Arizona Cowboy. Marin Thomas
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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