by Marin Thomas
“I wanted to take Skylar’s place but Rachel wouldn’t let me.”
“You what?” Clint couldn’t believe his daughter would volunteer for such a foolhardy undertaking. Lauren hopped on the back of a Harley with a stranger, didn’t she? Dealing with irrational females would turn Clint’s hair gray by summer’s end.
“I wouldn’t have lasted eight seconds but I would have come close,” Lauren boasted.
Clint’s chest tightened as he visualized his daughter coming out of the chute on Sweet Water. “At least Rachel had sense enough to say no to you.”
“I guess this summer isn’t turning out so bad.” Lauren yawned.
He chuckled and she playfully punched him in the stomach. “I still hate being stuck in the middle of nowhere all day, but I got to meet Shannon and her friends and I like helping Rachel with the rodeo stuff.”
“You’re turning into a cowgirl.”
“Forget it, Dad. I’m not dying my hair back to brown. ’Night.”
To check on Rachel or not?
The sick feeling Clint had gotten after his confrontation with Rachel in the first-aid tent earlier in the day still gnawed his gut.
I misjudged you. I assumed if my father trusted you to help him I could, too.
He’d disappointed a lot of people in his life but until Rachel’s attack on his character, the only person he’d cared about impressing or pleasing had been P.T. Then Rachel had dropped out of the sky like a meteor crashing into his safe, secure world and challenging all he’d believed important to him.
Witnessing Rachel risk her life made Clint face the truth—he cared for her deeply. He hesitated using the word love—mostly because he’d experienced so little of it in his life that he wouldn’t know love if it bit him in the backside. He didn’t want to admit that Rachel had worked her way beneath his skin. If only the trip to Lake Powell had never happened. When he’d held Rachel in his arms he’d forgotten she was P.T.’s daughter.
His feelings for Rachel brought to the surface Clint’s childhood insecurities. All these years Clint believed P.T.’s acceptance had given him the strength to hold those fears at bay. Had he been wrong? What if the key to his freedom wasn’t P.T. but himself?
Clint left the cabin and made his way to the main house. He found the front door unlocked and entered the foyer. He opened his mouth to announce his presence, but the words became trapped in his throat when Rachel stepped from the bathroom at the end of the hall, wearing nothing but her birthday suit. Before his mind processed the details of her naked body, she disappeared into the bedroom.
Too stunned to do much more than stand in place and sweat, he closed his eyes and images of making love to Rachel on the houseboat flashed through his mind. A gasp interrupted his daydream and Clint’s eyes flew open. Rachel had emerged from the bedroom wearing a cotton robe.
“I knocked but—”
“I was in the shower.”
“Thought you might need help.” He motioned to her injured hand.
“I took the splint off because the tape was dirty.”
They met in the middle of the hallway and Clint clasped her injured hand, rubbing his thumb across the swollen knuckles. With damp hair and no makeup she looked vulnerable and barely older than Lauren. “Where’s the splint?”
“In here.”
He followed her into the bedroom. Clothes were strewn across the floor. Cosmetics, lotions and fingernail polish cluttered the top of the dresser.
“What are you smiling at?” she asked.
“I never pegged you as a messy person.”
“I’m not—” she sat on the edge of the bed “—but things have been so crazy I haven’t had time to clean.”
Clint joined her, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. Their shoulders bumped. The scent of citrus shampoo filled the air. Gently, he arranged her broken fingers in the splint then tore off strips of medical tape and immobilized her fingers. “Lauren said she volunteered to ride but you wouldn’t let her.”
“I’d never allow her to take such a risk.”
The heat from Rachel’s body warmed his side and Clint fought the urge to lay her down and explore with his hands what his eyes had viewed moments ago.
Her stomach grumbled, the noise propelling him off the bed. “Get dressed in your pajamas while I fix you a snack.”
Five minutes later Rachel entered the kitchen.
“I warmed a can of soup and made turkey sandwiches.” He placed the food on the bistro table overlooking the patio.
“You’re staring,” she said.
“Sorry.” He had a heck of time blocking Rachel’s naked body from his mind. Clint pointed to the food. “Eat, and then I’ll tuck you into bed.”
“Do I get a bedtime story?” Rachel’s eyes simmered with heat.
If things were different, Clint would do a hell of a lot more than read to Rachel.
Chapter Twelve
Rachel paused outside the bedroom door and flashed a shaky smile at Clint. Now that she’d showered and eaten, the full extent of her reckless actions today had finally sunk in, leaving her feeling vulnerable and scared. Never before had she questioned her judgment, but her decision to ride Sweet Water at the Boot Hill Rodeo cast serious doubts on her intelligence.
Not only had she put her and the bullfighters’ lives at risk, if she’d been trampled to death her father, Clint, Lauren and the lady bull riders would have had to live with guilt the rest of their lives—each blaming themselves for not stopping her.
Clint leaned a shoulder against the door frame. His brown-eyed stare made her skin tingle, the sensation spreading through her limbs, masking the dull throb in her broken fingers. Her breathing grew shallow as she imagined Clint’s hands caressing her skin… His fingers tunneling through her hair… His mouth teasing her lips…her breasts.
Why Clint? Why did she yearn for his love—a man who’d replaced her in her father’s heart? A man who wanted to see her fail.
She shook her head, her thoughts too jumbled to sort through. Right now…right here…Clint wasn’t the enemy. She wanted to lie in his arms and forget everything but the feel of his body making love to hers. She pressed her palm to his chest, the thump of his heart comforting. Lightly she brushed her lips over his mouth. Once. Twice. When he didn’t pull away she stood on tiptoe and leaned closer.
Did Clint sense how much she needed him?
His arms pulled her close then he cupped her fanny, snuggling her pelvis against the hardness beneath the zipper of his jeans. He wants me. A tiny thrill skated through her, but the emotion was short-lived when he released her.
“What’s wrong?”
“We can’t do this.” Instead of driving her away, Clint’s words drew Rachel closer. He dragged a hand through his hair and reined in his arousal.
“Make love to me.” Her whispered plea chipped away at the stone wall around his heart.
“I promised P.T. I’d protect you.”
“Protect me from what?”
Not what… Who. Was Clint trying to protect Rachel or himself from getting hurt? “I meant—”
“I’ve spent twenty-two years of my life without a father to guide me. P.T. hasn’t earned the right to tell anyone, especially you, to watch over me.”
“Especially me?”
“We both know you’re more P.T.’s child than I am.”
“You’re his biological daughter. I’m the teenager he rescued from the streets.”
“My father gave you a home and banished me from mine.”
“I don’t want to argue about this, Rachel.” Clint didn’t care to acknowledge that P.T. had treated Rachel unfairly. He didn’t want to accept that the man he admired most in life had done his daughter wrong. “Are you driving to Phoenix tomorrow to visit P.T.?”
After a tense moment, she said, “Yes. Do you want to come along?”
“Sure.” Visiting P.T. in person would strengthen his resolve to keep Rachel at a distance. “What will you say when he asks about your
fingers?”
“I’ll make up something.” She waved a hand in the air. “My father doesn’t know me well enough to guess when I’m lying or telling the truth.”
The bedroom door closed in Clint’s face.
CLINT SWUNG HIS TRUCK into a stall at the medical center, shifted into Park but left the motor running. The trip from Stagecoach to Phoenix had been the longest of Rachel’s life. Neither of them had much to say after she’d closed the bedroom door in Clint’s face the previous night. She hated the tension between them and wanted to apologize but wasn’t sure what for—begging him to make love to her or being P.T.’s daughter?
“Let’s set the ground rules before we go in,” Clint said.
“Ground rules?”
“You don’t mention that I’m giving Lauren bull-riding lessons and I won’t correct whatever story you tell P.T. about your broken fingers.”
“Fair enough.” Rachel climbed out of the truck. When Clint rounded the hood, she said, “I don’t understand how P.T. hasn’t heard about the women’s rough-stock event being added to the rodeos.”
Clint held the clinic door open for Rachel. A blast of refrigerated air engulfed her and she shivered.
“Maybe P.T. does know about the bull riding,” Clint said, pushing the button on the elevator.
“Wouldn’t he have called one of us to protest?”
“Maybe not. We’re breaking attendance records and that’s money in the bank.”
“In other words, once the rodeo in Piney Gorge is over all hell is going to break loose?”
“That’s my guess.” They rode the elevator to the fourth floor. As soon as they stepped off, Rachel spotted P.T. in the hall lounge.
“You’ve got company, Mr. Lewis.” A nurse pointed to Clint and Rachel.
P.T.’s gaze landed on Clint first and he smiled. Rachel ignored the twinge of envy pinching her side. Her father looked her way but the smile slid off his face as soon as he noticed the splint on her fingers.
“What happened?” P.T. shuffled down the corridor.
“Let’s talk in your room.” Rachel entered first and went straight to the recliner.
Clint shut the door and leaned against the wall while P.T. sat on the edge of the bed facing Rachel. “Well?”
“I broke two fingers,” she said.
“What happened?”
Here goes nothing. “I went for a horseback ride and fell—” Rachel rushed to P.T.’s side as the blood drained from his face. “Dad, are you okay?”
“P.T.?” Clint joined her at the bed.
“You have no business riding a horse,” her father admonished.
P.T.’s anger shocked Rachel.
“And you.” P.T. pointed at Clint. “I told you to watch out for my daughter.”
“Don’t yell at Clint. This wasn’t his fault.”
“The hell you say,” P.T. growled.
“I didn’t tell Clint I went riding.” Another lie. The last thing she wanted was to get Clint in trouble with her father. “May I speak to P.T. in private?” Without a word Clint vanished from the room.
“Dad, why are you upset over a couple of broken fingers?”
P.T. stared into space. “I don’t want to lose you the way I lost your mother.”
His confession stole the air from Rachel’s lungs. This was the closest her father had come to telling her he loved her. She waited for him to continue but he remained silent, staring unseeingly across the room. Aunt Edith had been the only person to offer Rachel an explanation about the day her mother had died. Now Rachel wanted to hear the details from her father. “What are you talking about?”
“Anne…your mother, she never wanted to live on the ranch. She was a city girl. I promised her after you were born that I’d find a way to buy a small house in Yuma for the two of you to live.”
Aunt Edith had never said a word about Rachel’s mother hating the ranch. “Did Mom ever get her house?”
“I saved enough for a down payment but the business suffered a setback and I used the money to cover debts. Your mother found out I spent our savings and we argued.” P.T. rubbed a hand down his face. “I wasn’t very sympathetic to her complaints. She felt isolated on the ranch and worried about you not having friends to play with.” A tear escaped her father’s eye.
Caught off guard by her father’s vulnerability, Rachel’s throat tightened.
“I accused Anne of being weak.” P.T.’s gaze dropped the floor. “Of not having what it takes to be a rancher’s wife.”
“Did you mean what you said?” Rachel asked.
“No! I loved your mother with all my heart.” He shook his head. “Later that day after we’d argued, Anne put you down for a nap then saddled the most spirited horse in the barn and took him for a run in the desert. I didn’t know she’d left until you came out of the house calling for her.”
Rachel could imagine her father’s panic.
“When I discovered Tracer’s empty stall, I sent you to your room to play then went after your mother.” Her father shuddered, his voice heavy with pain. “I found her lifeless body a short distance from the house. She’d broken her neck when she’d been thrown from the horse.”
Dear God, had she known the whole truth about her mother’s death Rachel would never have used the same scenario to explain her broken fingers. Learning her parents had argued prior to her mother’s accident made the event even more tragic.
“I’m the reason you lost your mother, Rachel.”
Her father’s confession left her with more questions than answers.
“But you still sent me away. Why?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
Not to Rachel.
“I couldn’t bring your mother back to life for you, but I could give you the life your mother wanted you to have—a life in the city with lots of friends.”
Although sympathy for her father gathered steam inside Rachel, she refused to let him off the hook. She needed time to process what he’d told her but there was one more question she wanted an answer to. “I understand your reason for sending me to live with Aunt Edith, but that doesn’t explain why you stopped being my father.”
Her sharp words snapped P.T.’s head back. “I never stopped being your father.”
“Oh, really?”
P.T. shook his fist in the air. “I knew everything you did, young lady!” He sucked in a deep breath, his face red. “You gave Edith fits about your curfew.” He poked himself in the chest. “I’m the one who set your curfew. Ten o’ clock weekdays and midnight weekends.”
Dumbstruck, Rachel stared.
“And I insisted Edith allow you to quit piano lessons so you could try out for the volleyball team.”
Rachel’s mind raced back to junior high school. She’d desperately wanted to become involved in a sport but her aunt had believed playing a musical instrument would serve Rachel better. Then one morning out of the blue Aunt Edith had placed a pair of knee pads on the kitchen table along with a signed parental consent form to try out for the volleyball team. Rachel had been over-the-moon happy, offering to do her chores for a whole month without receiving an allowance. All along she’d had her father to thank for her aunt’s sudden change of heart.
Why didn’t you reach out to me, Dad? “I made the varsity team in high school.”
P.T. grinned. “I know. You got the award for most valuable player your senior year.”
Instead of making her feel better, the fact her father had kept tabs on her activities from long distance made her feel sad and alone.
“You could have come to one of my volleyball games.”
“There were always things needing to be done at the ranch. Animals had to be fed and the rodeos…” His voice trailed off.
“The truth, Dad. Why did you keep your distance from me?” Right before her eyes, P.T. aged ten years—the wrinkles bracketing his mouth deepened and the loose folds of skin around his eyes drooped.
“I stayed away because I believed you didn’t want
anything to do with me, and I knew if I’d asked you to visit the ranch you’d refuse.”
“I probably would have,” she said. “But the choice should have been mine.”
For years she’d resented her father for abandoning her when in truth he’d sent her away because he’d wanted to fulfill the promise he’d broken to Rachel’s mother. Now what? Where did their relationship go from here? And what about the apology she craved from her father—did the words even matter?
She studied P.T. through fresh eyes and with a renewed sense of hope. The uplifting thought took a sober turn when she realized that her father’s revelations wouldn’t matter if he didn’t beat his cancer. “What have the doctors said about your progress?”
A knock sounded on the door, and Clint walked into the room. Rachel’s question went unanswered when P.T. changed the subject.
“Lauren didn’t come with you today?”
Clint’s turn to lie.
“She watched movies until two in the morning and was sound asleep when Rachel and I left.”
“What did you think of Lake Powell, Rachel?”
Her gaze clashed with Clint’s and they both looked away quickly.
“The area’s breathtaking.” Rachel moseyed over to the window and stared at the courtyard below, hoping P.T. would drop the subject of their minivacation on the houseboat.
“I hear you broke attendance records at Boot Hill.”
“Who told you?” Rachel gasped.
“Jack Ross phoned last night and said he was pleased with the PR Five Star used to promote the Boot Hill Rodeo.” P.T. nodded to Rachel. “What sort of gimmicks are you using?”
“The usual,” Rachel said. “Flyers, newspaper articles, a few radio spots.”
“We never used radio before.” P.T. looked at Clint.
“That was Rachel’s idea,” Clint said. “The listeners love hearing from the rodeo contestants.”
“What cowboys have been interviewed? C. J. Rodriguez?”
“We don’t want to tire you out from too much talk.” Rachel stood. “Before we head back to Stagecoach can we get you any—”
“I don’t need a thing. They treat me like a king here.”