Arizona Cowboy. Marin Thomas

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       “If you need money—”

       Clint and Rachel stared at each other after blurting the same words. If Rachel thought it odd that her father’s employee offered financial assistance, she didn’t say.

       “I’m worried about the rough stock,” P.T. said. “The money we make off the rodeos this summer has to buy enough feed and hay to get through next year.”

       P.T. rambled on about the rodeos but Clint didn’t hear a word. He sat in a stupor, unable to comprehend how his longtime mentor, friend and the man he regarded as a father had chosen his estranged daughter to assume the helm of a company that had struggled the past few years to stay in the black.

       “Although we got off on the wrong foot, I believe we’ll be able to work together well.” Rachel offered Clint her hand—firm and feminine, with neatly trimmed pink-painted nails. This woman did not belong on a ranch. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, tugging her hand free. “I’ll get my luggage.”

       “Clint will fetch your bags,” P.T. said.

       In less than ten minutes, Clint had gone from ranch foreman to mechanic to bellhop.

       “I don’t have much.” Rachel left the room, leaving a trail of perfume-scented air in her wake.

       Struggling to keep his mind from wandering outside with Rachel, Clint spoke to P.T. “Haven’t I proven I’m responsible enough to handle the rodeos?”

       “Of course you can handle the rodeos.”

       “Then why would you ask your daughter to drive clear across the country to run a business she has no experience with?” He smoothed a hand over his close-cropped hair. “Rachel’s a school shrink. Has she ever been to a rodeo before?”

       “I’m not sure. You’ll have to ask her.”

       “Is it because of Lauren? You’re worried my daughter will be a distraction?”

       “Not at all. Rachel’s help will allow you to spend more time with Lauren.”

       “You’re putting Rachel in charge to punish me because I haven’t paid enough attention to Lauren over the years?”

       “Hell, no!” P.T. banged his fist on the desk. “This isn’t about you, Clint. It’s about me. I want Rachel in charge of the rodeos. End of discussion.”

       “Whatever you say, boss.”

       P.T.’s head jerked as if Clint had slapped him. Add remorse to the crazy emotions running rampant inside Clint. P.T. had taken him in, given him a home and taught him to be a decent man. He deserved better from Clint.

       “I’ll make sure I’m available if Rachel needs me.” Even if it killed him.

       “Good. The doctors insist that if I beat this cancer and go into remission, I need to cut out the stress in my life.”

       “Are you talking retirement?” A sliver of excitement pricked Clint. He’d dreamed of one day running Five Star Rodeos.

       “If Rachel does a good job this summer, I intend to ask her to stay on permanently.”

       Only sheer pride kept Clint from storming out of the room as his chest tightened, squeezing the air from his lungs. The hurt was like none he’d ever experienced. “Does Rachel—” he cleared his throat “—want to take over Five Star Rodeos?”

       “I don’t know. But she’s my daughter. I owe her first right of refusal.”

       How did P.T. believe he owed Rachel his livelihood when she’d made no effort to be involved in his life? Clint lived at the ranch, took care of the animals and had been P.T.’s right-hand man for years.

       On the heels of hurt came anger—mostly at himself for believing loyalty trumped genetics. Rachel was tied to P.T. by blood, not gratitude. Even though Clint believed he deserved to run the company, he was nothing but an adult foster kid—a castoff nobody had wanted.

       “Are we finished talking?” Clint asked.

       P.T. frowned, but Clint refused to apologize for his curtness. Either way Clint viewed the situation, he was screwed. If Rachel failed then P.T. would assume Clint hadn’t done enough to help her. If Rachel succeeded, she’d prove she was more than capable of managing the rodeo-production company.

       “What’s wrong, son?” P.T. asked.

      Son? Right now Clint didn’t feel much like P.T.’s son. Without another word, Clint left the office before he made promises he couldn’t keep—like making sure nothing got in the way, including himself, of producing top-notch rodeos this summer.

      AS SOON AS CLINT STEPPED outside the house, Rachel’s spine stiffened. She didn’t need a psychology degree to understand the handsome cowboy resented her presence. Why?

       “Three bags?” Clint stopped next to the car and stared at the luggage.

       Three suitcases was hardly a lot, considering she planned to stay the summer. “I’ll bring in the rest,” she said, referring to the tote bags containing her shoes, toiletries and miscellaneous items.

       He hefted the luggage beneath his arms, the motion pulling his shirt taut against his broad shoulders. She forced her attention back to his face. “Clint.”

       “What?”

       “You’re angry.”

       The muscle along his jaw bulged and she expected him to storm off. He stayed.

       “Are you upset that P.T.’s making you handle the repairs to my car?”

       His brown eyes pierced her, stealing her breath. For an instant she imagined those eyes staring down at her as he… Shocked by her train of thought, she said, “We’re going to be working together, which means we’ll need to communicate.” With words, not dark looks. Frustrated, she blurted, “Say something.”

       “P.T. believes you’re the best person to produce his rodeos. I’ll stay out of your way. You stay out of mine.” He marched into the house with her luggage.

       Was this the same cowboy who’d rescued Curly from the road? Unless… Had Clint expected to be put in charge of her father’s business? Regardless, he didn’t have to be rude.

       “What’d you do to rile my dad?”

       Rachel spun then slapped her palm against her thudding heart. Where had the pink-haired girl come from?

       The teen smiled. “I get that kind of reaction a lot when people first see my hair.”

       “It’s very…colorful.”

       Tugging a strand of shoulder-length hair, the girl said, “It’s the same color as Avril Lavigne’s, only instead of highlights I colored my hair pink all over.” She blew a bubble with her gum. “You know who Avril Lavigne is, don’t you?”

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