Arizona Cowboy

“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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