Arizona Cowboy. Marin Thomas
“Actually—”
“I’m putting Rachel in charge of the rodeos this summer,” P.T. said.
If he hadn’t already been seated, Clint’s legs would have buckled. He clenched the armrest until the skin over his knuckles threatened to split.
“Clint manages the rough-stock sanctuary but he’s helped plenty with the rodeo-production schedule. If you have any questions, he’s your go-to man,” P.T. said.
Go-to man?
Don’t lose your cool.
Not an easy task when P.T. had ripped Clint’s guts out with his bare hands. Why had P.T. chosen his estranged daughter over Clint to manage the rodeos? Had he failed P.T. in some way and lost his trust?
P.T. was the first person in Clint’s life who’d made him feel as if he mattered as a human being. He’d worked side by side with P.T. for twenty-one years and Rachel had avoided visiting the ranch—yet, the first crisis the old man encountered, he’d turned to his daughter and not Clint.
“What do you do for a living?” Clint asked Rachel.
“I’m a high-school psychologist and athletic trainer.”
Athletic trainer explained her toned, sleek legs but what the heck did a psychologist know about producing rodeos?
“My father assured me he has everything in order and all I need to do is make a few phone calls and follow up with vendors.” Rachel’s smile didn’t reach her eyes.
The woman knew she was out of her league. What possible motivation did she have for taking on a job she was destined to fail?
Waving a leather notebook, P.T. said, “This is my rodeo bible. All the vendors’ numbers are in here—contacts, dates and events. Keep track of the bottom line. We need to turn a profit this summer.” P.T. left his chair and stood before the window. “Damned medical insurance only covers half my treatment.”
“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.”