Arizona Cowboy. Marin Thomas

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       “Was it bad?”

       “Split my thigh from knee to hip. Luckily, the wound wasn’t deep.” Afterward, P.T. had convinced Clint to quit bullfighting and become the official foreman of Five Star Ranch. By then, Clint had been more than ready to retire his bright-colored jersey, shorts and socks.

       “The worst injury I ever suffered was a sprained ankle during badminton practice. I had to use crutches for a week before I could put weight on my foot.”

       “Sprains can be tricky.” Neither Liz nor Lauren had shared that incident with Clint. How many other events in his daughter’s life had he never known about? He headed for the door. “I’d better go. P.T.’s waiting.”

       “Is P.T. okay?”

       “He’s fine.” Lauren knew about the old man’s cancer and felt sorry for him. Clint was relieved that beneath his daughter’s disgruntled, unhappy exterior resided a sympathetic heart. “P.T. wants to discuss the summer’s rodeo schedule.”

       Lauren sat straighter in the chair. “Does this mean I have to go to the rodeos with you?”

       “Looks that way.” Clint grabbed his hat from the hook by the back door.

       “Cool.”

       Her comment brought Clint up short. “I thought you couldn’t stand cowboys and ranching.”

       “Some of the cowboys are cute.”

       Even though his gut insisted his wayward daughter wasn’t a virgin, the last thing he wanted to deal with this summer was his daughter’s love life. “We leave for Yuma in an hour.”

       RACHEL STOOD IN HER father’s foyer searching for the right words to break the tension. She settled on… “Your home is beautiful.”

       “I expect you don’t remember living here.”

       “No, I don’t,” she said, refusing to lie. She motioned to the terra-cotta tile. “I like the floor.”

       “The kitchen’s in the back.” P.T. cut through a great room with an adobe fireplace and chunky furnishings—cowboy furniture. The kitchen was large and airy. A colorful mosaic-tile backsplash in deep gold, blue and red popped against the whitewashed walls. The cabinets were a dark distressed wood—the space above them held an array of brightly painted metal roosters. A wooden chopping block served as an island. P.T. caught Rachel studying the décor. “Anne—” he cleared his throat “—your mother had a rooster fetish.”

       “I like them.” Rachel wondered if the bold, colorful fowl were indicative of her mother’s personality.

       “This was Anne’s favorite room in the house.”

       The love in her father’s voice when he spoke of her mother pierced Rachel’s heart. Why couldn’t he offer her a smidgen of that affection? She shifted under his scrutiny.

       “You look like your mother,” P.T. said.

       Rachel had seen photos of Anne Lewis and agreed she was every inch her mother’s daughter. “I could use a drink.”

       “Where are my manners?” Her father fetched a glass from the cupboard. “Lemonade or iced tea?”

       A green-apple martini would have been better. “Iced tea.” Rachel stared out the large picture window overlooking a courtyard. Trellises covered with red bougainvilleas had been mounted against the adobe wall and mounds of pink and yellow lantana grew in several planters. She couldn’t picture the father she knew as someone who nurtured flowers. In the center of the patio sat a fountain with a bucking horse that spewed water from its mouth.

       P.T. set Rachel’s tea on the bistro table then leaned a hip against the butcher block. “That’s Dust Devil.” He pointed to the fountain. “He’s the reason Five Star Ranch exists.”

       “How’s that?”

       “Anne caught Dust Devil being abused by a stock contractor.” P.T. stared unseeingly across the room as if reliving the moment. “Your mother gave that cowboy a piece of her mind and threatened to call the authorities on him if he didn’t hand over Dust Devil to her. Anne had a soft spot for abused animals and she convinced me that it was my duty to provide a sanctuary for retired rough stock since I made a living off them.” P.T. rubbed his chin. “Your mother 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?”

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