school psychologist and athletic trainer. On a daily basis she dealt with teenagers who struggled with anger-management issues, eating disorders, physical disabilities and social adjustment problems. Too bad her background in psychology did nothing to ease the anger and hurt that had festered inside her the past twenty-two years. Her immature reaction to her father’s request had triggered a bout of serious soul-searching.

Deep down she yearned to be needed by her father because he loved her—not because he wanted her to manage his business. Dare she hope P.T.’s call for help signaled a desire to mend their relationship? After several sleepless nights Rachel had acknowledged she wasn’t certain she was able or even willing to forgive her father for choosing not to be involved in her life. In the end, his health had convinced her to attempt reconciliation.

P.T. was all the family Rachel had left, but she hesitated about becoming too close to him when a chance existed that he wouldn’t beat his cancer. All these years she’d struggled to accept her father’s disregard. If she opened her heart to him and then he didn’t survive… How would she endure losing her father twice in one lifetime?

I wish you were here to help me, Aunt Edith.

Rachel loved her aunt for all the sacrifices the woman had made in raising Rachel. Aunt Edith was the sole reason Rachel had survived her father’s absence through the years. Her aunt had never openly criticized her brother for neglecting his only child but Rachel had eavesdropped on phone conversations through the years and overheard Aunt Edith reprimand her brother for not visiting Rachel or speaking with her on the phone.

Relax. It’s not as if you’re going to a job interview. She might as well be. For all intents and purposes, P.T. was a stranger to her.

Turn around and go home. Say you changed your mind. Not after driving over twenty-five hundred miles and crossing thirteen states in three and a half days.

Needing to mentally prepare herself for seeing her father, Rachel had chosen to drive rather than fly to Arizona. The last meeting with P.T. had been at her aunt’s funeral two years ago. He’d stayed one night at a hotel then departed the following morning.

The road curved around an outcropping of jagged rock and Rachel focused on her driving. After executing the turn, she had a split second to react to the roadblock in her lane. She slammed her foot on the brake, wincing as the seat belt bit into her skin. Fear of crashing into the rock wall on her right or skidding off the shoulder on her left prevented Rachel from swerving. She squeezed her eyes closed then sent a silent prayer heavenward.

Screeching tires on asphalt filled Rachel’s ears and the smell of burning rubber spewed from the air-conditioning vents. Not more than a few seconds had passed before the car rocked to a halt. Fingers fused to the steering wheel, it took a moment for her to realize she hadn’t hit the big, brown blob. Relieved, she exhaled and opened her eyes.

Oh…my…God. Was that a bull drooling on the hood of her silver Prius? She scanned the horizon. Where was a cowboy when you needed one?

Rachel laid on the horn but instead of moving, the stubborn animal blew snot on her windshield. “It’s going to be like that, is it?” She should put the car in Reverse, then drive past the ugly beast, but she couldn’t take the chance that another vehicle might hit the animal. Intent on coaxing the bull off the road, she set the parking brake and got out. Keeping the driver-side door between her and the bull, she waved her hands in the air. “Git! Scoot!”

A stare down ensued.

While Rachel contemplated her next move, a horn blasted in the distance. Shielding her gaze from the afternoon sun, she spotted a truck barreling along a rocky incline, kicking up a dust storm that would put a tornado to shame. The driver skillfully maneuvered the vehicle through a maze of rocks and prickly pear cacti before stopping at the edge of the road. He leaped from the truck. “You didn’t hit him, did you?”

Ignoring his question, she asked, “Does this dumb animal belong to you?”

The cowboy was older than Rachel by a few years. Lines bracketed his mouth and fanned from the corners of his eyes, attesting to a life working in the desert. A little over six feet, his broad shoulders hinted at plenty of muscle beneath his long-sleeved blue cotton shirt. Rachel doubted there was a woman on earth who wouldn’t feel protected and safe with this man’s arms wrapped around her.

He stopped next to the bull and bent at the waist, flashing his sexy backside at her. The Wrangler jeans fit his tight… She cleared her throat, miffed that the cowboy appeared more concerned with the bull than her. “Aren’t you going to ask if I’m all right?”

His brown-eyed gaze traveled over her body. “You don’t appear as shaken as Curly.”

How would he know if the bull was upset or not? “Curly looks fine to me.”

“The tire’s resting on his hoof.”

“Oh, no!” Forgetting her safety, Rachel rushed to the front of the car only to discover the tire was nowhere near the bull’s hoof. “Your sense of humor stinks, mister.”

He grinned and Rachel’s heart jolted. His crooked smile highlighted a sexy dimple in his cheek, and gorgeous teeth, which appeared unnaturally white against his tanned face. Stuck in cowboy-ogle land, Rachel gaped.

“Sorry.” He removed his Stetson and scratched his head. “Couldn’t resist teasing you.” He wore his dark hair neatly trimmed—the no-nonsense style at odds with the twinkle in his brown eyes.

“You’ve been out in the sun too long and the heat has baked your brain.” Rachel perched her hands on her hips. “Are you going to move this bull off the road?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Well, ma’am, if you have a gadget in your car I can use to…”

After he’d called her ma’am Rachel hadn’t heard a word he’d said. “How old do you think I am?”

“Pardon?”

“You called me ma’am.”

There went his grin again…stealing the oxygen from her lungs. “We cowboys use that term loosely.”

Irritated by his cocky attitude she said, “I’m twenty-seven.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Good grief. She glanced at her watch. “How long is this going to take?”

“Curly’s stubborn. He won’t budge until he’s good ’n’ ready.”

“If the bull is that difficult why isn’t he contained behind a fence?”

“Mating season.” The man’s cheeks turned ruddy. “Every so often Curly succumbs to nature’s call and busts through the fence to get to his girlfriend.”

Males and their damned urges. “Sounds like Curly needs an owner who’s smarter than him.”

Her barb didn’t faze him. “Like I said before, Curly’s—”

“Stubborn.” So was Rachel. She pushed the cowboy out of her way then shoved the bull’s rump with both hands. The big nuisance turned his head and stared at her.

The cowboy smirked.

“Least you could do is help,” Rachel snapped.

His grin widened.

“Maybe Curly needs a little encouragement.” She hopped into the driver’s seat and started the engine, swallowing a chuckle when the cowboy’s mouth sagged open. Rachel shifted into Drive, then slowly—very slowly—lifted her foot off the brake. The car rocked forward, bumping the bull’s side. The beast didn’t move. She pressed the tip of her toe against the gas but the bull stood solid. Frustrated, she laid on the horn. Curly didn’t bat an eyelash but the cowboy almost jumped out of his boots.

As far as Clint was concerned the uppity lady had no sense of humor. He should have guessed as much by the car she drove—one of them silly hybrids. Shoot, she was probably a vegetarian because beef came from cattle and bovines polluted the air with methane gas. Even so, she had the most beautiful mouth—when it wasn’t sassing him. Full lips painted with a sparkly pink gloss that begged for a man’s kiss.

He walked to the driver’s side and waited for her to lower the window. “You got a fly swatter or an umbrella?” He had plenty of gizmos in his truck but he wasn’t in a rush to go anywhere.

“What do you need…never mind.” She shut off the car then leaned over the front seat and rummaged through a shopping bag on the floor, offering Clint a bird’s-eye view of her firm fanny.

Too bad the lady was so uptight or he might be interested in learning her final destination. He hadn’t seen a ring on her finger but he’d noticed plenty more. A large clip secured a mass of wavy blond hair to her head. Several strands escaped the sexy pile, softening her face. Khaki shorts showed off pale legs—toned in all the right places—and a sleeveless shirt hugged her small breasts. He wished she’d take off her sunglasses so he could see the color of her eyes. It had been a long while since he’d come upon a woman who’d snagged his interest. A shame she was a snoot.

“Here it is.” She produced a plastic back scratcher painted to resemble a saguaro cactus. She’d probably purchased the cheesy souvenir at one of several tourist stands scattered along the highway.

“That’ll work.” His fingers bumped hers when he grabbed the scratcher, and a warm sensation shot up his arm. He attributed his reaction to the female dry spell he was experiencing. He’d lost track of when he and Monica had parted ways—must have been months ago if his body found a prissy woman in a Prius attractive.

“Need help?” she asked, getting out of the car.

“No. Stand back.”

“What do you plan to do?” She retreated half a step. “Scratch Curly’s back until he moves off the road?”

You don’t know the half of it, lady. Not wishing to offend her feminine sensibilities, Clint said, “Wait behind the car.”

“I doubt whacking that bull on the butt will make him aggressive.” She did an about-face and retreated.

“I’m not whacking him. I’m tickling Curly.”

“What nonsense. If there was a blasted cell tower somewhere in this desert I’d contact the highway patrol.”

Clint patted Curly’s head. “You’ve heard of horse whisperers, haven’t you? Bull-whispering isn’t much different.” He chuckled as he moved the scratcher along Curly’s flank…lower over the bull’s stomach…backward toward his testicles… He heard a gasp but remained focused in case the bull kicked out.

“Are you doing what I think you’re doing?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“You want Curly to move out of the way or not?”

“I don’t see how scratching his you-know-whats is going to—”

Right then Curly swung his massive head and bellowed. A second later he stood on his hind legs and slammed his front hooves onto the hood of the car. A short scream followed by a strangled gasp accompanied Curly’s grunts.

As soon as the bull found relief, he backed away from the Prius, leaving his hoof prints embedded in the car.

“Go on home, Curly!” The sated bull trotted into the desert, following the same path Clint had taken to reach the road. Satisfied the bull was headed to the ranch, Clint turned his attention to the woman in a stunned stupor.

“If you give me your name and number I’ll make arrangements with my insurance company to pay to have the dents pounded out of the hood.”

“Never mind.”

Clint fished his wallet from his back pocket and removed a business card. “If you change your—”

“I won’t.” She hopped into the front seat and shut the door.

Keeping a straight face he held out the plastic souvenir. “You forgot your back scratcher.”

Rachel hit the gas and sped off. She checked the rearview mirror and caught the cowboy tipping his hat to her. “Of all the nerve…” The arrogant man hadn’t even apologized for the trouble his sex-crazed bull had caused.

If all Arizona had to offer was horny bulls and worthless cowboys then maybe her father had done her a favor when he’d banished her to the East Coast to live with her aunt. Oh, who was she kidding? Males were the same everywhere. Her ex-fiancé had taught her that men were only loyal to their own wants and needs.

Her thoughts shifted to P.T. He’d never remarried after her mother had passed away. What kind of woman would she have become if she’d been raised on a ranch by a single father? More likely than not Rachel would have grown up a tomboy and become a cowgirl. The image made her shudder.

She studied the scrubby landscape racing past the car window. The hostile desert appeared forbidding and forlorn. The cowboy had probably befriended Curly to avoid going insane with loneliness.

Stagecoach, Arizona

Playground of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid

Through the years, Aunt Edith had regaled her with stories about her birthplace in an attempt to help Rachel bond with P.T. If her father had shown the slightest interest in being an involved parent she might have listened more closely to her aunt’s tales.

One mile later, Rachel slowed the car as she entered the town of Stagecoach, thirty-five miles southeast of Yuma. The main drag consisted of four blocks of businesses, stucco ranch homes and double-wide trailers. Landscaping was nonexistent, save for the thorny weeds that sprouted from dirt yards. Rachel counted three bars—nothing better to do than drink when scorching temperatures forced you inside during the day.

She drove past Mel’s Barber Shop and the Bee Luv Lee Beauty Salon. Rachel searched for places to eat—José’s Mexican Diner, Burger Hut and Vern’s Drive-In. An antiques business sat across the street from José’s, the front yard crowded with junk. Rachel pulled into a Chevron gas station advertising dollar hot dogs and a free coffee with a fill up. She topped off the tank and ran the car through the wash, then passed a Wells Fargo Savings and Loan on the way out of town.

Rachel increased the volume on her GPS and waited for Australian Karen’s next commands. The down-under voice instructed Rachel to turn left onto Star Road, which led to her father’s home—Five Star Ranch. The Prius bumped along the gravel path and she cursed the orange dust that stuck to the still-wet car. When she reached the top of a hill she applied the brakes and lowered the window. The desert-scented air failed to trigger a memory of the barn and corrals shaded by mesquite trees.

Five Star Ranch was a rough-stock sanctuary where retired rodeo broncs and bulls grazed away their remaining years. Rachel had difficulty reconciling the man who’d given her away with the man who possessed a soft spot for the fierce athletic animals.

Tears burned her eyes and she wiped angrily at her cheeks. P.T. didn’t deserve tears. She closed the window and drove on. She knew next to nothing about rodeos or producing one, but P.T. had assured her that she only needed to make a few phone calls to keep the business running. If the task were that simple, why wasn’t the ranch foreman assigned the responsibility?

Her stomach clenched as she contemplated her father’s motive in bringing her to Arizona. Was his cancer more advanced than he’d let on? Was her visit a final goodbye? No matter P.T.’s reasons, Rachel intended to prove she was capable of handling his company. After the final rodeo in August she’d return to Rhode Island with a clear conscience, knowing she’d helped her father when he hadn’t deserved any consideration from her.

Rachel parked in the ranch yard, but kept the car running as she studied the hacienda-style adobe home with Santa Fe accents. The cream-colored structure sported a clay-tiled roof and there appeared to be an enclosed courtyard at the rear of the home. Brown beams protruded near the top of the exterior, suggesting the wood extended throughout the home, providing structural support. The front door had been stained to match the beams.

She perused the yard—if one could call gravel and dirt a yard. She tried to envision herself as a five-year-old playing next to the two giant saguaro cacti—one with a rotting arm. The other was filled with holes—birds’ nests. Paloverde trees in various stages of growth provided mottled shade, and a black cat sat next to a large succulent, its swishing tail sending puffs of dust into the air.

That her father owned a nice home and over two-hundred-fifty acres of scrubland didn’t surprise her. P.T. had sent Aunt Edith a handsome monthly sum to care for Rachel as well as paying Rachel’s college tuition. Guilt money. P.T. hadn’t deserted Rachel financially—just emotionally.

The front door opened and P.T.’s shadow darkened the entryway. She hadn’t expected to be greeted with balloons or party streamers but a smile would have been welcome.

“Here goes nothing.” She shut off the car engine and got out. Halfway up the stone path her father stepped outside. P.T. appeared slimmer than she’d remembered from her aunt’s funeral. His large gut had shrunk and his broad shoulders caved in toward his chest. His once-dark-gold hair was saturated with gray. P. T. Lewis looked…old. Older than his fifty-six years.

Someone had to speak first. “Hello, Dad.”

“Rachel.” He motioned to the Prius. “Do you need help with your luggage?”

“No, thanks,” she said. Her father wasn’t in any shape to tote heavy suitcases.

“Your trip was uneventful, I hope?”

“Pretty much.” Except for Curly and an ill-humored cowboy.

“C’mon inside. I doubt you remember the place.”

Like he’d done twenty-two years ago, Phillip Todd Lewis turned his back on her and walked away.

Chapter Two

“Lauren, you home?” Silence greeted Clint’s question when he stepped into the foreman’s house at Five Star Ranch. He had a hunch this was going to be the longest summer on record if he and his daughter didn’t come to an understanding. Until recently he hadn’t played an active role in the eighteen-year-old’s life. After he’d gotten Lauren’s mother, Liz, pregnant, he’d proposed but she’d declined, preferring to take care of Lauren on her own in California.

He wished he and Lauren had gotten off to a better start when she’d arrived at the ranch two weeks ago. Through the years his bimonthly phone calls to his daughter had been quick and non-informative and his visits with her in Los Angeles had fallen short of his expectations. Instead of spending quality time together he’d chaperoned his daughter and her friends at Disneyland, a shopping mall or the beach.

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.”

Only sheer pride kept Clint from storming out of the room as his chest tightened, squeezing the air from his lungs. The hurt was like none he’d ever experienced. “Does Rachel—” he cleared his throat “—want to take over Five Star Rodeos?”

“I don’t know. But she’s my daughter. I owe her first right of refusal.”

How did P.T. believe he owed Rachel his livelihood when she’d made no effort to be involved in his life? Clint lived at the ranch, took care of the animals and had been P.T.’s right-hand man for years.

On the heels of hurt came anger—mostly at himself for believing loyalty trumped genetics. Rachel was tied to P.T. by blood, not gratitude. Even though Clint believed he deserved to run the company, he was nothing but an adult foster kid—a castoff nobody had wanted.

“Are we finished talking?” Clint asked.

P.T. frowned, but Clint refused to apologize for his curtness. Either way Clint viewed the situation, he was screwed. If Rachel failed then P.T. would assume Clint hadn’t done enough to help her. If Rachel succeeded, she’d prove she was more than capable of managing the rodeo-production company.

“What’s wrong, son?” P.T. asked.

Son? Right now Clint didn’t feel much like P.T.’s son. Without another word, Clint left the office before he made promises he couldn’t keep—like making sure nothing got in the way, including himself, of producing top-notch rodeos this summer.

AS SOON AS CLINT STEPPED outside the house, Rachel’s spine stiffened. She didn’t need a psychology degree to understand the handsome cowboy resented her presence. Why?

“Three bags?” Clint stopped next to the car and stared at the luggage.

Three suitcases was hardly a lot, considering she planned to stay the summer. “I’ll bring in the rest,” she said, referring to the tote bags containing her shoes, toiletries and miscellaneous items.

He hefted the luggage beneath his arms, the motion pulling his shirt taut against his broad shoulders. She forced her attention back to his face. “Clint.”

“What?”

“You’re angry.”

The muscle along his jaw bulged and she expected him to storm off. He stayed.

“Are you upset that P.T.’s making you handle the repairs to my car?”

His brown eyes pierced her, stealing her breath. For an instant she imagined those eyes staring down at her as he… Shocked by her train of thought, she said, “We’re going to be working together, which means we’ll need to communicate.” With words, not dark looks. Frustrated, she blurted, “Say something.”

“P.T. believes you’re the best person to produce his rodeos. I’ll stay out of your way. You stay out of mine.” He marched into the house with her luggage.

Was this the same cowboy who’d rescued Curly from the road? Unless… Had Clint expected to be put in charge of her father’s business? Regardless, he didn’t have to be rude.

“What’d you do to rile my dad?”

Rachel spun then slapped her palm against her thudding heart. Where had the pink-haired girl come from?

The teen smiled. “I get that kind of reaction a lot when people first see my hair.”

“It’s very…colorful.”

Tugging a strand of shoulder-length hair, the girl said, “It’s the same color as Avril Lavigne’s, only instead of highlights I colored my hair pink all over.” She blew a bubble with her gum. “You know who Avril Lavigne is, don’t you?”

“Sure, I’ve heard of the singer.” Lots of girls in high school listened to the rock star’s music. Rachel pointed toward the house. “Clint’s your father?”

“Yeah, lucky me.” She sighed. “I’m Lauren McGraw. Who are you?”

“Rachel Lewis from Rhode Island.”

“I didn’t know P.T. had a daughter. Cool.”

Rachel’s thoughts whizzed in all directions. “How old are you?”

“Eighteen. I’ll be a senior in high school this fall.”

“I don’t recall seeing a high school when I drove through Stagecoach.”

“There isn’t one. I live in Los Angeles with my mom, but she’s in Mexico with her new husband.” Lauren blew another bubble then swallowed it whole inside her mouth. “I’m stuck here until my mom returns from her honeymoon in August.” She didn’t appear happy with the situation.

“You said you’ll be a senior this fall. Are you excited about graduating?”

“I guess. First, I have to pass two killer courses, AP biology and pre-calculus.”

The difficult classes confirmed a good brain beneath all the pink hair. Since the girl appeared willing to chat—unlike her father—Rachel said, “I work at a high school.”

“What subject do you teach?”

“I’m not a teacher. I’m a school psychologist.”

“Whoa!” Lauren raised her hands in the air and backed up a step. “Did my dad ask you to come here?”

Caught off guard by the outburst Rachel asked, “What do you mean?”

“He thinks because I dyed my hair pink and pierced my eyebrow and nose that I’m going to join a gang or start doing drugs. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To—” Lauren made quote signs in the air “—straighten me out.”

“I’m not here to straighten anyone out. P.T. asked me to help with his rodeos while he’s in Phoenix.”

Rachel’s statement knocked the wind out of Lauren’s sails. “Really? ’Cause I wouldn’t put it past my dad to—”

“Put what past me?” Clint asked.

Lauren pointed at Rachel. “She’s a shrink.”

“So?”

“I’m not letting her inside my head no matter what you or she thinks about my hair color.”

“I don’t mind the pink.” Rachel ignored Clint’s shocked stare. “I’m all in favor of individuality.” Most teens experimented with different identities until they found where they fit in best.

“I might add neon-green highlights before school starts. Avril did that once and she looked—”

“Enough talk about hair. Are you ready to head into Yuma?” Clint asked Lauren.

“Do you want to come, Rachel? Yuma’s a decent-size town with name-brand stores. There’s a Starbucks—”

“I doubt—”

“I’d love to go.” Rachel cut off Clint’s objection. Love was stretching it, but she was determined to show Clint that she didn’t intimidate easily.

“Might as well follow in your car,” Clint said. “We’ll drop it off at the repair shop.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Rachel faced angry teenagers on a daily basis, so handling a good-looking, disgruntled cowboy should be a piece of cake.

Or not.

“SHE GETS MY HAIR,” Lauren said to Clint as they waited in his truck outside Mel’s Auto Repair in Yuma.

Rachel had been discussing repairs with Mel for the past fifteen minutes. “Her opinion doesn’t count.” His gaze shifted to the side mirror on the driver’s door. As far as women went, Rachel was damn easy on the eyes, but too… Several adjectives came to mind—opinionated, self-assured, serious, uppity and educated.

“What do you have against Rachel?”

“Nothing,” Clint protested.

Lauren sipped her designer coffee. “I think she’s okay.”

What was taking Rachel so long? She probably believed Mel was trying to rip her off. The shop owner was a fair man and had worked on Clint’s truck twice—after the front fender had collided with a boulder and the back fender with a water tank. Rachel wouldn’t find a better deal anywhere. “Wait here.” He strode across the parking lot and entered the business.

“I refuse to leave my car without a written estimate.” Rachel pursed her mouth, the seductive pout drawing Clint’s gaze to her lips. He really wanted to discover for himself if the pink gloss tasted like cotton candy or bubble gum.

The mechanic sent Clint a pleading look. “Mel does the best work in the area. His prices are fair and he doesn’t overcharge for labor or parts.”

“That’s fine but I’m not letting him touch the Prius without a written estimate.”

“I’m swamped today, but I’ll contact Toyota tomorrow and find out how long it will take to order the paint,” Mel said. “Those sissy colors are hard to come by.”

Rachel glared. “He won’t stop mocking my car.”

Clint pressed his lips together to keep from chuckling.

“I want a second opinion on repairing the Prius.” Rachel stormed out the door. If she didn’t trust Clint’s advice about car repairs, he doubted she’d accept his suggestions on running P.T.’s rodeos.

“Whoo-wee. The little lady’s hell on wheels.”

“That’s Rachel Lewis, P.T.’s daughter.”

“Didn’t know P.T. had a daughter.” Mel shook his head. “I don’t mind working on her car. I could use the money.”

“She won’t find a better deal than your garage. We’ll be back.” An hour later, Clint parked the truck at Mel’s Auto Repair and Rachel pulled the Prius into a spot next to his truck and headed for the mechanic’s office.

Lauren groaned. “Oh, my God. Is Rachel ever going to make up her mind?”

“We’ll see.” Even though he’d vouched for Mel’s work, he admired Rachel’s thoroughness in comparing prices—wasteful spending drove him nuts.

Clint’s stomach growled. Lunch had been seven hours ago. “Where do you want to eat?”

“Chili’s. I like their Cajun pasta.”

“Maybe we should ask Rachel, since she’s a guest.” More guest than family, in his opinion. A few minutes later Rachel opened the passenger-side door and hopped into the truck.

“Any problems?” he asked.

“Mel’s charging an extra ten dollars.”

“What for?” Clint asked.

“He tacked on a nuisance fee.”

Clint stared and Lauren giggled.

“Laugh all you want but for the extra ten bucks I got a written estimate.” Rachel waved the piece of paper in the air.

“We’re going to Chili’s for supper. Is that okay with you?” Lauren asked.

“Sure. They’ve got decent salads,” Rachel said. “I try to avoid eating too much red meat.”

Go figure. P.T.’s daughter was a health nut. A half hour later, Rachel changed Clint’s mind when she ordered a salad with chicken meat and devoured her share of chips and salsa.

“More chips?” the waitress asked, stopping at their table.

“Sure.” Lauren handed over the empty basket.

“Don’t eat too many chips or you won’t finish your supper,” Clint said.

Lauren made a tsking sound. “I think I’m old enough to monitor my food intake.”

“Then you’d better finish your meal, since I’m paying for it.”

“If you’re going to make a big deal out of a few chips, I’ll pay for my supper.” Lauren tossed her napkin on the table and said, “Move. I have to use the bathroom.”

Clint slipped from the booth then exhaled loudly after his daughter walked off.

“You shouldn’t do that,” Rachel said.

“Do what?”

“Let your daughter disrespect you.”

Clint’s hackles rose. “Do you have children?”

“No.”

“Then you shouldn’t be doling out advice.”

“I work with angsty teenagers. You have to stand your ground and demand their respect or they’ll walk all over you.”

He opened his mouth to tell Rachel to mind her own business but was cut short when Lauren returned to the table. With half an ear he listened to the females chat, fuming over Rachel sticking her nose into his and Lauren’s business.

The check arrived and he insisted on paying for Rachel’s meal, even though she protested. When they hit the outskirts of Yuma, Lauren put in her earbuds and listened to music on her iPod. Clint focused on the road, ignoring Rachel’s stare. Ignoring the clean, fresh scent of her perfume was more difficult. It had been forever since he’d sat next to a nice-smelling female. Assuming she had more parenting suggestions to offer him, he said, “Spit it out.”

“Spit what out?”

“Whatever’s bugging you?” When she remained quiet, he said, “You’ve been staring at me since we left the restaurant.”

“We need to clear the air between us.”

“I didn’t know it was polluted.”

“Funny. I’m being serious.”

What was it with females—always overanalyzing or making a big deal out of nothing?

“You’re not comfortable with me running P.T.’s rodeo company.”

He should have known a woman with a psychology major would find a way inside his head. “P.T. has his reasons for choosing you.”

“But you don’t like me.”

He liked plenty about her physical appearance.

“There’s annoyance in your eyes when you look at me,” she said.

Really? Rachel must not have had much experience with men if she misinterpreted his appreciative glances as irritation. “I apologize for being rude.”

“I wasn’t asking for an apology.”

Jeez. Following the woman’s train of thought was like trailing Curly into the desert—he never knew which direction the bull might mosey. Honesty was the best course of action. “You want to clear the air? How about this—P.T. made a mistake handing over the reins to you.”

She stiffened. “You know nothing about me.”

Exactly. “Have you ever been to a rodeo?”

“No.”

“I rest my case,” he said.

“Just because I’ve never seen cowboys ride bucking stock doesn’t mean I lack business sense.”

“Do you have experience putting on large events?”

“I organized a fundraiser for the weight room at the high school. We collected four thousand dollars for new equipment.”

“You got any idea how much money is involved in producing a Five Star Rodeo?”

“No.”

“The average cost runs between a hundred-fifty and two hundred thousand dollars.”

Rachel’s face paled.

“Like P.T. stated earlier, the rodeos have to turn a profit or there won’t be enough money to support the sanctuary ranch the following year.”

“My father never mentioned his business was struggling.”

“Things are tight, leaving little room for mistakes. That’s not to say there isn’t more competition in the rodeo business these days, because there is. Some of the production companies are using expensive gimmicks to increase attendance.”

“What kinds of gimmicks?”

“Drawings for free vehicles. Time-shares in the Bahamas.”

“Can you recommend a dealership that might be willing to donate a truck to one of our rodeos?” she asked.

He could but why should he help Rachel look good in P.T.’s eyes? “Sorry, I don’t have any connections to car salesmen.”

“There has to be a way to increase attendance without breaking the bank,” she said.

“Guess you’ll figure something out. That’s why P.T. put you in charge, right?”

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