by Marin Thomas
Clint made eye contact with several people before continuing. “I understand the mayors are concerned news of P.T.’s health might adversely affect rodeo attendance numbers.” He paused until the whispering stopped. “I’ve helped P. T. Lewis produce his rodeos for years, and this summer I’m in charge. I guarantee Five Star will put on a top-notch event for your town.”
“I make most of my income for the year selling funnel cakes at the rodeo!” a woman shouted.
“I carve napkin rings for the craft show exhibit. I gotta sell enough rings to pay off my credit card!” another man added.
“I run the Sleep Tight Motel outside Piney Gorge. If I can’t count on cowboys filling my rooms one weekend a summer I might as well burn the place down and collect the insurance money.”
“You can’t set your businesses on fire!” A short man with a big belly stood on a chair and shook his fist. “You’ll put my insurance company out of business and I’ll be forced to file for bankruptcy.”
Mayor McDonnell smacked the gavel against the table, silencing the group. “There will be no talk of arson.” The mayor removed a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped his perspiring brow.
“I’m aware of the impact the rodeos have on your businesses and bottom line,” Clint said. “Nothing’s going to change in the way we produce and promote the rodeos.”
“If I might interject.” The mayor of Boot Hill stood. “Last night I received a call from C. J. Rodriguez.”
Rodriguez was a local rodeo legend who enjoyed convincing others that the world revolved around him. He’d made it to the National Finals Rodeo twice but had yet to win the buckle. Most riders of his caliber passed over small-town rodeos, but C.J. loved being the center of attention and the mayors made a big deal out of his presence—last year Piney Gorge presented Rodriguez a key to their town.
“C.J. heard about P.T.’s health problems,” Mayor Ross continued, “and threatened to withdraw from the bronc-bustin’ competition if we can’t guarantee a decent-size purse and crowd.”
Greedy bastard. If C.J. snubbed the rodeos then other top contenders would follow his lead.
“We gotta draw big crowds so C.J.’ll ride.” The shout came from the rear of the room. “Folks don’t wanna watch a nobody ride.”
Intent on putting fears to rest, Clint said, “I’ll contact C.J. and assure him that there will be a hefty-size purse and plenty of fans to cheer him on.”
“Won’t be the same without P.T. sitting in the VIP section.” Bob Casey, owner of the Watershed Bar in Piney Gorge, stood. “If it wasn’t for P.T. bragging about my margaritas, folks wouldn’t go out of their way to stop at my place after the rodeo.”
McDonnell motioned for silence. “I’ve spoken with P.T.’s daughter and she’ll be here any minute to present a plan to increase attendance and downplay the fact that P.T. won’t be present at the rodeos.”
“P.T. has a daughter?” A woman several feet away asked.
“Rachel Lewis came all the way from Rhode Island to spend the summer at P.T.’s ranch,” Clint said.
“Rhode Island?” A man guffawed. “What does an easterner know about promoting rodeos?”
Not much. “Rachel’s not promoting the events,” Clint lied. “She’s answering the phones and contacting people for me.”
“She’s your secretary?” Mayor Larsen asked.
“Something like that,” Clint mumbled.
“Is she here?” McDonnell glanced around.
Dang it, Rachel. Where are you? Before Clint blurted an excuse for her absence, the waffle house door opened and in strolled Rachel, Lauren and six cowgirls dressed for a Hollywood movie audition. The lady bull riders sported tight jeans, sequined shirts, sparkly belt buckles, big hair and glittery makeup. Lauren remained by the door as Rachel led her entourage through the crowd—the mouths of men dropping open as the cowgirls passed by.
“I thought you were going to be a no-show,” Clint whispered when Rachel stopped in front of the table. The scent of her perfume sent his thoughts careening back to the kiss they’d shared in the front seat of his truck. “Folks, allow me to introduce P.T.’s daughter, Rachel Lewis.”
Several Howdys echoed through the crowd.
Clint motioned to the mayors. “This is John Larsen, mayor of Piney Gorge. Jack Ross, mayor of Boot Hill, and Mitch McDonnell, mayor of Canyon City.”
Rachel shook hands with the men.
“Folks,” Clint spoke to the group, “I’ve decided to add a new event this year to the rodeos because I believe it will increase attendance and stir up excitement in the community. Rachel will tell you all about it.”
Rachel took center stage, looking downright Western in a pair of brand-new jeans, a flower-print cotton blouse and a flashy silver belt that accentuated her trim waist. Her small frame reminded Clint that a man would have to be careful making love to her—not that he had any intention of being that man. He shoved his lusty thoughts aside and listened to Rachel speak.
“Ladies and gentlemen, standing before you are six courageous and talented women,” she said.
One of the men stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled. The cowgirls preened. “You might ask yourself what these women have to do with promoting your rodeos—”
“Far as I’m concerned—” a geezer with a stringy beard spoke “—they got my permission to promote anything they want!” Hoots and hollers followed.
Clint removed the gavel from Mayor McDonnell’s hand and banged the table.
“Everyone knows that rodeo is a dangerous sport where rough and tough men tame wild bulls and stubborn broncs.” Heads in the crowd bobbed. “How many of you would pay to watch a woman ride a bull?”
No one raised their hand.
Rachel motioned to the cowgirls standing with her. “How many of you would pay to watch one of these ladies ride a bull?”
Every hand in the restaurant shot up in the air.
“Let me introduce you to the women who will be competing in their own bull-riding event at each of your rodeos.” Rachel called off the women’s names then opened the floor to questions. The men remained dumbstruck but not the women.
“Who made your fancy costumes?” a lady asked.
The petite blonde named Skylar Riggins stepped forward. “I did, ma’am.”
“They’re gorgeous. I sell hats and cowboy gear at the rodeos. Would you be interested in giving me a few of those shirts on consignment?”
“Yes, ma’am, I would.”
“They’ve got my vote,” the woman said.
“Before we get carried away,” Mayor McDonnell said, “let’s hear how Clint intends to promote the lady bull riders and why he believes their presence at the rodeo will increase ticket sales.”
“Mitch, if you gotta be told why them gals will bring in more money, then your libido is malfunctioning and you ought to be takin’ them tiny blue pills they advertise on TV.” The men in the room chuckled.
Clint opened his mouth to speak but Rachel winked and cut him off. “Clint has secured a promise from these ladies to help advertise the event,” Rachel said.
“Promote how?” someone asked.
“These talented women have successful careers outside of rodeo and will be using their places of employment to advertise the rodeos. Clint is working on securing TV and radio interviews as well as the possibility of offering free bull-riding lessons to females if they purchase a rodeo ticket.”
“Great idea, Clint.” A man in the back stepped forward. “I got a niece who’d be interested in them free lessons.”
Amazed by the crowd’s easy acceptance of a women’s rough-stock event, Clint couldn’t help but admire Rachel for her gutsy idea.
“For those of you who have computers, check out Shannon Douglas’s blog ‘Bull Ridin’ ain’t just for Boys,’” Rachel continued. “Shannon has thousands of followers and keeps her fans informed on where she’s competing.
“This is Lauren McGraw, Clint’s daughter.” Rachel waved Clint’s da
ughter to the front of the room. “Since Clint will be busy making sure the sponsors are following through on their pledges and working with the stock contractors to bring in the best rough stock for the events, Lauren and I will be helping out in the office. If you’re interested in having any of these ladies promote your business, call the office and Lauren will relay your request to Clint. If he approves, Lauren will schedule a meeting to discuss the particulars.”
“Missy.” A woman pointed at Lauren’s pink hair. “Is that a wig you’re wearing?”
Clint winced, praying his daughter wouldn’t overreact and shout a cuss word.
“This is my real hair.” Lauren tugged a lock of pink hair.
The woman who’d voiced the question glanced at Clint. “Can I use her to promote my hair salon? I’ll have a booth at the fairgrounds, advertising five-dollar haircuts, but I’d make more money coloring teenagers’ hair.”
“I’ll wear a T-shirt at the rodeo advertising your salon.” Lauren glanced at Clint. “If my dad says it’s okay.” What happened to the disgruntled teenager who wanted nothing to do with rodeo or the ranch?
With a curt nod Clint gave his permission and the hair stylist whooped.
“Hey, Clint. Do we gotta pay them gals extra if they promote our businesses?” a man called out.
“Sir.” Shannon stepped forward. “If we can work your request into our schedules we’ll endorse your business for free.”
Heads in the audience bowed together as business owners brainstormed ideas on how to use the cowgirls to their advantage.
Mitch McDonnell banged the gavel on the table. “All in favor of keeping Five Star Rodeos on their town’s calendar…”
A chorus of ayes reverberated through the room.
Extricating himself from the crowd, Clint made a beeline for the exit. He needed a few minutes alone to come to grips with what had transpired—he’d arrived at the restaurant believing he hadn’t had a chance in hell of convincing the mayors to buy into the idea of hosting a women’s rough-stock event.
You were hoping, anyway.
Clint cursed the voice in his head. He admitted there had been a part of him that had wanted Rachel to fail if only to prove to P.T. he’d made a mistake putting his daughter in charge. Instead, the city girl had come through with flying colors. Damned if he didn’t admire her for pulling off a miracle.
“Hey, Dad. There you are.” Lauren joined his side. “Rachel put me in charge of handling the girls’ social calendars. How cool is that?”
“Was that your idea in there?”
“What?”
“Having the women wear sexy clothes, big hair and glittery makeup?”
“Yeah. Pretty cool, huh?”
Whatever magic spell Rachel had cast over Lauren, he hoped it would last the summer. Clint hadn’t seen his daughter this animated in a long while.
“I’ve got Shannon scheduled for a radio interview next week.” Lauren lowered her voice. “I told them I’d check with you first.” She flipped open a notebook and showed Clint her chicken scratch. “Oh, and Rachel wanted me to ask if the women can ride bulls at the ranch.”
“What?”
“Rachel said the bulls on the ranch are retired from rodeo.”
Damn Rachel and her bright ideas.
“The girls are taking the day off from their jobs this Thursday to practice. Shannon said they can be there as early as seven in the morning.”
“I don’t know, Lauren. I’ve got a lot on my plate—”
“I’ll help.”
“Help how?”
“I’ll muck the stalls in the barn.” She tugged on his shirtsleeve. “C’mon, Dad. I’ve never seen a girl ride a bull.”
“I don’t have time to mess around with this kind of stuff.”
“Forget it. Rachel and I will figure something out.” Lauren stomped inside, leaving Clint to chew on his anger.
If P.T. wanted his estranged daughter in charge of Five Star Rodeos, then Rachel could darn well start tackling her own problems. The more Clint helped her out the more she’d rely on him. He’d spent his entire adult life earning P.T.’s respect and admiration. He and P.T. had become family and damned if he’d allow Rachel to shove him aside and take his place without a fight.
“SHANNON’S AWESOME.” Lauren stood with Clint outside the practice pen Thursday morning, watching the lady bull riders.
So much for holding his ground.
“Shannon has great balance.” Clint watched the female athlete dust herself off.
For the past two days he’d ignored his daughter’s nagging and Rachel’s dark looks but late last night he’d overheard Lauren telling her mother on the phone that she didn’t want to be around her father anymore because he was a chauvinist pig. As much as Clint wanted Rachel to fail he didn’t want to give his daughter another reason to avoid spending time with him. At 10:00 p.m. he’d turned on the outside lights and had constructed a holding pen for the bulls and a makeshift chute. Three hours later when he’d gone to bed, he’d found a note on his pillow. Thanks, Dad. I knew you wouldn’t let me and Rachel down.
The message had triggered a session of painful self-examination. He’d lived in several foster homes where he’d been one of six or seven kids and had done whatever it took to rise above the fray to gain attention. Needing to be number one was normal for a kid, but he was thirty-seven years old. Would he ever let go of the little boy inside him who desperately wanted all the attention?
“Torpedo is one stubborn bull, Mr. McGraw,” Shannon said.
“Only twelve cowboys ever made it to eight on Torpedo.”
“Have you ever been hurt by a bull, Shannon?” Lauren asked.
“Heck, yes. I’ve broken my wrist twice, my ankle once and my fingers lots of times.”
“Why do you keep riding?”
Clint knew why.
Shannon’s attention remained on the chute where one of her friends prepared to ride Big Ben. “Ask any cowboy or cowgirl and they’ll say they like the adrenaline rush they get from trying to tame two thousand pounds of—”
The chute door opened and Big Ben burst into the corral. The young woman stayed on for three seconds before flying off. She hit the ground and rolled to her feet with ease.
“—pure rage,” Shannon continued. “But not me. I’m riding bulls because they said I couldn’t.”
“Who said you couldn’t?” Lauren asked.
“Men.” Shannon glanced at Clint.
He grinned.
“I rode bulls with my brothers when I was young but every time I tried to sign in for a rodeo event they turned me away because I was a girl,” Shannon said.
“That stinks,” Lauren said.
“Thanks to your father—” Shannon smiled at Clint “—we have a chance to show rodeo fans that women bull riders deserve to be taken seriously.” Shannon walked back to the chute.
“Dad?”
“What?”
“Would you let me ride bulls?”
“No.” He held his breath waiting for an explosion.
Lauren’s eyes rounded. “You’re prejudiced against women.”
“No, I believe women can do what a man does equally well, except ride bulls.”
“No wonder Mom didn’t want to marry you.”
Ouch. “I’m not saying women aren’t—”
“Forget it, Dad.”
What happened to the grateful teen who left a nice note on his pillow?
Lauren stared over his shoulder and he turned to see what had caught her attention. Rachel. For the first time since she’d arrived at the ranch she wore her blond hair loose, the thick strands falling a few inches past her shoulders. She looked fresh from the shower in her short denim skirt and sleeveless white blouse. Pink painted toenails peeked out of the strappy sandals covering her feet.
Where was she headed all gussied up?
“My dad thinks women shouldn’t ride bulls,” Lauren said when Rachel stopped at the pen.
“Why not?” Ra
chel stared at Clint.
“Because bulls are tough, mean, brutal beasts,” he said.
“And…?” Rachel’s smile zapped Clint in the chest.
“And women are soft—” his eyes zeroed in on the patch of creamy skin visible between the lapels of Rachel’s shirt “—and delicate.” He noticed a tiny freckle on her nose—the first of many he suspected would dot her porcelain complexion by the end of the summer. “And…” His gaze shifted to the fragile curve of her ear. He swallowed the word sexy and substituted “too smart to ride bulls.”
Rachel snorted.
“Teach me how to ride bulls so I can tell all my friends back home that I competed in a rodeo.”
“Not a chance, Lauren.” Liz would have Clint’s head if he allowed their daughter anywhere near a bull. “If you want to know what it feels like, try a bucking machine.”
“Where am I going to find one of those?” Lauren asked.
“In the barn,” Clint said. “I told Shannon she and her friends could use it whenever they wanted.”
“Fine.” Lauren jutted her chin. “I’ll ask Shannon if she’ll show me how to work the mechanical bull.” Lauren walked off, leaving Clint alone with Rachel.
“You heading into town?” he asked.
“I’m paying my father a visit.”
“Is everything all right with P.T.?” Clint had spoken with his boss last night but P.T. hadn’t mentioned any problems.
“As far as I know, he’s fine, but he hasn’t returned my calls.”
Guilt flooded Clint. Rachel had asked him to notify her when P.T. phoned him and he’d forgotten. She’d be ticked if she knew her father had been in contact with him every day. Damned if he could figure out why P.T. had trouble reaching out to his daughter.
“P.T. doesn’t want visitors,” Clint said.
“I’m checking in on him anyway.”
Obviously Rachel cared in some capacity for her father if she was taking the time to drive to Phoenix to see him. “Do me a favor?”