Arizona Cowboy. Marin Thomas

       “I’m sorry things didn’t work out the way you wanted.” Although Lauren had become an adult a month ago, the apartment she shared with her mother wasn’t in the safest area of L.A. and he and Liz agreed that the best place for Lauren this summer was at the ranch.

       Hoping to goad his daughter into a better mood, he said, “I’ll pay to have your hair done while we’re in Yuma.”

       “No one’s touching my hair.”

       When Clint had fetched Lauren in L.A., his jaw had dropped to the ground at the sight of her neon-pink hair and piercings—a silver hoop in her eyebrow and a fake-diamond stud in her nose. Deciding the best course of action was no comment, he retreated to the kitchen and washed the previous days’ dishes left in the sink.

       “If I drive into Yuma with you, I want a Caramel Frappuccino at Starbucks,” Lauren said from the kitchen doorway.

       Didn’t his daughter own a pair of shorts longer than two inches? He studied her outfit, careful to keep his expression neutral. At least her T-shirt wasn’t ripped or torn. “Did you pack any jeans this summer?”

       “Only stupid people wear long pants when it’s over a hundred degrees.”

       “Are you calling your father stupid?”

       Eye roll. “You know what I mean.” Lauren helped herself to a bottle of apple juice in the fridge, then sat at the table and stared into space.

       Clint dried the dishes, wondering if he and his daughter would ever have a conversation that didn’t turn into an argument. They’d bickered more in the past two weeks than they had the past eighteen years. He glanced at the wall clock. He had a few minutes to blow before his chat with P.T. “Have you decided what you want to do after you graduate from high school?”

       “Most of my friends are going off to universities or enrolling in community colleges.”

       Clint joined her at the table.

       “I’d like to go away to college. Maybe study green technology.”

      Whoa. Where had that come from? The term green technology brought back memories of the pretty blonde Curly had tangled with.

       “My chemistry teacher, Mrs. Benton, taught a unit on cutting-edge technology. She said lots of jobs in the future are going to be tied to green energy.”

       “Sounds interesting.” And way over Clint’s head.

       “Mrs. Benton said green jobs pay well.”

       “You’re a smart girl.” His comment erased the frown line across Lauren’s forehead.

       “You think so?”

       Why did she act surprised? “You’ll be successful at whatever career you choose.”

       She opened her mouth then snapped it shut.

       “What?”

       “Mom said you don’t like to talk about your childhood.”

       “She’s right, I don’t.” Clint had lost count of the foster homes he’d been raised in—some decent, but most best forgotten.

       “How come you didn’t go to college?” she asked.

       “Got sidetracked by rodeo.” Because P.T. owned a rodeo-production company, Clint had taken a liking to the sport. Rodeo had given Clint a worthy goal to focus on and a way to put the pain of a lonely childhood behind him and find his own identity.

       “Mom said you rode bulls.”

       Hadn’t he discussed his rodeo days with Lauren? He and his daughter really were strangers. “I rode a few broncs, but mostly bulls.”

       “Did you get injured a lot?”

       “Enough.” Clint wiggled the crooked pinkie on his left hand. He neglected to tell Lauren that he’d continued to compete with the broken finger and as a result the bone had never healed properly.

       “Cowboys who rodeo are crazy.”

       “Teens who dye their hair neon-pink are crazy.” The comment tugged a smile from his daughter.

       “Why’d you quit rodeo?” she asked.

       “Got too old.” Thirty was old by rodeo standards. “After I retired from competing, I became a bullfighter.”

       “What’s that?”

       Happy Lauren appeared interested in his past, Clint looked for ways to draw out the discussion. “A bullfighter protects a fallen cowboy by distracting the bull.”

       “Isn’t that dangerous?”

       “Yep, but in all the years I worked as a bullfighter I only got gored once.”

       “Was it bad?”

       “Split my thigh from knee to hip. Luckily, the wound wasn’t deep.” Afterward, P.T. had convinced Clint to quit bullfighting and become the official foreman of Five Star Ranch. By then, Clint had been more than ready to retire his bright-colored jersey, shorts and socks.

       “The worst injury I ever suffered was a sprained ankle during badminton practice. I had to use crutches for a week before I could put weight on my foot.”

       “Sprains can be tricky.” Neither Liz nor Lauren had shared that incident with Clint. How many other events in his daughter’s life had he never known about? He headed for the door. “I’d better go. P.T.’s waiting.”

       “Is P.T. okay?”

       “He’s fine.” Lauren knew about the old man’s cancer and felt sorry for him. Clint was relieved that beneath his daughter’s disgruntled, unhappy exterior resided a sympathetic heart. “P.T. wants to discuss the summer’s rodeo schedule.”

       Lauren sat straighter in the chair. “Does this mean I have to go to the rodeos with you?”

       “Looks that way.” Clint grabbed his hat from the hook by the back door.

       “Cool.”

       Her comment brought Clint up short. “I thought you couldn’t stand cowboys and ranching.”

       “Some of the cowboys are cute.”

       Even though his gut insisted his wayward daughter wasn’t a virgin, the last thing he wanted to deal with this summer was his daughter’s love life. “We leave for Yuma in an hour.”

      RACHEL STOOD IN HER father’s foyer searching for the right words to break the tension. She settled on… “Your home is beautiful.”

       “I expect you don’t remember living here.”

       “No, I don’t,” she said, refusing to lie. She motioned to the terra-cotta tile. “I like the floor.”

       “The kitchen’s in the back.” P.T. cut through a great room with an adobe fireplace and chunky furnishings—cowboy furniture. The kitchen was large and airy. A colorful mosaic-tile backsplash in deep gold, blue and red popped against the whitewashed walls. The cabinets were a dark distressed wood—the space above them held an array of brightly painted metal roosters. A wooden chopping block served as an island. P.T. caught Rachel studying the décor. “Anne—” he cleared his throat “—your mother had a rooster fetish.”

       “I like them.” Rachel wondered if the bold, colorful fowl were indicative of her mother’s personality.

       “This was Anne’s favorite room in the house.”

       The love in her father’s voice when he spoke of her mother pierced Rachel’s heart. Why couldn’t he offer her a smidgen of that affection? She shifted under his scrutiny.

       “You look like your mother,” P.T. said.

       Rachel had seen photos of Anne Lewis and agreed she was every inch her mother’s