Читать книгу Arizona Cowboy - Marin Thomas - Страница 9

Chapter One

Stagecoach 10 Miles

Rachel Lewis strangled the steering wheel Sunday afternoon as she sped along the deserted Arizona highway southeast of Yuma. Although she’d been born in this desolate wasteland, the bone-dry landscape remained unfamiliar to her. The car’s thermometer displayed 100—it was only June seventh. After living two decades in Rhode Island, temps over eighty degrees constituted sweltering.

How did people survive this heat? Better yet…how would she handle three months of hundred-degree-plus temperatures on her father’s ranch?

You’re almost there. Eight hours in her car and the wavy heat lines hovering above the baking asphalt threatened to mesmerize Rachel. She gulped several swallows from her water bottle. Her concentration restored, she searched for a large rock, a mountain peak, a saguaro with too many arms—anything that might help her recall the first few years of her life in Hell’s backyard. Nothing. She felt like a tourist in a foreign land.

When Rachel was five years old, her mother had died in a horse accident and her father had shipped Rachel east to live with her aunt. Twenty-two years later she was returning to her birthplace—not because she wanted to but because her father had asked her to.

The speedometer nudged eighty and she eased her foot off the accelerator. Thoughts of P. T. Lewis sent her blood pressure soaring. A week before the public schools in Rhode Island had dismissed for the summer Rachel had learned her father had been diagnosed with prostate cancer and would be undergoing three months of treatment at a medical center in Phoenix. Before she’d uttered a single word of sympathy, he’d asked her to return to Stagecoach to run his rodeo-production company.

The phone call had been the first time her father had reached out to her since her mother’s death and the hurt, abandoned little girl in Rachel had yearned to shout, “No!”

But Rachel wasn’t a child. She was a grown woman with a successful career as a high school psychologist and athletic trainer. On a daily basis she dealt with teenagers who struggled with anger-management issues, eating disorders, physical disabilities and social adjustment problems. Too bad her background in psychology did nothing to ease the anger and hurt that had festered inside her the past twenty-two years. Her immature reaction to her father’s request had triggered a bout of serious soul-searching.

Deep down she yearned to be needed by her father because he loved her—not because he wanted her to manage his business. Dare she hope P.T.’s call for help signaled a desire to mend their relationship? After several sleepless nights Rachel had acknowledged she wasn’t certain she was able or even willing to forgive her father for choosing not to be involved in her life. In the end, his health had convinced her to attempt reconciliation.

P.T. was all the family Rachel had left, but she hesitated about becoming too close to him when a chance existed that he wouldn’t beat his cancer. All these years she’d struggled to accept her father’s disregard. If she opened her heart to him and then he didn’t survive… How would she endure losing her father twice in one lifetime?

I wish you were here to help me, Aunt Edith.

Rachel loved her aunt for all the sacrifices the woman had made in raising Rachel. Aunt Edith was the sole reason Rachel had survived her father’s absence through the years. Her aunt had never openly criticized her brother for neglecting his only child but Rachel had eavesdropped on phone conversations through the years and overheard Aunt Edith reprimand her brother for not visiting Rachel or speaking with her on the phone.

Relax. It’s not as if you’re going to a job interview. She might as well be. For all intents and purposes, P.T. was a stranger to her.

Turn around and go home. Say you changed your mind. Not after driving over twenty-five hundred miles and crossing thirteen states in three and a half days.

Needing to mentally prepare herself for seeing her father, Rachel had chosen to drive rather than fly to Arizona. The last meeting with P.T. had been at her aunt’s funeral two years ago. He’d stayed one night at a hotel then departed the following morning.

The road curved around an outcropping of jagged rock and Rachel focused on her driving. After executing the turn, she had a split second to react to the roadblock in her lane. She slammed her foot on the brake, wincing as the seat belt bit into her skin. Fear of crashing into the rock wall on her right or skidding off the shoulder on her left prevented Rachel from swerving. She squeezed her eyes closed then sent a silent prayer heavenward.

Screeching tires on asphalt filled Rachel’s ears and the smell of burning rubber spewed from the air-conditioning vents. Not more than a few seconds had passed before the car rocked to a halt. Fingers fused to the steering wheel, it took a moment for her to realize she hadn’t hit the big, brown blob. Relieved, she exhaled and opened her eyes.

Oh…my…God. Was that a bull drooling on the hood of her silver Prius? She scanned the horizon. Where was a cowboy when you needed one?

Rachel laid on the horn but instead of moving, the stubborn animal blew snot on her windshield. “It’s going to be like that, is it?” She should put the car in Reverse, then drive past the ugly beast, but she couldn’t take the chance that another vehicle might hit the animal. Intent on coaxing the bull off the road, she set the parking brake and got out. Keeping the driver-side door between her and the bull, she waved her hands in the air. “Git! Scoot!”

A stare down ensued.

While Rachel contemplated her next move, a horn blasted in the distance. Shielding her gaze from the afternoon sun, she spotted a truck barreling along a rocky incline, kicking up a dust storm that would put a tornado to shame. The driver skillfully maneuvered the vehicle through a maze of rocks and prickly pear cacti before stopping at the edge of the road. He leaped from the truck. “You didn’t hit him, did you?”

Ignoring his question, she asked, “Does this dumb animal belong to you?”

The cowboy was older than Rachel by a few years. Lines bracketed his mouth and fanned from the corners of his eyes, attesting to a life working in the desert. A little over six feet, his broad shoulders hinted at plenty of muscle beneath his long-sleeved blue cotton shirt. Rachel doubted there was a woman on earth who wouldn’t feel protected and safe with this man’s arms wrapped around her.

He stopped next to the bull and bent at the waist, flashing his sexy backside at her. The Wrangler jeans fit his tight… She cleared her throat, miffed that the cowboy appeared more concerned with the bull than her. “Aren’t you going to ask if I’m all right?”

His brown-eyed gaze traveled over her body. “You don’t appear as shaken as Curly.”

How would he know if the bull was upset or not? “Curly looks fine to me.”

“The tire’s resting on his hoof.”

“Oh, no!” Forgetting her safety, Rachel rushed to the front of the car only to discover the tire was nowhere near the bull’s hoof. “Your sense of humor stinks, mister.”

He grinned and Rachel’s heart jolted. His crooked smile highlighted a sexy dimple in his cheek, and gorgeous teeth, which appeared unnaturally white against his tanned face. Stuck in cowboy-ogle land, Rachel gaped.

“Sorry.” He removed his Stetson and scratched his head. “Couldn’t resist teasing you.” He wore his dark hair neatly trimmed—the no-nonsense style at odds with the twinkle in his brown eyes.

“You’ve been out in the sun too long and the heat has baked your brain.” Rachel perched her hands on her hips. “Are you going to move this bull off the road?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Well, ma’am, if you have a gadget in your car I can use to…”

After he’d called her ma’am Rachel hadn’t heard a word he’d said. “How old do you think I am?”

“Pardon?”

“You called me ma’am.”

There went his grin again…stealing the oxygen from her lungs. “We cowboys use that term loosely.”

Irritated by his cocky attitude she said, “I’m twenty-seven.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Good grief. She glanced at her watch. “How long is this going to take?”

“Curly’s stubborn. He won’t budge until he’s good ’n’ ready.”

“If the bull is that difficult why isn’t he contained behind a fence?”

“Mating season.” The man’s cheeks turned ruddy. “Every so often Curly succumbs to nature’s call and busts through the fence to get to his girlfriend.”

Males and their damned urges. “Sounds like Curly needs an owner who’s smarter than him.”

Her barb didn’t faze him. “Like I said before, Curly’s—”

“Stubborn.” So was Rachel. She pushed the cowboy out of her way then shoved the bull’s rump with both hands. The big nuisance turned his head and stared at her.

The cowboy smirked.

“Least you could do is help,” Rachel snapped.

His grin widened.

“Maybe Curly needs a little encouragement.” She hopped into the driver’s seat and started the engine, swallowing a chuckle when the cowboy’s mouth sagged open. Rachel shifted into Drive, then slowly—very slowly—lifted her foot off the brake. The car rocked forward, bumping the bull’s side. The beast didn’t move. She pressed the tip of her toe against the gas but the bull stood solid. Frustrated, she laid on the horn. Curly didn’t bat an eyelash but the cowboy almost jumped out of his boots.

As far as Clint was concerned the uppity lady had no sense of humor. He should have guessed as much by the car she drove—one of them silly hybrids. Shoot, she was probably a vegetarian because beef came from cattle and bovines polluted the air with methane gas. Even so, she had the most beautiful mouth—when it wasn’t sassing him. Full lips painted with a sparkly pink gloss that begged for a man’s kiss.

He walked to the driver’s side and waited for her to lower the window. “You got a fly swatter or an umbrella?” He had plenty of gizmos in his truck but he wasn’t in a rush to go anywhere.

“What do you need…never mind.” She shut off the car then leaned over the front seat and rummaged through a shopping bag on the floor, offering Clint a bird’s-eye view of her firm fanny.

Too bad the lady was so uptight or he might be interested in learning her final destination. He hadn’t seen a ring on her finger but he’d noticed plenty more. A large clip secured a mass of wavy blond hair to her head. Several strands escaped the sexy pile, softening her face. Khaki shorts showed off pale legs—toned in all the right places—and a sleeveless shirt hugged her small breasts. He wished she’d take off her sunglasses so he could see the color of her eyes. It had been a long while since he’d come upon a woman who’d snagged his interest. A shame she was a snoot.

“Here it is.” She produced a plastic back scratcher painted to resemble a saguaro cactus. She’d probably purchased the cheesy souvenir at one of several tourist stands scattered along the highway.

“That’ll work.” His fingers bumped hers when he grabbed the scratcher, and a warm sensation shot up his arm. He attributed his reaction to the female dry spell he was experiencing. He’d lost track of when he and Monica had parted ways—must have been months ago if his body found a prissy woman in a Prius attractive.

“Need help?” she asked, getting out of the car.

“No. Stand back.”

“What do you plan to do?” She retreated half a step. “Scratch Curly’s back until he moves off the road?”

You don’t know the half of it, lady. Not wishing to offend her feminine sensibilities, Clint said, “Wait behind the car.”

“I doubt whacking that bull on the butt will make him aggressive.” She did an about-face and retreated.

“I’m not whacking him. I’m tickling Curly.”

“What nonsense. If there was a blasted cell tower somewhere in this desert I’d contact the highway patrol.”

Clint patted Curly’s head. “You’ve heard of horse whisperers, haven’t you? Bull-whispering isn’t much different.” He chuckled as he moved the scratcher along Curly’s flank…lower over the bull’s stomach…backward toward his testicles… He heard a gasp but remained focused in case the bull kicked out.

“Are you doing what I think you’re doing?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“You want Curly to move out of the way or not?”

“I don’t see how scratching his you-know-whats is going to—”

Right then Curly swung his massive head and bellowed. A second later he stood on his hind legs and slammed his front hooves onto the hood of the car. A short scream followed by a strangled gasp accompanied Curly’s grunts.

As soon as the bull found relief, he backed away from the Prius, leaving his hoof prints embedded in the car.

“Go on home, Curly!” The sated bull trotted into the desert, following the same path Clint had taken to reach the road. Satisfied the bull was headed to the ranch, Clint turned his attention to the woman in a stunned stupor.

“If you give me your name and number I’ll make arrangements with my insurance company to pay to have the dents pounded out of the hood.”

“Never mind.”

Clint fished his wallet from his back pocket and removed a business card. “If you change your—”

“I won’t.” She hopped into the front seat and shut the door.

Keeping a straight face he held out the plastic souvenir. “You forgot your back scratcher.”

Rachel hit the gas and sped off. She checked the rearview mirror and caught the cowboy tipping his hat to her. “Of all the nerve…” The arrogant man hadn’t even apologized for the trouble his sex-crazed bull had caused.

If all Arizona had to offer was horny bulls and worthless cowboys then maybe her father had done her a favor when he’d banished her to the East Coast to live with her aunt. Oh, who was she kidding? Males were the same everywhere. Her ex-fiancé had taught her that men were only loyal to their own wants and needs.

Her thoughts shifted to P.T. He’d never remarried after her mother had passed away. What kind of woman would she have become if she’d been raised on a ranch by a single father? More likely than not Rachel would have grown up a tomboy and become a cowgirl. The image made her shudder.

She studied the scrubby landscape racing past the car window. The hostile desert appeared forbidding and forlorn. The cowboy had probably befriended Curly to avoid going insane with loneliness.

Stagecoach, Arizona

Playground of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid

Through the years, Aunt Edith had regaled her with stories about her birthplace in an attempt to help Rachel bond with P.T. If her father had shown the slightest interest in being an involved parent she might have listened more closely to her aunt’s tales.

One mile later, Rachel slowed the car as she entered the town of Stagecoach, thirty-five miles southeast of Yuma. The main drag consisted of four blocks of businesses, stucco ranch homes and double-wide trailers. Landscaping was nonexistent, save for the thorny weeds that sprouted from dirt yards. Rachel counted three bars—nothing better to do than drink when scorching temperatures forced you inside during the day.

She drove past Mel’s Barber Shop and the Bee Luv Lee Beauty Salon. Rachel searched for places to eat—José’s Mexican Diner, Burger Hut and Vern’s Drive-In. An antiques business sat across the street from José’s, the front yard crowded with junk. Rachel pulled into a Chevron gas station advertising dollar hot dogs and a free coffee with a fill up. She topped off the tank and ran the car through the wash, then passed a Wells Fargo Savings and Loan on the way out of town.

Rachel increased the volume on her GPS and waited for Australian Karen’s next commands. The down-under voice instructed Rachel to turn left onto Star Road, which led to her father’s home—Five Star Ranch. The Prius bumped along the gravel path and she cursed the orange dust that stuck to the still-wet car. When she reached the top of a hill she applied the brakes and lowered the window. The desert-scented air failed to trigger a memory of the barn and corrals shaded by mesquite trees.

Five Star Ranch was a rough-stock sanctuary where retired rodeo broncs and bulls grazed away their remaining years. Rachel had difficulty reconciling the man who’d given her away with the man who possessed a soft spot for the fierce athletic animals.

Tears burned her eyes and she wiped angrily at her cheeks. P.T. didn’t deserve tears. She closed the window and drove on. She knew next to nothing about rodeos or producing one, but P.T. had assured her that she only needed to make a few phone calls to keep the business running. If the task were that simple, why wasn’t the ranch foreman assigned the responsibility?

Her stomach clenched as she contemplated her father’s motive in bringing her to Arizona. Was his cancer more advanced than he’d let on? Was her visit a final goodbye? No matter P.T.’s reasons, Rachel intended to prove she was capable of handling his company. After the final rodeo in August she’d return to Rhode Island with a clear conscience, knowing she’d helped her father when he hadn’t deserved any consideration from her.

Rachel parked in the ranch yard, but kept the car running as she studied the hacienda-style adobe home with Santa Fe accents. The cream-colored structure sported a clay-tiled roof and there appeared to be an enclosed courtyard at the rear of the home. Brown beams protruded near the top of the exterior, suggesting the wood extended throughout the home, providing structural support. The front door had been stained to match the beams.

She perused the yard—if one could call gravel and dirt a yard. She tried to envision herself as a five-year-old playing next to the two giant saguaro cacti—one with a rotting arm. The other was filled with holes—birds’ nests. Paloverde trees in various stages of growth provided mottled shade, and a black cat sat next to a large succulent, its swishing tail sending puffs of dust into the air.

That her father owned a nice home and over two-hundred-fifty acres of scrubland didn’t surprise her. P.T. had sent Aunt Edith a handsome monthly sum to care for Rachel as well as paying Rachel’s college tuition. Guilt money. P.T. hadn’t deserted Rachel financially—just emotionally.

The front door opened and P.T.’s shadow darkened the entryway. She hadn’t expected to be greeted with balloons or party streamers but a smile would have been welcome.

“Here goes nothing.” She shut off the car engine and got out. Halfway up the stone path her father stepped outside. P.T. appeared slimmer than she’d remembered from her aunt’s funeral. His large gut had shrunk and his broad shoulders caved in toward his chest. His once-dark-gold hair was saturated with gray. P. T. Lewis looked…old. Older than his fifty-six years.

Someone had to speak first. “Hello, Dad.”

“Rachel.” He motioned to the Prius. “Do you need help with your luggage?”

“No, thanks,” she said. Her father wasn’t in any shape to tote heavy suitcases.

“Your trip was uneventful, I hope?”

“Pretty much.” Except for Curly and an ill-humored cowboy.

“C’mon inside. I doubt you remember the place.”

Like he’d done twenty-two years ago, Phillip Todd Lewis turned his back on her and walked away.