“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?”
“Because of my age they believe this is the best way for now.”
Her father was fifty-six. She guessed he was still sexually active…don’t go there. “And the doctors are positive the cancer hasn’t spread?”
“They’ll do more tests once I check into the clinic in Phoenix.”
Rachel worried about P.T. having to undergo a battery of procedures even though the tests were necessary for the doctors to determine the best course of treatment. “I could stay with you in Phoenix.” As soon as the words left her mouth, she wanted to snatch them back. She hardly knew her father. Surely he wouldn’t want her involved in his personal business.
“I’ll be sitting on my duff doing nothing for weeks on end. I need you here.” He glanced at his watch. “As a matter of fact, I asked my foreman to meet with me this afternoon. Let’s head into my office and wait for him there.”
After setting her glass in the sink, Rachel trailed her father to the front of the house. They entered a room off the main foyer. Two leather chairs faced a massive desk littered with folders and loose papers. Was she expected to make heads or tails out of the mess? Before she asked the question the front door banged open.
“P.T., I can explain!” The frantic shout carried into the study.
Rachel pulled in a quick breath when she recognized the cowboy who burst into the room—the very same one whose blasted bull had dented the hood of her car.
No wonder her father had asked for her help this summer—if the ranch foreman couldn’t keep a bull behind a fence, then he had no business running Five Star Rodeos.
Chapter Three
Clint stopped on a dime in the hallway outside P.T.’s office and stared at the woman who’d terrorized Curly.
Blue. Her eyes were a transparent blue like the Arizona sky on a cloudless day. The only sign she was surprised to see him was the subtle arch of a light-brown eyebrow.
Of all the rotten luck. How had the blonde tracked down Curly’s home? She must have stopped in Stagecoach and asked questions. Shoot, every person within a hundred-mile radius of Five Star Ranch had butted heads with the bull on one occasion or another. Curly was a local legend.
“For God’s sake, Clint.” P.T. frowned. “What’s got you riled?”
Clint wanted to shout “her.” Instead, he said, “I can explain the dents in her—” sissified “—Prius.”
“You hit my daughter’s car?”
Daughter—as in the estranged Rachel P.T. rarely mentioned?
The woman whose sexy mouth he’d craved to taste a short while ago?
The woman who hadn’t bothered to visit her father once since Clint had lived at the ranch? That Rachel?
Why had she shown up now? Had she heard about her father’s cancer and felt guilty? Clint’s gut insisted he shouldn’t trust this woman. Caught up in staring at Rachel he remembered he hadn’t answered P.T.’s question. “Curly dented the hood of her car.”
“Blast it, Clint.” P.T. motioned to the empty chair in front of the desk and Clint slid onto the leather seat. “You’ve got to keep that bull locked up. One of these days he’ll roam onto the road and get someone killed.” P.T. swung his gaze to Rachel. “You weren’t injured, were you?”
“I’m fine.”
“Clint will see to it that your car gets fixed.”
Add auto repairs to the list of his duties this week. “I’m heading into Yuma later. I’ll stop by Mel’s place and make an appointment with the repair shop.”
“No rush,” P.T. said. “Rachel’s staying all summer.”
The bossy, no-sense-of-humor, sexy blonde was hanging around for three months?
You like her eyes.
True.
And she has great legs.
No argument there.
He wondered how long her hair was and if it was naturally blond or from a bottle.
“I plan to leave for Phoenix early in the morning,” P.T. said.
“You’ll be accompanying P.T. to Phoenix?” Clint spoke to Rachel.
“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
