by Marin Thomas
“She will when she learns she has a choice of working for you or going without her iPod, movies and magazines.”
“That’s how you discipline—shove your child off on someone else?”
“You want my help or not?” Clint asked.
“I suppose she could file papers and take phone messages.”
“Then it’s settled.” What the hell had he done to deserve all this female aggravation? Clint screwed his hat on tight and headed for the cabin and his next showdown—Lauren.
“LAUREN!” CLINT BELLOWED as soon as he opened the cabin door. He skidded to a halt when he noticed his daughter seated at the kitchen table, listening to her iPod.
She shut off the gadget, removed her earbuds and glowered. “What?”
“We need to talk.”
Lauren rolled her eyes in that aggravating teenage way that made Clint want to grind his teeth.
“You left the ranch without telling me.”
“I shouldn’t have agreed to stay here this summer.”
Clint let her believe she’d had a say in the decision.
Lauren bolted from the chair. “I’m tired of listening to music. Tired of watching DVDs. Tired of reading. Tired of sleeping. Tired of staring at the walls.” She shook her fist. “Tired of this stupid, hot desert!”
Keeping his frustration in check, Clint said, “That’s no excuse for making bad choices.”
“I wouldn’t have hitched a ride with Rocky if I’d believed he was going to rape me.”
An image of his daughter lying in the desert beaten and left for dead flashed before Clint’s eyes. Where the heck was Lauren’s common sense? Good thing he hadn’t allowed her to remain in Los Angeles this summer. God only knows what she would have tried to get away with.
“Rocky was harmless, Dad.”
“Maybe he was. But what about the next guy you sneak off with? He might be a serial killer.”
“You act like I hitch rides every day!”
“You’re my daughter. I care about what happens to you.” He raised a hand when she opened her mouth to protest. “I also realize you’re an adult and you’ll make decisions I don’t agree with.”
His comment took the steam out of Lauren’s mad and she sank onto the chair seat. He joined her at the table. “I’m sorry you got stuck here this summer. I know it isn’t very exciting and you miss your friends.”
Tears welled in Lauren’s eyes, making Clint feel even worse. “But that being said, bad decisions have consequences.”
She studied him warily. “What kind of consequences?”
“You pick your punishment. Help Rachel with the rodeos or lose your TV, iPod and magazines for the summer.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“I’m dead serious. I paid for your iPod. I pay the TV bill and I paid for your fashion-magazine subscription.”
“You want me to be miserable.”
“I want you to learn to make reasonable, safe, mature decisions and not jump on the back of a Harley with a stranger.”
“What do I have to do for Rachel?”
“She didn’t say. You’ll have to work out the details with her.” Silence filled the kitchen. “What’s it going to be? Grounded for the rest of the summer or help with the rodeos?”
“Like that’s even a choice?” She snorted. “I guess I’m helping Rachel.” Lauren flashed a smug smile. “Maybe I’ll meet some cute cowboys at the rodeos.”
Great. Now Clint had to worry about his daughter sneaking off to the horse barn with a wet-behind-the-ears bronc rider. He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t push me.”
“Whatever. Are we through discussing this?”
He let her off the hook. “Have you heard from your mom lately?” he asked.
“She emailed last night and said she’s having fun.”
Clint was sure his daughter had written back that she hated being at the ranch.
“Anything else?” Lauren snapped.
“Nope. I think we’ve covered everything.”
As soon as Lauren left the kitchen Clint breathed a sigh of relief. Their talk had gone better than expected. Deciding to vent his frustration on the hay bales that needed moving in the loft, Clint left the cabin. Halfway to the barn, Rachel’s voice stopped him. She sat on the bench beneath the piñon tree, murmuring to P.T.’s cat.
“I see you made friends with Felix,” he said.
“He misses P.T.” Rachel stroked the cat’s head.
Clint edged closer and leaned a shoulder against the tree trunk. “Felix wandered onto the ranch years ago. P.T. figured he’d been dumped by the road.”
“People can be so cruel to animals.” She scooted over and patted the empty space beside her. “Have a seat.”
The seat was barely big enough for one, but his boots had a mind of their own and he joined her on the bench. Rachel’s scent floated on the breeze—faded perfume, sunscreen and her own unique essence. He wiggled, attempting to put a few extra inches of space between them, but failed.
Ignoring the warm contact where their thighs rubbed, he said, “I spoke with Lauren. She’s reporting for duty tomorrow morning.”
“Bet she was thrilled.”
Clint let her comment slide and listened to a coyote’s cry echoing through the night.
“May I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“You said my father rarely spoke of me.”
“You came up in conversation a few times through the years.”
“What did he say?”
“P.T. mentioned that you’d broken your wrist.”
Rachel had fallen off her bike at a friend’s house in seventh grade. “What else?”
“He was excited when you graduated in the top three percent of your high-school class.”
P.T. had never told her he was proud of her academic achievements. He’d signed her graduation card Regards, Your Father.
“Did P.T. attend your high-school graduation?”
“Yes.” He heard her draw a sharp breath but she dropped the subject.
“Lauren said you were in foster care.”
“My daughter talks too much.”
“I’d like to hear about your experience…if you’re willing to share.”
“I ran away from my foster home at sixteen. Mr. and Mrs. Kipling were a weird couple.”
“How so?”
“They didn’t have any children of their own and were members of the Church of All Worlds, which was more cult than religion.”
“Did they mistreat you?”
“No. But one day I walked in the door after school to a houseful of naked people worshipping Faerie statues and twirling magic wands.” He’d decided he’d had enough of the Kiplings’ craziness and had packed his meager belongings and hit the road.
“Why didn’t you report the foster parents to your caseworker?”
“I did but my complaints were ignored. Too many kids and not enough homes to place them in. I was told to stop complaining and be happy I had a roof over my head.”
“How did you make it this far west?”
“Hitched rides with truckers.” Fearful of drawing suspicion and being turned over to authorities, Clint had hiked through the desert, hoping to cross undetected into Mexico.
“I cut through P.T.’s property and took shelter in the barn.” The hot desert had exhausted him. “P.T. found me the next morning asleep in a horse stall.”
“My father didn’t call the sheriff?”
“I begged him not to.” Clint had refused to reveal his name, age or where he’d lived for fear of being returned to Phoenix. “I offered to work for room and board but after a week I broke down and told P.T. I’d run from my foster home.”
“Then he phoned the sheriff.”
“No, he contacted social services and asked what he had to do to become a foster parent.” P.T. had spent hours completing paperwork, being interviewed and attending special classes. Once he’d been approved he became Clint’s official foste
r parent and the rest was history.
“Things worked out better than you’d hoped for, I guess.”
“If I’d been sent back to Phoenix I’d have ended up in a juvenile detention center for runaway delinquents.” Thinking about that year in his life, he figured if P.T. hadn’t agreed to raise him, Clint would have run again, only this time he would have made it across the border and who knows what fate had awaited him in Mexico.
“Why didn’t you attend college?”
“I enjoyed helping P.T. with the rodeos so I joined the circuit after high school.”
“You were a rodeo cowboy?”
“Bull rider.”
“I guess you do know a little bit about bull riding. So you returned to Five Star Ranch after you quit rodeoing.”
“I never really left. I helped P.T. with chores during the week and competed in events on weekends. Nothing changed when I retired from the circuit and became a bullfighter.”
“You mean a rodeo clown?”
“The politically correct term is bullfighter. These days bullfighters wear bright, loose-fitting athletic shorts and T-shirts designed to tear away if the bull’s horn snags the material.”
“Did you use clown makeup?” She smiled, trying to picture this macho man with white powder covering his face, a big red dot on each cheek.
“Yep.”
“I don’t know who’s crazier, a cowboy who rides a bull or one who toys with a bull.”
“Unlike a bull rider, the bullfighter always collects a paycheck at the end of the night.”
“Do you still bullfight?” she asked.
“On occasion. Back when the economy hit a rough patch, P.T. was worried about paying for your grad school.” He shrugged. “I worked the rodeo circuit that year and brought in extra income to keep the feed bins full.”
Rachel wasn’t sure how she felt about Clint’s confession. She didn’t like the idea that he’d returned to a dangerous job in a roundabout way because of her. “P.T. never defaulted on my loans.”
“He took out a second mortgage on the ranch to pay off your college bills.”
If her father cared enough about her to mortgage his ranch then why on earth hadn’t he made an effort to establish a relationship with her?
Clint fidgeted, acting as if he wanted to leave. Rachel wanted him to stay. “How often do you see Lauren?” She felt guilty for attacking Clint’s parenting skills earlier. After learning he’d been raised in foster care then taken in by P.T., who had pretty much ignored his own daughter through the years, was it any wonder Clint struggled with parenting?
“Lauren and I talk on the phone twice a month but we haven’t seen a lot of each other through the years. P.T. pushed me to visit Lauren more often, but she always made plans with her friends and Lauren’s mother didn’t force her to spend time with me.”
Rachel found it ironic that P.T. had been concerned about what kind of father Clint was but hadn’t held himself up to the same high standard. Interesting that she’d returned to Arizona seeking information about her and P.T.’s estranged relationship only to have more questions than answers.
Rachel gathered her courage to ask one final question. “Did P.T. ever say why he insisted I live with my aunt after my mother died?”
“P.T. sent you away? I thought you’d chosen to live with your aunt.”
“Hardly.”
“Is that why you agreed to help P.T. this summer—so you two could mend your fences?”
“Yes.” Rachel slid off the bench and moved into the shadows. Clint might not be P.T.’s son by birth, but it was obvious her father cared more about his ranch foreman than his own daughter.
The truth was painful. On one hand Rachel wanted to hate Clint for stealing her father’s attention through the years. On the other hand she sympathized with Clint’s tumultuous childhood and was relieved he’d found someone who’d cared about him.
“I’d always pictured my father a lonely old man. I’m relieved he had you, Clint.” The knowledge freed Rachel to let go of the guilt she’d carried as an adult because she’d hadn’t remained in contact with her father.
Feeling raw and needy she said, “I’d better go inside.” She stepped past Clint, but he grasped her hand. His warm callused fingers entwined with hers, sending shivers racing up her arm.
“I’m sorry P.T. didn’t—”
“It’s in the past. All that matters now is that P.T. recovers his health.”
Clint squeezed her fingers, drawing Rachel’s gaze to his face. The darkness concealed his eyes but his breathing grew ragged as short, hot puffs of air hit her face. If she turned her head just a tad, her mouth would graze his. Heart pounding, she yearned for his kiss, but common sense intervened at the last second and she broke contact.
“See you tomorrow.” She scurried up the path and into the house, sliding the bolt across the door, wondering if she hoped to lock herself in or Clint out.
Chapter Seven
“My dad said I had to help you or he’d ground me.” Lauren stood in the office doorway, a defiant glare on her face.
“I could use help making phone calls.”
“You don’t have to act like you want me here.” Lauren plopped into the leather chair. “I know my dad’s forcing me on you.”
Rachel had to tread water carefully or the teen would throw a hissy fit and bolt. If she expected Clint’s help with the mayors Monday afternoon, then she needed Lauren’s cooperation.
“This rodeo stuff is so lame.”
“I thought so, too, until I came up with an idea to increase attendance.”
“What idea?”
“We’re going to sponsor a women’s rough-stock event.”
“What’s a rough-stock event?”
“Bull riding for women.”
Lauren sat up straight. “Women ride bulls?”
“Who would’ve thought females were that crazy, huh?”
“Who are the girls?”
Relieved Lauren appeared excited about something, Rachel passed her notepad to Lauren. “I want you to call each of the women who’ve agreed to ride in the Canyon City Rodeo and ask them when they’re available to do newspaper and radio interviews.”
“Then what?”
“Then you phone the newspapers and radio stations in the area and set up interviews with the reporters.”
“Cool.”
“Before you contact the media outlets, find out all you can about the lady bull riders. Any tidbit of information that will entice a reporter to want to talk to them.”
“You mean I’m sort of interviewing the women first?”
“Exactly.”
“What kind of questions should I ask?”
“That’s up to you. Whatever you think the reporters might find interesting.”
“Um…maybe how many boyfriends they’ve had?”
Rachel stared.
“You know, ’cause some guys might be afraid to date a girl who rides bulls. They could worry that she’s tougher than they are.”
Keeping a straight face, Rachel said, “Okay, go ahead and ask about their boyfriends.”
“Do you have an extra notebook I can use to brainstorm questions?”
Rachel held out the brand-new leather-bound journal she’d found in her father’s drawer.
“This looks expensive.”
“You’ll need to write down your contacts—reporters’ names and cell numbers. Information about each bull rider. And you’ll have to keep track of interview dates and times. Make reminder calls so the women don’t forget to show up at the stations.”
“Should I show you the questions I come up with before I ask the women?” Lauren paced in front of the desk, her eyes bright with excitement.
“Nope. I trust you.”
“If it’s okay, I’m going to go back to my room in the cabin and write stuff down.”
“Lauren.” Rachel spoke before the teen left the office. “I want the women to attend the meeting Monday afternoon with the mayors
. Fran’s Waffle House right off the interstate. Three o’clock. Maybe you can come up with a way for them to make a big splash with the townspeople.”
“Why do they have to impress anyone?”
“Because most folks don’t believe women should ride bulls.”
“Why not?”
“They consider bull riding a man’s sport.”
“Are these women big and ugly?”
“No. As a matter of fact they’re all attractive.”
“I’ve got an idea, but it’s a surprise.” The teen fled the office.
Rachel relaxed after the front door shut. Things had gone better than she’d hoped with Lauren. Now all Clint had to do was live up to his end of the bargain and convince the mayors not to cancel their rodeos.
HEARTY BACKSLAPS AND zealous handshakes greeted Clint Monday afternoon when he stepped inside Fran’s Waffle House on the outskirts of Canyon City. The restaurant was packed to the gills with citizens from the three towns Five Star Rodeos had contracted with.
The restless crowd urged Clint toward the back of the room where tables had been pushed together and behind which sat the mayors of Canyon City, Boot Hill and Piney Gorge. If Clint didn’t know better he’d believe he was the guest of a celebrity roast. Too bad the only thing being toasted today was his arse.
“Good to see you, Clint.” Mitch McDonnell motioned to the chairs on his right. “You know John Larsen and Jack Ross.”
Clint gestured to the mayors, but his eyes remained riveted on the restaurant door. Rachel and Lauren were nowhere in sight. Evidently it was up to him alone to convince the townspeople to trust Five Star Rodeos.
Mayor McDonnell banged a gavel against the table and the crowd settled down. “Each of our towns has a stake in the success of their summer rodeo, so let’s get down to business.” Rumbles of agreement echoed through the room.
“The annual Canyon City Rodeo is scheduled to kick off this Friday. Last week I learned the sad news that P. T. Lewis, the owner of Five Star Rodeos, is battling cancer at one of those fancy hospice hospitals in Phoenix.”
Murmurs of sympathy followed the mayor’s statement.
Shoving his chair back, Clint stood. “Pardon the interruption, Mayor.” McDonnell motioned Clint to continue. “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Clint McGraw—foreman of Five Star Ranch. I’d like to settle any misconceptions about P.T.’s health. He’s not in a hospice facility and his prognosis is excellent.”
