Arizona Cowboy. Marin Thomas

“What’d you do to rile my dad?”

       Rachel spun then slapped her palm against her thudding heart. Where had the pink-haired girl come from?

       The teen smiled. “I get that kind of reaction a lot when people first see my hair.”

       “It’s very…colorful.”

       Tugging a strand of shoulder-length hair, the girl said, “It’s the same color as Avril Lavigne’s, only instead of highlights I colored my hair pink all over.” She blew a bubble with her gum. “You know who Avril Lavigne is, don’t you?”

       “Sure, I’ve heard of the singer.” Lots of girls in high school listened to the rock star’s music. Rachel pointed toward the house. “Clint’s your father?”

       “Yeah, lucky me.” She sighed. “I’m Lauren McGraw. Who are you?”

       “Rachel Lewis from Rhode Island.”

       “I didn’t know P.T. had a daughter. Cool.”

       Rachel’s thoughts whizzed in all directions. “How old are you?”

       “Eighteen. I’ll be a senior in high school this fall.”

       “I don’t recall seeing a high school when I drove through Stagecoach.”

       “There isn’t one. I live in Los Angeles with my mom, but she’s in Mexico with her new husband.” Lauren blew another bubble then swallowed it whole inside her mouth. “I’m stuck here until my mom returns from her honeymoon in August.” She didn’t appear happy with the situation.

       “You said you’ll be a senior this fall. Are you excited about graduating?”

       “I guess. First, I have to pass two killer courses, AP biology and pre-calculus.”

       The difficult classes confirmed a good brain beneath all the pink hair. Since the girl appeared willing to chat—unlike her father—Rachel said, “I work at a high school.”

       “What subject do you teach?”

       “I’m not a teacher. I’m a school psychologist.”

       “Whoa!” Lauren raised her hands in the air and backed up a step. “Did my dad ask you to come here?”

       Caught off guard by the outburst Rachel asked, “What do you mean?”

       “He thinks because I dyed my hair pink and pierced my eyebrow and nose that I’m going to join a gang or start doing drugs. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To—” Lauren made quote signs in the air “—straighten me out.”

       “I’m not here to straighten anyone out. P.T. asked me to help with his rodeos while he’s in Phoenix.”

       Rachel’s statement knocked the wind out of Lauren’s sails. “Really? ’Cause I wouldn’t put it past my dad to—”

       “Put what past me?” Clint asked.

       Lauren pointed at Rachel. “She’s a shrink.”

       “So?”

       “I’m not letting her inside my head no matter what you or she thinks about my hair color.”

       “I don’t mind the pink.” Rachel ignored Clint’s shocked stare. “I’m all in favor of individuality.” Most teens experimented with different identities until they found where they fit in best.

       “I might add neon-green highlights before school starts. Avril did that once and she looked—”

       “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.”