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Thumper finally decided to walk, so Caro loosened the reins. Her horse dropped his head, his sides expanding and contracting as he fought to catch his breath. She breathed heavily, too, the adrenaline of running barrels a high that never ceased.
And there he was.
She stiffened in the saddle. The man blocked her path. How had he got into the competitors’ area?
“Caroline Sheppard?” he asked.
Green. His eyes were green, not black, after all. A soul-piercing, breath-stealing green. The guy looked up at her as if he owned her—and in a way he did. Tyler Harrison, she realized. Owner of Harrison’s Boots. The Harrison name was synonymous with quality boots, recognized the world over. The name was also on every piece of equipment she owned: her saddle pad, her horse trailer, her truck. Harrison’s was her sponsor, and she could tell by those eyes that Tyler Harrison was seriously displeased.
Maybe she should have returned his calls—all ten of them.
She was stunning.
Ty had known that. When his PR department had shown him pictures of her all those months ago, he’d realized immediately what a gold mine they’d have if she made it to the Wranglers National Finals Rodeo—the NFR. And here she was, just a few weeks away from doing that very thing.
But what the photographs hadn’t told him was that in person her hair was as gold as summer wheat. And that her grayish-blue eyes glowed with passion. Sitting on her horse earlier, the black-and-white gelding doing his best to unseat her, she’d looked magnificent. Like something out of the Old West: fearless, proud, determined. Ty had been unable to keep from staring at her as she’d rode her pattern, flawlessly guiding her horse around all three barrels.
She excited him.
He hadn’t expected that, wondered if it might be a problem. But, no, he quickly reassured himself. It wouldn’t be. He was good at keeping his head on straight when it came to business matters, and he definitely had business with Ms. Sheppard.
“Mr. Harrison,” she said, with a smile that could only be called impatient. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming to New York?”
She’d recognized him. Surprising. They’d never met, although he supposed his picture had appeared in enough western magazines that she might have seen his photo a time or two.
“You know why I didn’t tell you I’d be here.”
She looked guilty, then contrite and finally amused. “You going to arrest me then?” she asked. “Am I in trouble for failure to return a sponsor’s calls?”
“Your horse looks as if he needs cooling down,” he answered brusquely, unwilling to play along. He was still peeved. They’d spent thousands of dollars supporting her rodeo career this year. The least she could have done was call them back. But they’d been trying to track her down for weeks. Rodeo performers, he’d learned, were as fickle as the wind. They could enter two, three, sometimes five rodeos a weekend—but they didn’t always show up at them. Figuring out which ones Caroline Sheppard had entered had been like throwing darts at a board.
“Let me slide off,” she said, dropping her reins before swinging her right leg over the saddle and slipping to the ground.
She was tiny. When he’d seen her out in the arena, her lithe body clinging to her horse, blond hair streaming behind her like the tail of the horse she rode, she’d looked tall. But clearly that had been an illusion. Standing beside him, she barely came to Ty’s shoulder.
“Look,” she said, “I’ve been busy. Making it to the NFR is the most important thing in the world to me.”
“More important than your sponsor?”
She winced, patting her horse’s neck as they went through an opening in the pipe panels. “I don’t really have time to go off and film a commercial or talk to reporters or whatever else you have planned for me.”
“It’s part of the contract,” he said, resisting the urge to add that she was currently in breach of that contract.
“I know that,” she said, pausing for a second along the rail. “But can’t we do it later?”
“No, we need you to film the commercial now. Before you make it to the NFR.”
“If I make it.”
“You will.”
“Not if I’m off filming a commercial.”
She stumbled on a clod of dirt. He steadied her.
Mistake.
“Thank you,” she said.
He released her, clenching his hands afterward.
“The dirt they truck in for a rodeo is never any good,” she said. “It clumps together like kitty litter.”
“I see that,” he murmured.
He’d wanted to meet her face to face he suddenly realized. Had been fascinated by her photo. After watching her ride, he found his interest had only grown.
“We’ll do everything we can to make this easy on you,” he said. “We’re not asking you to fly off and film the commercial at a different location. We’ll come to you. We just need a few hours of your time.”
She watched a horse and rider walk by. Ty followed suit, their gazes meeting again as she said, “Just a few hours.” Her shoulder brushed her horse’s neck.
She was beyond pretty, he thought. Gorgeous was a more apt word. And as he stared down at her, the idea popped into his head that perhaps his interest in her was bordering on personal.
“Will you commit to that?” he asked.
“Sounds like I don’t have a choice.”
They’d made it to the warm-up arena he’d been watching her in earlier. She stopped outside the gate.
“You’re right. You don’t,” he said, out of patience. “The NFR is in less than a month. We need to get the commercial in the can well before then.”
She didn’t say anything, just continued to appear irritated.
“When do you have to leave for your next rodeo?” he asked, pulling out his Blackberry.
She let loose a long-suffering sigh. “I’ll be in Louisiana on Saturday.”
He checked his schedule. “Then I guess Louisiana it is.”
She shook her head, fiddling with the reins. “Saturday morning. That would be the best time. Before the rodeo starts.”
“Saturday,” he said. “I’ll see you there.”
Chapter Two
I’ll see you there.
Caro replayed the words during the long drive to Louisiana. She kept hoping the damn man would call to cancel. Instead, all she’d received was a message from his director informing her that they’d be on location by Friday so they could “get the commercial in the can” on Saturday.
Terrific.
The last thing she wanted, or needed, was a bunch of people getting in her way—not to mention one bossy, overbearing man—while trying to qualify for the NFR. Granted, Tyler Harrison had good reason to be upset with her. Once he’d walked away she’d realized she had no one but herself to blame for her current predicament—but that didn’t mean she had to like it. Filming a commercial now would be a serious distraction, not to mention, inconvenient. Not only was she set to ride in Louisiana, but she was also competing the same weekend in Houston, at a non-PRCA rodeo, which meant once she finished riding in Lousiana, she’d have to pull up anchor and drive.
“Hey, Caro,” Mike, one of the best team ropers she knew, called out after she’d pulled into the Louisiana sports complex. He grinned and waved, his big belly hanging over his belt buckle. “Heard you’re gonna be a TV star.”
Caro slid out of her truck, slamming the door with more force than necessary. She’d parked in the livestock area, out behind the arena. The afternoon sunshine refracted off the polished aluminum of her trailer, causing her to squint in discomfort. She wasn’t scheduled to compete until tomorrow afternoon’s slack, but there was still plenty to do today. She had to unload the horses, bed them in their stalls, feed and water them. Then she needed to ride, maybe even offer to ride horses for other people—an easy way to make an extra buck. Despite her big-name sponsor, she was still always short on cash.
“Yeah,” she said, stopping alongside her trailer. She had all three barred windows open to let her horses peer out, their nostrils flaring as they took in the new surroundings. “And I can’t wait,” she muttered sarcastically.
Mike hugged her to his side. The big man had always treated her like a younger sister since their days riding the college circuit together. He all but tickled her ribs before letting her go.
“Aww,” he said, tipping his tan hat back, breaking into a jowly smile. “You’ll do great.”
“Don’t know about that.” And to be honest, she didn’t know; she was nervous about the whole thing. Funny, she hadn’t realized it until that very moment.
She watched as Mike ducked into his trailer. One of the horses inside her rig nickered—probably Classy, her second-string barrel horse. A chain inside Mike’s trailer rattled, then came the unmistakable sound of a horse backing out, the heavy clumping of hooves like multiple strikes of a rubber mallet. A big-shouldered chestnut appeared, rear end first, and then Mike himself.
“Who’s this?” she asked.
“Terminator.”
“Excuse me?”
Mike’s blue eyes twinkled. “The guy that used to own him called him that because he’s so big muscled—like Arnold Schwarzenegger.”
Caro just shook her head.
“But back to your commercial,” Mike said, sliding his hand down his horse’s leg. No doubt he was checking for heat or swelling, since horses sometimes injured themselves in trailers. “You’ve done Harrison’s Boots a favor by signing on as their spokesperson. With your looks, all you’ll have to do is smile to sell their new line of western boots.” He straightened, still holding the end of the lead rope. “But it sure looks like a major production over there. Heard a few of the guys complaining, but I guess when you’re a big-name company like Harrison’s, you can pull a few strings.”
“Major production?” Caro asked.
“There’s a bunch of television equipment out by the practice pen. Someone told me it was for your commercial.”
“Really?”
Mike tipped his head toward the arena out beyond the portable stables. “Go on over there and check it out.”
“I think I will,” she said, patting the trailer. “Keep an eye on the guys for me, will you?”
“Sure thing,” Mike said, squatting down to check his horse’s other leg.
She had to walk through a sea of horse trailers, and then the portable stalls. The white canvas lining them appeared almost gray in the shadow of the big building. When she rounded the end of the aisle, she halted in her tracks. “Holy—!” she muttered.
On the other side of the arena, scaffolding held various lights and film equipment, among other equipment she didn’t recognize. But it wasn’t just that. No. There was snow on the ground, or what looked to be snow. It covered the blacktop—piles of it heaped up, with fake pine trees stuck in it. Every horse in the area was fussing and snorting. A few animals refused to walk forward when they caught sight of not just the snow, but the men and women working up on the scaffolding. To horses, those people probably look like giant, equine-eating monsters.
“What are you doing?” she asked the first person she came across, a tall man wearing a dark suit, his head tipped back as he looked up at the scaffolding.
“Ms. Sheppard,” he said, turning, some undefined emotion flickering for a second in his green eyes. “When did you arrive?”
Tyler Harrison. She had to work hard to keep her surprise from showing. Today he appeared almost intimidating in his dark gray suit and tie.
“Mr. Harrison,” she said. “I, uh, I just got here.”
“You’re early.”
“Yeah. I was on the road by 5:00 a.m.”
“Well, I’m glad you arrived safely. I just got here myself.”
“You might not be so glad when you hear what I have to say.”
“Are you unable to do the commercial?” he asked, the space between his eyebrows pushing together.
“No, no. It’s not that. It’s just that you’re scaring every horse within a fifty-mile radius.”
“Excuse me?”
She pointed with her thumb. “Look at them.”
He peered through the myriad equipment. Several horses in the arena were snorting, a few of them sidestepping. Granted, a couple were loping around as if it was no big deal, but the less seasoned animals were definitely acting up.
“I see what you mean,” he said. “To be honest, when I saw the location of the set, I wondered if that might be a problem.”
“Mr. Harrison?” A small man in a red 49ers cap appeared. The acne on his face proclaimed him to be barely out of puberty. “We’re ready to test the snow blower.”
“The snow—” Caro shook her head. “You can’t shoot fake snow into the air. That’ll only make things worse. Someone’ll get dumped the minute you turn that thing on,” she added.
He glanced toward the arena, the wrinkles between his eyebrows deepening. “I’ve no doubt you’re right, so we’ll wait to test it until nobody’s in the arena.” Tyler turned to the snowblower guy. “Give me a second.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Harrison.”
“This arena will never be empty,” Caro said, watching as the man walked off. When she glanced back at Harrison, she caught him staring at her chest. Instantly, her hackles rose. She hated when men ogled her breasts, which were embarrassingly large, given her small frame. She was just about to give him a piece of her mind when she realized he was reading her T-shirt, at least judging by the smirk on his face.
Cowboys Are Like the Circus: Too Many Clowns, Not Enough Rings.
He met her gaze again, one eyebrow arched.
“People ride their horses here at every time of the day,” Caro added, blushing. Well, now he knew how she felt about cowboys. Actually, not just cowboys, but men in general. “There’ll be competitors rolling in from every part of the country, at all hours. But it’s not just the horses and riders. What about the livestock?” She pointed to the pipe pens not far away, where bulls and steers were calling out to each other. “You’ll set them off, too.”
“Then we’ll film after the rodeo tomorrow. Surely the animals and competitors will be loaded up and gone by then.”
The enormity of his ignorance astounded her. She had no idea why she’d thought he knew anything about the sport. Because he seemed so in charge of everything, she’d assumed he’d done his research. Apparently, that wasn’t the case.
“This rodeo is three days long. It starts tonight and goes on through Sunday.”
“But you said you perform tomorrow.”
“I do. But there’s also slack. That’s a part of the rodeo fans don’t get to watch. So you have that going on in the early afternoons and then performances in the evening. The livestock will be here though Sunday, maybe even Monday, depending on the stock contractors.”
