Arizona Cowboy

by Marin Thomas

  “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 m
an’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.”