Marin Thomas - Arizona Cowboy

“Enough talk about hair. Are you ready to head into Yuma?” Clint asked Lauren.

“Do you want to come, Rachel? Yuma’s a decent-size town with name-brand stores. There’s a Starbucks—”

“I doubt—”

“I’d love to go.” Rachel cut off Clint’s objection. Love was stretching it, but she was determined to show Clint that she didn’t intimidate easily.

“Might as well follow in your car,” Clint said. “We’ll drop it off at the repair shop.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Rachel faced angry teenagers on a daily basis, so handling a good-looking, disgruntled cowboy should be a piece of cake.

Or not.

“SHE GETS MY HAIR,” Lauren said to Clint as they waited in his truck outside Mel’s Auto Repair in Yuma.

Rachel had been discussing repairs with Mel for the past fifteen minutes. “Her opinion doesn’t count.” His gaze shifted to the side mirror on the driver’s door. As far as women went, Rachel was damn easy on the eyes, but too… Several adjectives came to mind—opinionated, self-assured, serious, uppity and educated.

“What do you have against Rachel?”

“Nothing,” Clint protested.

Lauren sipped her designer coffee. “I think she’s okay.”

What was taking Rachel so long? She probably believed Mel was trying to rip her off. The shop owner was a fair man and had worked on Clint’s truck twice—after the front fender had collided with a boulder and the back fender with a water tank. Rachel wouldn’t find a better deal anywhere. “Wait here.” He strode across the parking lot and entered the business.

“I refuse to leave my car without a written estimate.” Rachel pursed her mouth, the seductive pout drawing Clint’s gaze to her lips. He really wanted to discover for himself if the pink gloss tasted like cotton candy or bubble gum.

The mechanic sent Clint a pleading look. “Mel does the best work in the area. His prices are fair and he doesn’t overcharge for labor or parts.”

“That’s fine but I’m not letting him touch the Prius without a written estimate.”

“I’m swamped today, but I’ll contact Toyota tomorrow and find out how long it will take to order the paint,” Mel said. “Those sissy colors are hard to come by.”

Rachel glared. “He won’t stop mocking my car.”

Clint pressed his lips together to keep from chuckling.

“I want a second opinion on repairing the Prius.” Rachel stormed out the door. If she didn’t trust Clint’s advice about car repairs, he doubted she’d accept his suggestions on running P.T.’s rodeos.

“Whoo-wee. The little lady’s hell on wheels.”

“That’s Rachel Lewis, P.T.’s daughter.”

“Didn’t know P.T. had a daughter.” Mel shook his head. “I don’t mind working on her car. I could use the money.”

“She won’t find a better deal than your garage. We’ll be back.” An hour later, Clint parked the truck at Mel’s Auto Repair and Rachel pulled the Prius into a spot next to his truck and headed for the mechanic’s office.

Lauren groaned. “Oh, my God. Is Rachel ever going to make up her mind?”

“We’ll see.” Even though he’d vouched for Mel’s work, he admired Rachel’s thoroughness in comparing prices—wasteful spending drove him nuts.

Clint’s stomach growled. Lunch had been seven hours ago. “Where do you want to eat?”

“Chili’s. I like their Cajun pasta.”

“Maybe we should ask Rachel, since she’s a guest.” More guest than family, in his opinion. A few minutes later Rachel opened the passenger-side door and hopped into the truck.

“Any problems?” he asked.

“Mel’s charging an extra ten dollars.”

“What for?” Clint asked.

“He tacked on a nuisance fee.”

Clint stared and Lauren giggled.

“Laugh all you want but for the extra ten bucks I got a written estimate.” Rachel waved the piece of paper in the air.

“We’re going to Chili’s for supper. Is that okay with you?” Lauren asked.

“Sure. They’ve got decent salads,” Rachel said. “I try to avoid eating too much red meat.”

Go figure. P.T.’s daughter was a health nut. A half hour later, Rachel changed Clint’s mind when she ordered a salad with chicken meat and devoured her share of chips and salsa.

“More chips?” the waitress asked, stopping at their table.

“Sure.” Lauren handed over the empty basket.

“Don’t eat too many chips or you won’t finish your supper,” Clint said.

Lauren made a tsking sound. “I think I’m old enough to monitor my food intake.”

“Then you’d better finish your meal, since I’m paying for it.”

“If you’re going to make a big deal out of a few chips, I’ll pay for my supper.” Lauren tossed her napkin on the table and said, “Move. I have to use the bathroom.”

Clint slipped from the booth then exhaled loudly after his daughter walked off.

“You shouldn’t do that,” Rachel said.

“Do what?”

“Let your daughter disrespect you.”

Clint’s hackles rose. “Do you have children?”

“No.”

“Then you shouldn’t be doling out advice.”

“I work with angsty teenagers. You have to stand your ground and demand their respect or they’ll walk all over you.”

He opened his mouth to tell Rachel to mind her own business but was cut short when Lauren returned to the table. With half an ear he listened to the females chat, fuming over Rachel sticking her nose into his and Lauren’s business.

The check arrived and he insisted on paying for Rachel’s meal, even though she protested. When they hit the outskirts of Yuma, Lauren put in her earbuds and listened to music on her iPod. Clint focused on the road, ignoring Rachel’s stare. Ignoring the clean, fresh scent of her perfume was more difficult. It had been forever since he’d sat next to a nice-smelling female. Assuming she had more parenting suggestions to offer him, he said, “Spit it out.”

“Spit what out?”

“Whatever’s bugging you?” When she remained quiet, he said, “You’ve been staring at me since we left the restaurant.”

“We need to clear the air between us.”

“I didn’t know it was polluted.”

“Funny. I’m being serious.”

What was it with females—always overanalyzing or making a big deal out of nothing?

“You’re not comfortable with me running P.T.’s rodeo company.”

He should have known a woman with a psychology major would find a way inside his head. “P.T. has his reasons for choosing you.”

“But you don’t like me.”

He liked plenty about her physical appearance.

“There’s annoyance in your eyes when you look at me,” she said.

Really? Rachel must not have had much experience with men if she misinterpreted his appreciative glances as irritation. “I apologize for being rude.”

“I wasn’t asking for an apology.”

Jeez. Following the woman’s train of thought was like trailing Curly into the desert—he never knew which direction the bull might mosey. Honesty was the best course of action. “You want to clear the air? How about this—P.T. made a mistake handing over the reins to you.”

She stiffened. “You know nothing about me.”

Exactly. “Have you ever been to a rodeo?”

“No.”

“I rest my case,” he said.

“Just because I’ve never seen cowboys ride bucking stock doesn’t mean I lack business sense.”

“Do you have experience putting on large events?”

“I organized a fundraiser for the weight room at the high school. We collected four thousand dollars for new equipment.”

“You got any idea how much money is involved in producing a Five Star Rodeo?”

“No.”

“The average cost runs between a hundred-fifty and two hundred thousand dollars.”