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She saw Harrison’s eyes narrow. He glanced around, his chiseled jaw more pronounced from the side. He was handsome, if you were into city slickers. She wasn’t.
“I wasn’t aware of that,” he said.
“So I presume.” Terrific. Just what she needed. Not only would she be distracted by his film crew, but she’d have to educate Mr. Harrison, too.
“There’ll be people around here for hours. And if you turn on your snow machine, you’ll have a riot on your hands.”
“But we were told it was okay to film here.”
“Rodeo performers—or rodeo personnel—won’t care if you were given approval by the pope himself. And they’ll care even less when you start using fake-snow machines.”
“You’re probably right.”
Her shoulders stiffened when she saw Walt Provo, the rodeo’s manager, walking toward them, the series logo on his white shirt.
“Caroline,” he said, tipping his black hat.
“Walt.”
“You in charge here?” he asked her companion.
“Ty Harrison,” her sponsor said.
Ty? She wouldn’t have expected him to shorten his name, not with the way he looked and dressed. Like a Wall Street playboy. All he was missing was a pair of dark sunglasses.
“Mr. Harrison?” Walt said. “You one of the Harrison family?”
“I am.”
Walt didn’t seem very impressed, just nodded and said, “I’m Walt Provo. PRCA.”
Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association. Walt had worked for the organization as long as Caro could remember. The man was so wizened and stooped he resembled a candy cane stuck in a sugar cube standing there on top of the fake snow.
“Biodegradable rice flakes,” Ty said, following her gaze.
“Really?” she asked, surprised. It looked like fresh powder.
“Speaking of snow, we’ve had a few complaints,” Walt said.
“Caroline was just telling me that,” Ty said.
“Well, good. Then you know what the problem is.” Walt lifted his hands. “Before you say it, we know you were given permission by the facilities manager to film—” Walt’s radio squawked. He glanced down at the device on his belt and lowered the volume. “As I was saying. I know you were given permission to film here, but that’s typical. It’s the same story at every indoor sports venue. The city slickers who run the place don’t know squat, and tell people to do things willy-nilly, without giving a thought to the animals. We have to intervene from time to time—like now.”
“He has a snow machine,” Caro said. “He wants to blow his rice flakes around.”
“You have a what?” Walt asked, gray brows arching almost to the brim of his cowboy hat.
“Not over the whole set. Just right here, where Ms. Sheppard will be leading her horse for part of the commercial.” Ty pointed out a strip of pavement left pretty much uncovered, with bare asphalt peeking through. “The flakes come out of a hose, which we were attaching to the scaffolding up there,” he said, pointing above their heads. “It’ll look like it’s snowing when it’s on.”
Walt shook his head. “Not a good idea. Some of our animals might be used to television cameras, but I’ll wager none of them have seen rice flakes blown by a machine.”
“I see your point,” Ty said. Caro thought his eyes really were a pretty green. And intense. When he looked at her, she felt like he was seeing her through a telescope.
“Can you relocate farther away?” Walt asked.
“Negative,” he said, sounding every inch the executive. Definitely not her type.
“It took us half the morning to set up,” he said. “To move it would delay things beyond an acceptable parameter.” His gaze slid her way. “And we’re on a tight schedule.”
“Then I guess we’ll have to close the practice pen,” Walt said.
“But what about the people who still need to practice?” Caro asked. Like me.
“No worries,” he said. “Tonight’s slack doesn’t start for a few hours yet. We’ll move everyone inside for practice. You’ll have an hour until slack starts, to finish setting up. But once we let people back into the arena, you’ll need to stop moving things around.”
Caroline relaxed, at least until he opened his mouth again.
“Can you film your commercial now? It’d make it easier on everybody if we could get this over with today. Everything could get back to normal before the bulk of the competitors arrive.”
“Today?” Ty asked in obvious surprise, his expression no doubt mimicking her own. “That’s not doable. Not only are none of the camera crew on hand, the director isn’t due to arrive until later tonight.”
“I see.” Walt shook his head and sighed. “All right then, Mr. Harrison. We’ll do what we can to accommodate you.”
“Appreciate that, Mr. Provo.”
“Just out of curiosity, when were you planning on filming?” Walt asked.
“Tomorrow morning,” Ty said, at the same time as Caro.
“Early,” she added.
“Then I’ll be sure to alert management. I’ll have someone close the practice pen in a moment or two, and then early in the morning as well.”
“Sounds good,” Ty said.
“‘Preciate your cooperation, Mr. Harrison.” He tipped his hat, talking into his radio the moment he turned away.
“Wait,” Ty said. “If by some miracle I do manage to get everyone lined up, how do I get hold of you?”
Walt clipped his radio back at his waist. “Caro knows how to reach me. Just let me know.”
“There’s no way we can film today,” Caro said after Walt had gone. “I have horses to unload and ride.”
“I realize that,” Ty said. “But it sounds like Walt would be happier if we did it today. And to be honest, Ms. Sheppard, my director had doubts that we’d be able to finish up in one day, anyway. If that happens, and we film on Saturday, we might be forced to do a second shoot at another rodeo, and I doubt you’d want that.”
“No, but—”
“Let’s try to get this done today.”
“But I—”
“I’ll let you know.”
He turned away, striding over to the guy in the ball cap who, she suddenly realized, had been waiting there the whole time.
Damn it. She hated bossy, autocratic men.
It’s only a couple of hours, Caro. It’s not the end of the world.
But she had a feeling she’d be dealing with this bossy, autocratic man for way longer than a day.
Chapter Three
She didn’t look happy.
Ty told himself he shouldn’t care. Ultimately, Caroline Sheppard was responsible for their current predicament. If they were on a tight schedule it was her fault. And if they were forced to do the shoot today, she would just have to deal with it.
But he did care.
He hated playing the heavy. Especially with Caroline. And that perplexed him.
He glanced her way again. Guy—the key grip—was waiting for instructions about the snow machine. “We’ll have to wait to test it,” he said, his eyes following her progress back toward the barn, her loose, beautiful hair, which swayed back and forth with every step. “They want to clear the arena.”
“Roger,” Guy said. “We’ll keep working on the lighting.”
“No, don’t,” Ty told him, his eyes still on Caro. “Wait until they clear the arena.”
“Will do.”
Caroline rounded the end of the barn, out of sight. Remarkable woman, Ty found himself thinking. Gorgeous. A champion barrel racer. College valedictorian.
If they’d met under different circumstances, he might have considered pursuing her.
He reached for his cell phone. “Get me Bill Clement,” he ordered his executive assistant, Annie.
“Certainly, Mr. Harrison,” she said from their office in Cheyenne. Ten seconds later his cell phone rang.
“Mr. Clement,” he told his director, “we have a problem.”
It turned out Bill was already in town. Even better, he didn’t seem to mind changing his schedule to accommodate Harrison’s Boots—not surprising, given the amount of money they’d paid the man. The camera crew was a bit trickier, but money always helped to motivate people, and it worked in this instance, too. Like the director, they’d chosen to fly in the day before the shoot, which, given their tight parameters wasn’t all that surprising. Once their flight landed, Annie got ahold of them and set everything up.
They were in business.
Ty tried to alert Ms. Sheppard via her cell phone. No answer. He wondered if she’d decided to ignore him—again. If so, she’d have a rude awakening. Left with no other choice, he went in search of her, walking up and down the rows of stalls. No luck. Next he tried the indoor arena, but she wasn’t there, either. When he finally located her, standing alongside her horse trailer, his blood pressure had hit an all-time high.
“Why aren’t you answering your cell?” he snapped, startling her, by the looks of it. She held a rope attached to her horse’s halter. A man squatted near the back end of the animal, one of its rear legs in his lap.
“My cell phone?” she asked, pulling the thing from her pocket. “It hasn’t even rung.”
“Maybe it would if you turned it on,” Ty said curtly.
“It is on,” she retorted. Ty recognized the combative look in her gray eyes.
He could see she was right. The phone might be closed, but the digital display showed it was powered up.
He took the phone from her. “Well then, why—”
“Hey!” She tried to snatch it back.
“No bars,” he said, after flipping the thing open.
“Oops.”
“Is there a problem?” The man working on her horse straightened. Worn chaps covered the front of his legs, and he held a rasp in one hand.
“No,” Caroline said quickly. “Mr. Harrison here was just being his typical, high-handed self.”
“Excuse me,” Ty said, shocked that she would talk to him that way.
“It’s true,” she said, raising her chin. “But since you’re here, I can only assume we’re a go for the commercial.”
“We are,” he said, scanning her up and down—the T-shirt tucked into her jeans, the sparkling belt accentuating her narrow waist. Yes, under other circumstances he would have enjoyed bringing her to heel. “And since it took me nearly half an hour to find you, you now have less than an hour.”
“I don’t need an hour. I don’t even need five minutes. I can wash up inside my trailer,” she said, pointing at the rig, which, Ty noticed, was some sort of RV-horse trailer combination, complete with motor-home-type tinted windows near the front.
“I’ve arranged for a local makeup artist to assist you.”
“I’d rather do my own.”
He felt his blood begin to pound again. “Caroline, I know you’re less than thrilled about our change of schedule, but it’ll make it easier on everyone—myself included—if you’d just go with the flow.”
He could tell she wanted to protest, but something held her back. Probably his subtle reminder that he was her sponsor.
“Dale, can we finish up later?” she asked.
“Sure. I was just filing the hoof around the new shoe. I can do that on my own.”
Caroline sighed. “All right. Gimme a sec.”
But she didn’t seem in a big hurry to tie her horse to the side of the trailer. And she took more than five minutes to wash her face—or whatever it was she did inside her trailer.
Brush her hair, he realized when she returned. Her most stunning attribute, he noted objectively, it looked like a collection of silk threads, each a different color, the whole mass so thick he’d have thought it fake if he didn’t know better.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“Lead the way.”
He turned, but not before noticing that she wiped her palms on the front of her jeans. When she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her hands shook.
