Arizona Cowboy. Marin Thomas
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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