Arizona Cowboy

by Marin Thomas

  “Is it true P.T. has cancer?”

  “Yes, but let me assure you he’s going to be fine.” After Lauren had let the cat out of the bag there wasn’t much Rachel could do but attempt to smother the fire.

  “P.T.’s in Phoenix?”

  “He’s undergoing treatments prescribed by his doctor. He’ll be returning to Stagecoach some time in August.”

  “Why didn’t P.T. put Clint McGraw in charge?”

  “Clint’s busy with the rough-stock sanctuary.”

  “And who are you?”

  “P.T.’s daughter, Rachel.”

  “Didn’t know he had a daughter.”

  You and everyone else. “I’m staying at Five Star Ranch the entire summer, making sure the rodeos proceed as scheduled. I have everything under—”

  “What do you know about running a rodeo?”

  She couldn’t very well tell the mayor she was flying by the seat of her pants. “Mr. McDonnell, P.T. left detailed instructions—”

  “We’re going to have to cancel the rodeo.”

  Rachel’s heart stalled.

  The mayor argued that news of P.T.’s cancer would spread through the rodeo community and he couldn’t take any chances on low attendance numbers.

  “Why would P.T.’s cancer affect attendance?” she asked.

  “Canyon City is a small town and the rodeo is our biggest money-maker of the year. Most businesses earn the bulk of their yearly income during that weekend.”

  “How does this relate to ticket sales?”

  “Once the top contenders hear P.T. isn’t running the show, they’ll worry about getting paid and pull out for more sure bets elsewhere. If the big names aren’t competing in the rodeo, folks won’t waste their money on a ticket.”

  “But—”

  “I got elected mayor because I promised the people of Canyon City that I’d do everything possible to bring more commerce to the town. Besides, I have to think about my reelection next year. I’m better off booking a traveling carnival than taking a chance on Five Star Rodeos.”

  “I’ve spoken to the sponsors and they’re committed to following through with their financial pledges.”

  “Saying and doing are two different things.”

  The mayor refused to budge an inch.

  “I’ll devise a public-relations campaign that promises to meet or exceed last year’s attendance numbers. If the sponsors see a jump in advance ticket sales they’re not going to back out, and the top contenders won’t cancel, either.” If only Rachel was as confident in her plan as she sounded.

  “We’re running out of time, young lady.”

  “Give me until Monday to present a plan to you and your council members. If you still don’t believe the rodeo will be successful then you’re free to cancel the event.”

  A loud sigh filled Rachel’s ear. “You’ve got until Monday to restore my faith in Five Star Rodeos.”

  “What were last year’s ticket sales, Mr. McDonnell?”

  “Twenty-two thousand.”

  Reasonable. “What’s the population of Canyon City?”

  “Two thousand seventy-three.”

  Oh. My. God.

  “I’ll gather the council members together and we’ll meet you at Fran’s Waffle House off the interstate at three o’clock Monday.”

  “Fran’s Waffle House. Got it. Thank you, Mr. McDonnell.”

  “Don’t thank me yet, young lady.”

  Rachel disconnected the call and the phone rang immediately. The Mayor of Boot Hill, Arizona, was calling to cancel the rodeo. Rachel explained the situation and the mayor agreed to meet at the waffle house to hear her plan. Rachel didn’t give the mayor of Piney Gorge a chance to phone her—she extended an invite to the waffle-house meeting and the mayor agreed to attend.

  Once Rachel had spoken to all three mayors, she vomited in the wastebasket beneath the desk. Carrying the trash can, she staggered from the office, stopping once to toss her cookies in the hallway. After retreating to the bathroom and cleaning out the can, Rachel sank to the floor and battled tears.

  Why was it so damned important that she not disappoint her father when he’d let her down all her life? And darn it. Why had P.T. given her a job she wasn’t qualified to do?

  She should pack her bags, hand over the rodeo bible to Clint and return to Rhode Island where she was appreciated and missed by her friends and coworkers.

  Clint would love that. Too bad for the cowboy, she wasn’t a quitter.

  Rachel brushed her teeth and gargled with mouthwash. Feeling better and less anxious she went in search of Clint only to learn from Lauren that he’d gone to check on the livestock. Too impatient to wait for him to return, she grabbed her sunglasses and the extra set of keys for the old truck in the barn, then followed the road Lauren said Clint had taken.

  Five miles later the trail ended at the base of a rocky incline. Rachel hiked the small hill to gain a better view of the area, regretting that she hadn’t exchanged her sandals for athletic shoes when thorny weeds brushed her ankles and tiny pebbles lodged between her toes. Gaze glued to the ground she prayed a snake wouldn’t slither out from beneath a rock and strike her. As soon as she reached the summit she located Clint’s truck in the distance.

  Although she remained upset, she took a moment to appreciate the scenery—a shirtless cowboy working under the blazing Arizona sun against the backdrop of the Bryan Mountains and a desert terrain dotted with cacti. The view was breathtaking—the cowboy even more so. She watched Clint use a shovel to move large rocks away from the ground in front of the water tank, the muscles in his back and arms bunching and rippling. If his upper body was this impressive she could only imagine what the rest of him looked like.

  Knock it off and quit ogling a half-naked man.

  Rachel shouted Clint’s name and waved her hat in the air, but she went unnoticed as he continued to clear a path around the steel stock tank. Five minutes passed and Rachel’s arms began to burn from the sun. She doubted the sunscreen she’d applied after breakfast would do any good this late in the day.

  Clint set the shovel in the truck bed, then pulled the hose from the stock tank and turned toward the hill. Rachel stuck her fingers between her lips and let out a shrill whistle, which caught his attention. He signaled her to wait for him, then hopped into his truck and drove along a path that skirted the hill.

  “What’s wrong?” he shouted as soon as he shifted into Park. “Is Lauren hurt?”

  “No, she’s fine.” Rachel barely got the words out as she became mesmerized by the bead of sweat rolling down the center of his tanned chest. The shimmering ball of liquid headed straight for the dark patch of hair peeking above the damp waistband of his jeans.

  “What are you doing out here?” he asked, shifting his stance, the movement drawing the water pellet closer to his belly button.

  Suddenly Rachel became dizzy. “I think I need to sit down.”

  Swearing beneath his breath Clint leaned inside the truck, started the engine and shoved her onto the front seat where he directed an air-conditioning vent at her face. Before she had a chance to speak he handed her a water bottle from the cooler in the back.

  She guzzled the liquid then gasped. “Nobody believes I can run Five Star Rodeos.” She waved a hand in the air. “They haven’t even met me but they’ve judged me and found me lacking.”

  “Who’s judged you?”

  “Mayor McDonnell. Barbara, the supersecretary. Her replacement, Nancy what’s-her-name—”

  “Nancy Smith.”

  “Jim Fendwick.”

  “The rodeo announcer?”

  “And the worst offender—you.” Rachel pointed at Clint but snatched her hand back when the tip of her fingernail scraped his bare chest.

  “You’re talking nonsense.”

  Good Lord, she wished he’d step aside and give her breathing room. “There you go again, cutting me down. Whittling away at my self-confidence. Making fun of my—”

  Giving no
thought to the consequences, Clint leaned inside the truck and kissed Rachel. Strawberry. Her lip gloss tasted like fresh fruit—sweet and succulent. He’d only meant to silence her but the longer his mouth remained on hers the stronger the warm current that flowed from her lips to his. When Rachel didn’t protest, Clint tilted his head and tried a different angle. Same result—more heat. The warmth spread through his gut, causing his jeans to become uncomfortably tight. Rachel sighed and set her hand against his chest, her nails biting into Clint’s flesh. Startled, he snapped out of his reverie and staggered back. What the hell had gotten into him? He’d almost stuck his tongue into her mouth.

  Pressing her fingertips to her swollen lips, she mumbled, “What did you do that for?”

  “To stop your babbling.”

  “I was not babbling.”

  “Then cut to the chase and tell me what happened.” Clint added another foot of space between them, hoping distance would help cool off his body.

  Keeping her gaze averted, Rachel explained. “Lauren answered the phone today and let it slip that P.T. is in Phoenix undergoing cancer treatments.”

  Oh, boy. He’d told his daughter P.T.’s condition was a secret. Typical teen—in one ear and out the other.

  “A few minutes ago Mayor McDonnell threatened to cancel the Canyon City Rodeo. Then the mayor of Boot Hill called and—”

  “Why do they want to cancel?”

  “They believe once word of P.T.’s condition spreads, the top competitors will withdraw and choose other rodeos to ride in, and attendance will drop, which means less revenue for the towns’ businesses.”

  Shit. Clint kept his thoughts to himself, but agreed with the mayors. Cowboys competed in the rodeos where earnings were guaranteed. If the sponsors balked because P.T. wasn’t running the show then the cowboys would become nervous and move on to surer money. If the top competitors scratched their rides, the stock contractors would pull out and the whole damn ball of wax would melt.

  “What did the mayor of Piney Gorge have to say?” Clint asked, wishing Rachel would make eye contact.

  “He feels the same. The mayors agreed to reconsider canceling the rodeos if I brainstorm an idea guaranteed to beat last year’s ticket sales, which should prevent the popular cowboys from withdrawing.”

  “What happens if you fail?”

  “Mayor McDonnell said he’d replace the rodeo with a carnival.”

  If P.T. had put Clint in charge this mutiny would never have occurred. “What’s your plan?”

  Her gaze clashed with his. “I don’t have a plan. That’s why I came out here in the sweltering sun…to ask you what we should do.”

  “We should talk to P.T. and see if he has any suggestions.”

  Rachel bolted from the truck then faced Clint, hands on her hips. “My father doesn’t need to know about this.”

  “Why the hell not? It’s his rodeo company.”

  “He has enough to worry about with his health. He doesn’t need the added stress of wondering whether or not his rodeos will be canceled.”

  “You’re in over your head, Rachel.”

  “This isn’t my fault,” she said. “Lauren’s the one who—”

  “You’re a schoolteacher, not a—”

  “Psychologist.”

  “Whatever. You don’t know a damned thing about producing a rodeo.”

  “I realize that.”

  “You should have turned P.T. down when he asked for your help.”

  “My father, whom I haven’t spoken with in over two years, calls me out of the blue with the news he has cancer and needs my help.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Would you have said no?”

  Score a point for Rachel. Clint reined in his temper. “I don’t get it. You’ve ignored P.T. most of your life and suddenly out of the goodness of your heart you want to help him?”

  “Do you know why we’ve been estranged?” she asked.

  No. “P.T. doesn’t talk about you very often.”

  She sucked in a quiet breath. “Then you shouldn’t judge me.”

  “You’re right.” Clint didn’t know what it felt like to be alienated from a parent. He’d never met his birth mother or father and he’d never experienced a meaningful connection with any of his foster parents. P.T. was the only adult Clint had formed a bond with. It was because of that bond that Clint resisted the urge to stand back and watch Rachel fail.

  “I’ve busted my backside on this ranch for years, as well as helped P.T. with his rodeos.” He paced alongside the truck. “I know the sponsors, the vendors and the cowboys—they trust me. No matter what scheme you invent to sell tickets, the mayors won’t give you a chance because you’re an outsider.”

  “So I’m destined to fail.” Rachel’s shoulders slumped.

  “P.T.’s counting on me to help you succeed. If you don’t, then I take the blame.” Clint spread his arms wide. “Either way I’m screwed.”

  “You’re worried about your own ass.”

  More than his ass was at stake. “At the end of the summer you’ll pack your bags and return to your life on the east coast—” he hoped “—while I remain here figuring out how to recoup the lost revenue.”

  “There might be a way to fix this,” she said. “We tell the mayors that you’re managing the rodeos.”

  Clint clenched his jaw until pain splintered through the bone.

  “If the mayors believe you’re the front man they’ll stop panicking and I’ll be able to concentrate on ticket sales.”

  “Fine. Tell them I’m in charge.”

  “Maybe you have a few ideas to increase attendance.”

  “I don’t.” He’d play his role in Rachel’s little white lie with the mayors if only to appease P.T.’s request that he help his daughter. But Clint refused to throw her a life vest and devise a scheme to increase ticket sales. Rachel could sink or swim on her own.

  “What should I say when people call and ask for you?”

  “Tell them I’m busy and that you’ll take a message and get back to them with my answer,” Clint said.

  “That won’t fly unless you attend the meeting with the mayors on Monday and assure them you’re making the decisions.”

  “Okay, I’ll be there. Any other crisis I need to handle for you?”

  “Nope. That’s it for today.” Chin high, Rachel got in her truck and shifted into Reverse, narrowly missing the bumper of Clint’s vehicle.

  Get a grip on yourself, man.

  If Clint wasn’t arguing with the woman, he was kissing her.

  He doubted P.T. had that in mind when he’d assigned Clint the task of assisting his daughter.

  RACHEL GLANCED IN THE rearview mirror and glared at Clint until the dust from the truck tires blocked him from view. The cowboy was an enigma. One minute he appeared willing to help, the next he avoided anything to do with promoting the rodeos. If she didn’t know any better she’d believe Clint wanted her to fail, but why? She wasn’t any threat to him. Besides, he had to realize that no good would come from canceling the rodeos—not if he intended to keep the sanctuary ranch in the black.

  Maybe you’re reading too much into the situation. Ever since her ex-fiancé’s betrayal, Rachel had become overly suspicious of men’s motives.

  But boy, could Clint kiss.

  She puckered her lips but the action did nothing to stop her mouth from tingling. If his kiss hadn’t caught her by surprise she might have protested.

  Yeah, right.

  No sense pretending she hadn’t fantasized about kissing Clint. Closing her eyes at bedtime and imagining him sweeping her into his arms and making love to her mouth had been the only thing that had saved her from a total nervous breakdown this week.

  She’d been kissed by plenty of men. First-date kisses, which were always awkward. Second-date kisses weren’t much better. And then there had been the welcome-neighbor kiss she’d received from the guy next door the day she’d moved into her condo. The teacher’s-lounge kiss from the baseball coach wh
o’d been in the middle of a divorce and had been feeling horny. And her former fiancé Mike’s kisses, which had been pleasant, familiar—unlike Clint’s kiss which had sizzled with heat.

  Don’t make a big deal out of the kiss. You enjoyed it because…because… Because it had been two years since Mike had met and fallen madly in love with a hotel maid while on a business trip to Japan and Rachel had yet to become involved with another man—not because she was stuck on Mike, but because she didn’t trust her judgment when it came to men.

  If Clint hadn’t touched her cheek when he’d kissed her she wouldn’t have been affected as deeply. But he had touched her, brushing the callused pad of his thumb against her skin. The tender caress had tugged at her heartstrings and a deep-seated need to be cherished.

  The cowboy was hardly the kind of man to cherish a woman.

  She’d never find out because Clint had kissed her to shut her up, not because he’d been unable to resist her allure. Shoving aside further thoughts about the cowboy, Rachel decided to brainstorm ideas for a rodeo PR campaign while she drove into town to grab a bite to eat. She made a pit stop at the house to grab her purse, then sped off. Once she reached town she picked the first bar that came into view—Gilly’s Tap House.

  Rachel entered the tavern, hovering in the doorway until her eyes adjusted to the dim interior. The air conditioner mounted on the wall by the door blasted her face with cold air.

  “If you’re eating, menus are on the table,” the barkeep called out.

  Grabbing a laminated menu as she passed by a table, Rachel slid onto a bar stool near four women dressed in authentic cowgirl gear. She perused the menu. No salads.

  “Decided yet?” The bald-headed barkeep stopped in front of her.

  “I’ll take an order of chicken fingers and fries, please.”

  “Care for a drink?”

  “Ice water’s good, thanks.”

  The bartender delivered her water then disappeared into the kitchen. While Rachel waited for her meal she studied the women at the bar. They looked average height but the leather chaps, big belt buckles and spurs made them appear larger than life.

  Not wanting to get caught gaping, Rachel removed a pen and notebook from her purse. She refused to leave the bar until she thought of at least five ideas to promote the summer rodeos.