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,
