The Cowgirl′s CEO
The Cowgirl's CEO
Pamela Britton
When Ty Harrison signed up to sponsor Carolyn Sheppard's barrel-racing career, he knew he was in for a bumpy ride. The diminutive rodeo star had a reputation for being a firecracker and was as independent as they came.So he wasn't too surprised that she practically had to be roped and tied before she shot a commercial for his company's boots.But not even the photos and the PR people had prepared him for the real thing. And when he finally did corral Caro, he was totally smitten. A herd of wild horses couldn't drag him away, because the competition for her heart was one he planned to win….
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PAMELA BRITTON!
“NASCAR fan or not, let In the Groove drive you to distraction.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews (4 stars)
“A fairy tale that succeeds.”
—Publishers Weekly on Scandal
“This is the kind of book that romance fans will read and reread on gloomy days.”
—Publishers Weekly on Tempted
“Passion and humor are a potent combination…author Pamela Britton comes up with the perfect blend.”
—Oakland Press
“This nonstop read has it all–sizzling sexuality, unforgettable characters, poignancy, a delightful plot and a well-crafted backdrop.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews (Top Pick) on Tempted
“It isn’t easy to write a tale that makes the reader laugh and cry, but Britton succeeds, thanks to her great characters.”
—Booklist (starred review) on Seduced
Dear Reader,
It’s hard to believe that my Rodeo Wranglers series is at an end. It seems like just yesterday I was planning each book. Now here we are, and the series is over. Where has all the time gone?
I hope I saved the best for last. The Cowgirl’s CEO is a definite change of pace from my other Rodeo Wrangler stories. Each of my previous books featured hunky cowboys, but this time I turned things around a bit and wrote about a cowgirl.
I hope you enjoy Carolyn and Ty’s story, and that you’ve had fun spending time with the townspeople of Los Molina. It might interest you to know that Los Molina is based on my own small hometown of Cottonwood, California. I’ve even been so bold as to steal real business names such as The Elegant Bean, our local espresso shop, which is where I write my books. (If you’re ever in town, stop by!)
If a trip to Northern California isn’t in your plans, please stop by my Web site at www.pamelabritton.com. Or “friend” me on Myspace: www.myspace.com/pamela_britton.
Thanks for riding along with me. As one of my heroes might say, “It’s been a real pleasure, ladies and gentlemen!”
Pamela Britton
The Cowgirl’s CEO
Pamela Britton
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
With over a million books in print, PAMELA BRITTON likes to call herself the best-known author nobody’s ever heard of. Of course, that’s begun to change thanks to a certain licensing agreement with that little racing organization known as NASCAR. Nowadays it’s not unusual to hear her books being discussed by the likes of Jay Leno, Keith Olbermann or Stephen Colbert. Flip open a magazine and you might read about her, too, in Sports Illustrated, Entertainment Weekly or Southwest Airlines’ Spirit Magazine. Channel surf and you might see her on The Today Show, Nightline or World News Tonight.
But before the glitz and glamour of NASCAR, Pamela wrote books that were frequently voted the best of the best by the Detroit Free Press, Barnes & Noble (two years in a row) and Romantic Times BOOKreviews magazine. She’s won numerous writing awards, including a National Reader’s Choice, and has been nominated for Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart.
When not following the race circuit, Pamela writes full-time from her ranch in Northern California, where she lives with her husband, daughter and, at last count, twenty-one four-legged friends.
Books by Pamela Britton
MILLS & BOON AMERICAN ROMANCE
985—COWBOY LESSONS
1040—COWBOY TROUBLE
1122—COWBOY M.D.
1143—COWBOY VET
HQN BOOKS
DANGEROUS CURVES
IN THE GROOVE
This one’s for my husband because it’s been a while since I’ve dedicated a book to him even though, truth be told, they’re all for him. I know you’re reading this, Pooh Bear, because I always see you sneak a peek at this page (and you thought I wasn’t paying attention!). Thank you for always being there to give me the man’s perspective, and for coming up with silly plot devices that turn out to be not so silly after all, and for all the other things you do that are too numerous to list.
I <3 U!
Contents
Chapter One (#u4a1c8e2d-0cbb-54e6-80ec-5a34ba745b80)
Chapter Two (#ubb15a2d7-d52a-5cfb-a8ff-4ac13bde08d6)
Chapter Three (#u23e84a52-222d-54f4-b529-577826143c2f)
Chapter Four (#u137f87cc-29bc-5d83-b857-6d27044f1d9b)
Chapter Five (#ua4efde03-8902-5d7e-88fa-cdbc05fb63a2)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
The horse reared.
“Easy there,” Caro said, her chest making contact with the paint’s mane. She tightened her legs, holding on. “Whoa,” she added, her black cowboy hat almost falling from her head.
Thumper came back to earth with a snort and a shake of his black mane, only to spin around. Caro did her best to point toward the narrow alley that led to the arena—and Thumper’s freedom.
“Easy there, boy,” she said, jamming down her hat.
The gelding half reared again, his mouth working the bit, flecks of foam landing on his sweaty chest. Fifteen hundred pounds of horseflesh tensed, muscles at the ready, all waiting for one thing: Caro to let him go.
“Not yet,” she told him, glancing left.
He was still there.
She’d noticed the man during her warm-up. The indoor sports complex didn’t have a big practice pen, and since only rodeo competitors were allowed behind the chutes, spectators were rare. He stood out like a tick on a hound in his brown sports coat and beige cotton slacks. His tan cowboy hat shielded his eyes from her view at the moment, but they’d been trained on her the whole time she and Thumper had been loping around the ring. Eyes as black as the hair beneath his hat.
The roar of the crowd caused Thumper to lift his head, ears pricked forward. The rider on course was nearing the end of her run. Caro couldn’t see inside the arena; the sports venue had been built for basketball and hockey, not cowgirls and cowboys. She and Thumper were tucked around a corner, so that when it was their turn to run, they’d have to race through a narrow corridor lined with aluminum fences, veer left and then crank up the speed.
Thumper lunged. Caro checked him again. Linda charged out of the tunnel right then.
Time to go.
The gate man called her number over the roar of the crowd. “One seventy-nine!” Caro could hear the voice of the rodeo announcer, but was too far away to catch how good a run Linda had had.
“Easy, boy,” Caro said, because she could see Thumper’s shoulder twitch, a certain sign he was about to erupt.
All right, Daddy, Caro prayed. Here I go again. Help me out if you can.
She applied pressure, and that was all it took. A simple squeeze. No kick, no leather strap, nothing. And even though she expected it, Caro’s upper body still jerked back, her hat almost knocked off again. The paper number pinned to her back rustled. She righted herself about the time she passed by the man who’d been watching her, her left hand on her hat, holding it in place. The arena opened up before her. She focused, not even hearing the screams of the fans. Thumper’s stride grew long. There it was: the first barrel.
Three…two…one…
They began to turn, Thumper’s hooves digging into the ground. The smell of dirt filled her nose as they leaned and tilted some more, lower still….
Her knee brushed the barrel.
She gasped. The obstacle rocked. She stretched out her arm and tried to right it, but couldn’t reach it. And now Thumper was moving on to the second barrel. Had the first one fallen? She didn’t know. Couldn’t look back. Rodeo fans rose to their feet as she careered toward the next obstacle.
Three…two…
Too fast. She tried to pull up. Thumper didn’t respond, but began his turn. It felt like being on the end of a yo-yo. Caro hung on the whole trip around, and when she looked up, she could see the first barrel. It still stood.
Thank God.
One more to go.
She thrust her upper body forward, her silky shirt with its glittering rhinestones glistening beneath the arena lights. This would be the longest run. They’d have the most speed, too, and so the timing needed to be perfect.
Three…two…one…
There. Perfect. She leaned once more. Thumper shifted, too. It felt fast.
Bam.
Her knee again. Damn it. She shot a glance back as they charged away.
The barrel stood!
Thank you, Lord, she breathed, closing her eyes for a split second. When she opened them again, she and Thumper were halfway down the arena. She could feel the saddle hit Thumper’s back. Thump, thump, thump…her reason for naming him. Faster and faster. The wind made her eyes tear. And then she and the gelding dashed through the electronic beams that tracked the elapsing seconds.
“Thirteen point forty-three!” she heard the announcer say. “Wow! That’s our best time right there, ladies and gentlemen. Caroline Sheppard is leading the barrel racing….”
She tuned the words out. Fast time. That was all she’d needed to hear. But would it hold up?
Thumper resisted when she pulled back, but Caro demanded he obey. He slowed. They passed beneath the concrete archway and into the tunnel, turned right. “Whoa,” she ordered.
Reluctantly, Thumper did as asked. “Good boy,” she said, patting his neck. He was dripping with sweat.
“Nice run,” Melanie said from the back of a horse that was rearing and snorting as badly as Thumper had been.
“Thanks.” Caro trotted past her toward the warm-up arena. She glanced around. Her male friend was gone.
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.”
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.
“Caroline,” he said, stopping abruptly. “There’s no need to be nervous.”
“What makes you think I’m nervous?”
“Aren’t you?”
She took a deep breath, relaxed her shoulders and said, “All right. I’ll admit it. I’m terrified.”
“There’s no need to be. The thing about filming a commercial is that we can do it again, if we need to.”
“Yeah, but everyone has their limits. Your director won’t be happy if I keep messing up, and neither, I suspect, will you.”
“I won’t mind.”
“You’ll mind if we end up having to reshoot the whole commercial. I imagine this is costing you a pretty penny.”
No more so than she’d cost him. “We’ll cross that bridge if we come to it.”
He saw her swallow. “It’s not just flubbing it that I’m worried about.”
“It’s not?”
She tugged her T-shirt down. “This is big. Once the commercial starts airing, my life will change. I know. I’ve seen it before. One of the bull riders got a big sponsorship deal. He started filming commercials, too, for some rental car agency. Suddenly he was being stopped for autographs, girls were calling out his name, people were writing him letters. He had to hire an assistant to deal with it all. I don’t have time to hire an assistant.”
“Harrison’s Boots can handle the fallout, Caroline. You just concentrate on winning the NFR.”
“Caro,” she said. “Only my mom calls me Caroline.”
He nodded. “And besides, I have a feeling you’ll take to stardom well.”
Stardom. When he said the word he saw her wince. “All I want to do is ride my horses, not sign autographs or do public appearances.” She brushed a hand through her hair, the long strands catching in her fingers. “Maybe this was a mistake.”
“You want to pull out?”
She looked him square in the eye. “What would you do if I said yes?”
He’d like to tell her hell no, they had way too much money invested in her to allow that. Then he’d tell her to call an attorney.
But he wouldn’t. He wasn’t an insensitive ass, as much as she might think otherwise. It was apparent by the way she braced herself that that’s exactly what she thought he’d tell her.
“If you’re truly uncomfortable with this, you don’t have to do it.” Ty placed his hand on her shoulder and immediately felt her stiffen. Her cheeks filled with color. Her eyes ducked away from his.
“Thank you,” she said to the ground.
He pulled his hand away. “You’re welcome,” he said softly.
A horse neighed in the distance. Ty could hear voices on the other side of one of the trailers.
“Let’s go,” she said, still not looking him in the eye.
Yes, they probably should go. Another moment and he might…What? Just what did he think he’d do?
Nothing, he reassured himself.
Chapter Four
Contrary to her belief that she’d muff it, Caroline could tell from the moment she said her first line that she’d been worried about nothing. Talking to the camera seemed as natural to her as riding a horse, maybe more so. She was able to smile, walk and talk, all at the same time, and without stumbling or bumping into the power cords and coaxial cables that hooked everything together.
And the whole time, Ty watched her, just as he had that first day, and she had no idea why that bothered her so much.
Afterward, Caro had a pounding headache. But she had to admit the commercial looked great. So authentic it seemed surreal—as if she really had walked her horse along a snowy lane.
“Caroline, that was fabulous,” Bill, the director said, coming out from behind the camera after they’d filmed her saying her line “Harrison’s Boots…the footwear of champions,” from the back of Thumper. “If you ever want to change vocations and become an actress, I know an agent who’d be thrilled to have you.”
“No thanks,” she replied. That was the last thing she needed—a second career. She already had her hands full riding the rodeo circuit.
“Now that we’re done with the vocals, I’d like to get some shots of you riding,” Bill said.
Caro nodded, feeling Ty’s eyes on her yet again as she led her horse toward the arena. He sat on the perimeter of the set in a dark green director’s chair, sunglasses on and the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up. The black belt around his dark gray slacks accentuated his toned stomach.
Good-looking. Go ahead. Admit it again, she told herself. But remember what happened the last time your head was turned by a handsome man. David. She only had to think his name to have all the same emotions come flooding back. Regret. Sadness. Humiliation. Never again.
“Come on, Thumper,” she said, happy to go for a ride. Grasping the leather reins, so worn and supple they felt like satin ribbons, she swung up into the saddle.
They’d attracted a crowd, she noticed once she mounted. People sat in chairs around the nearby stalls, watching the proceedings.
“Go, Caro,” someone yelled, probably Mike. She could see his wide shoulders and big grin from a mile away.
“Just get on and ride around,” Bill called through a bullhorn.
The scaffolding outside the arena didn’t thrill Thumper at first, but Caro soothed him, looking up and catching Ty’s gaze again. Damn it. Why did she keep doing that? She was like a stickpin near a magnet.
She kicked her horse forward. Someone yelled, “Yee-haw!” Probably Mike again. She felt self-conscious and silly. With a thick coat of makeup on her face and a fancy silver saddle on her horse—she had no idea where they’d gotten that from—she didn’t feel like a barrel racer, but a freak.
“Okay, we’ve got a good camera angle here,” Bill said, perched with his cameraman on one of the towers they’d erected. The long lens followed her faithfully. “If you could run now, that’d be great. Pretend you’re headed toward one of those things you run around.”
Barrel. It was called a barrel. But she did as asked, pressing her calves against Thumper. Her horse responded by lowering his neck and stretching out. Faster and faster they flew, the wind catching her hair and whipping it back, and soon she forgot everything. There was no camera, no audience, no Ty…just her and her horse and the rush of air against her face.
“Cut,” Bill called, bringing Caro back to reality. Her headache also came crashing back.
A few people applauded. Caro pulled Thumper up, her temples pounding with every beat of her heart. It was all she could do to slip off without throwing up.
“Nice,” Ty said, appearing suddenly by her side.
“Thanks,” she said.
“I think we can call it a day.”
“Good,” she breathed, resisting the urge to rub her forehead.
He stepped in front of her, forcing her gaze up. “You okay?” he asked softly.
And there it was again, that look in his eyes, the same one she’d noticed out by the trailers. Concern mixed with compassion.
“Fine,” she said, walking Thumper forward. “Did we get everything done? Or will we have to shoot some more tomorrow?”
“I think we got it all,” he said, walking beside her. Thumper’s sides were expanding and contracting, after his impromptu workout. She’d have to cool him off.
“When will we know?” she asked, glancing over at the snow-covered ground. Rice flakes. Who’d have thought?
“Bill will review what we’ve got tonight. If it’s okay, he’ll let me know.”
She nodded, her head throbbing even more. She winced.
“You’re not all right, are you?”
“Just hungry,” she said.
“You have any lunch?”
“No time.”
He didn’t look pleased. She was about to tell him to let it go, that she missed meals all the time. Part of life on the road. Fast food made you fat, and there was little or no time to cook. But Ty cut her off before she could open her mouth.
“Bill, we’re going to Ms. Sheppard’s trailer,” he called.
“What’s the matter?” The director peered into a monitor, reviewing the tape he’d just recorded.
“Caro needs an aspirin.”
“I don’t need medication,” she said, stepping aside. “I need to cool off my horse.”
“Don’t give me that,” he said. “I can tell you’re in pain.”
“I’m fine.”
“You need to sit down,” Ty said when she tried to get away.
“You’re the one giving me a headache.”
And a truer statement had never been uttered.
He frowned. “My mother had migraines, and I can tell yours is bad.”
“It’s not a migraine,” Caro said. Thumper stopped abruptly, pulling her arm back and further jarring her head. She gasped.
“Migraine,” Ty repeated.
“It’s just stress. My head feels this way after I compete, too. Once an event is over, my temples start to throb.”
“You’re going back to your trailer.”
“Ty—”
“No arguing, Caroline,” he said, taking her by the arm again. “You need to sit down.”
“Fine. But after I take something, I’m cooling down my horse.”
“I’ll do that for you.”
“You don’t know anything about horses.”
“Actually, I do. I grew up on a ranch.”
Caro was shocked, her eyes scanning his in an effort to discover if he was telling her the truth. For the first time she noticed how tanned he was. And that he appeared in excellent condition, his biceps straining against his dress shirt. She glanced at his hands.
They were a worker’s hands, long and strong, with fine hairs bleached by the sun, and calluses mixed with tiny scars.
“You grew up on a ranch?”
“The Rocking H,” he said. “We raise Herefords. Or my dad does. I haven’t had much time to do anything since taking over the reins of Harrison’s Boots, but I still get back there from time to time.”
She felt her jaw begin to drop. She snapped it closed before she looked like a complete idiot. How had she not known this? Why hadn’t anybody told her?
Why would someone tell her?
Harrison’s Boots was a household name, just as a certain type of bread was well known, or a particular brand of TV. But she knew nothing about the long-time owners of the company. And their commercials offered no clues. Until now they’d featured big, burly men holding jackhammers or climbing skyscrapers, not riding horses. But now that she stepped back and looked at him—really looked—she recognized the signs of someone who spent a great deal of time out-of-doors.
The CEO was a cowboy.
“Come on,” he said, obviously misinterpreting her silence for acquiescence. “Let’s go.”
Actually, now she really did need to sit down.
They made it to her trailer, Caro silent the whole time. “Go on inside,” he said, taking Thumper’s reins. “Sit down. As soon as I’ve unsaddled your horse, I’ll be back.”
“No,” she said, having regained some of her composure. “Thumper needs to be walked. And you don’t know where his stall is. It’d be better if I did it myself.”
“Then tell me where to get the aspirin.”
“It’s in the medicine cabinet, in the bathroom,” she said, wincing as she reached to loosen the girth.
Bong. Bong. Bong.
Her head felt like a Chinese gong whenever she bent down.
“Here,” he said a moment later, bounding down the aluminum steps of her trailer. He held out two white tables and a bottle of water.
“Thanks.”
“Where’s your saddle go?”
She was in way too much of a hurry to swallow the pills to protest. “In the tack room,” she rasped, the bitter taste of the painkiller filling her mouth. “Back of the trailer,” she added after she’d gulped them down.
But she kept an eye on him as he picked up where she’d left off, expertly looping the billet strap around a metal ring so it wouldn’t drag on the ground. Next he hooked the buckle at the end of the girth onto the leather strap attached to the side of the saddle. When he lifted the saddle off Thumper’s back, pad and all, she finally looked away. She’d seen enough. He really did know something about horses.
“I’ll be right back,” he said.
“You don’t need to walk him for too long,” she said. Thumper’s hooves clip-clopped against the pavement. “He hardly broke a sweat.”
“Do you want me to cover his back?”
She was certain Ty must have seen the surprise in her eyes. A cold back might mean muscle spasms. “If you don’t mind,” she said. “There’s a wool cooler in the trailer. Green.”
He nodded before setting off. Caro slumped down on the steps, resting her head against the aluminum door. If she sat for a few minutes, she’d feel better. That’s the way it always was.
I grew up on a ranch.
It’d been fine to think he was handsome when he wasn’t her type—busy, bossy corporate execs weren’t her thing—but now she knew otherwise. He might not know anything about rodeos, but that wasn’t because he came from the city. Obviously, he just didn’t follow the sport. Until now. Until her.
Why did that make her feel odder still? She’d seen the hint of interest in his green eyes that first night. Was that part of the reason he’d agreed to sponsor her? Had his interest in her started before he’d met her?
And maybe your headache’s made you crazy!
“Feeling better?” he asked a few minutes later.
Caro’s head snapped up. Damn. He’d sneaked up on her.
“Uh, yeah,” she said. “I think.” She tried to move, tentatively at first, then slowly stood.
He’d been in the midst of coiling the lead rope, but stopped, one eyebrow lifted.
“Getting there,” she amended.
“Good.” His gaze lingering on her lips, and she froze.
Oh, no. No. No. No. You are not interested in him merely because you’ve learned he’s a cowboy. Cowboys are clowns, remember? Cowboys are to be avoided at all costs.
Remember David?
“Um, thanks,” she said. “But I should get to work.”
“About that,” he said, his mouth tipping into a slight smile.
Oh my.
Ty Harrison with a smile turned the three-alarm bells clanging in her head into an air-raid siren.
“I was thinking while walking old Thumper here,” he said, patting the horse’s neck. “What if I make you dinner?”
She was so busy trying to recover from that smile she found herself saying, “Huh?”
“I have a rental car. I can go out and get some steaks. You have an oven in there, I noticed. Why don’t I broil some up?”
“You want to make me dinner.”
“Yeah,” he said. The smile dissolved like salt in vinegar. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Mr. Harrison, I—”
“Ty,” he corrected.
Didn’t he see? He couldn’t be “Ty.” He could never be, not to her.
“Mr. Harrison,” she said, hoping he’d get the point. “That’s really kind of you, but I’m busy—”
“You need to eat.”
“I know. And I’ll grab something. Just not right now.”
“Actually,” he said, “I’m not giving you a choice, not when I need you hale and hearty for the NFR.” He held out Thumper’s lead rope. “I’ll have dinner ready by seven.”
Chapter Five
To be honest, Ty half expected her trailer door to be locked when he got back. It was.
He smirked. Smart girl.
But he had her outwitted. Among his groceries was one lightweight, ultramodern, genuine hibachi. Hah. He also had briquettes, lighter fluid and barbecue tongs. As side dishes he’d bought potato salad and mixed greens. There were even late-season cobs of corn that he’d wrap in foil and grill. Everything he needed.
The sun had long since sunk beneath the horizon, but parking lights illuminated his cooking area at the back of the trailer. One of Caro’s neighbors—a broad-shouldered man—took one look at Ty’s groceries on the ground and said, “You need to borrow a table?”
“If you’ve got one handy,” Ty replied, the flames from the hibachi licking the air and painting the side of the trailer a Halloween orange.
“Got one right here.”
“Thanks.”
“You cooking for Caro?” he asked when he returned, hauling a small folding table.
“I think so. I told her I would, but she didn’t seem too enthusiastic.”
“Let me guess,” the man said, unfolding the table legs. “She told you not to bother.”
“Actually, she locked her trailer door. If I hadn’t bought the barbecue, I’d be stuck.”
“That’s Caro for you. Thinks she doesn’t need a man, or that we’re pretty useless.” He set the table upright. “Mike Krueger,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Ty Harrison.”
“I know. Watched you film that commercial. Interesting stuff. Caro looked like she did great. ‘Course, you could film Caro upside down, walking on her hands, and she’d look gorgeous.”
“That’s certainly true,” Ty said, arranging his groceries on the table. “You don’t happen to have a salad bowl, do you?”
“Got everything you need,” Mike said, motioning toward his own long, white trailer. The lights were on inside and Ty could see a TV flickering behind the windows. Modern day cowboys. “Just help yourself.”
“Are you leaving?” Ty asked when Mike turned away.
“Yup. I was about to close things up. I’m in the main performance. But I can leave it open in case you need something else.”
“That’d be much appreciated.”
“And before I go, think I’ll find Caro and tell her she has a guest.”
Ty smiled. “You do that.”
She showed up fifteen minutes later. By then Ty had the steaks on, and the smell of sizzling meat filled the air.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Cooking,” he said without looking up. “Like I told you.”
She didn’t say anything. Ty risked a peek. Furious didn’t begin to describe the expression on her face.
“Whatever,” she said, walking back toward the barn.
He let the steaks continue to cook. “Caro, wait.” She sped up. He was faster. “Don’t leave. Not without eating first. If you want to ignore me the whole time, fine. But at least get some food in your stomach.”
The light from Mike’s trailer perfectly illuminated her face. She seemed exhausted. Near the corners of her eyes, the skin appeared bruised, something you wouldn’t notice unless you were staring at her closely.
“How long has it been since you’ve had a home-cooked meal, anyway?”
The steaks suddenly hissed, as if punctuating his remark. She gritted her teeth. She’d changed since the shoot, the pressed cotton shirt she’d worn replaced by another T-shirt, which read I’m Going to Treat You Like My Dog, Cowboy.
You Wish!
Well, now he knew her treatment of him was nothing personal.
“Months?” He hazarded a guess.
She shrugged. “Can’t remember.”
“Do you ever slow down, Caroline?”
“I told you. Only my mom calls me Caroline,” she reminded him. “And, yes, I do slow down. When the season’s over. Until then I can’t afford to take it easy.”
“Will having one little steak hurt you?”
She raised her chin, her gray eyes managing to look even bigger in the murky half-light. “I’m behind today.”
Thanks to filming a commercial. She didn’t say it, but might as well have.
“Then take the food with you. I’ve got paper plates. Stop and eat.”
She slowly nodded. Ty wondered if she’d toss the plate away the moment he was out of sight.
“Have a seat,” he said. “The steaks need to cook for a few more minutes.”
She crossed her arms, turned and then sat in one of the folding chairs Mike had let him borrow.
“If I had my way you wouldn’t get up from that chair for at least an hour,” he said, waving the barbecue tongs at her before squatting down and flipping the steaks.
“Then it’s a good thing I don’t have to listen to you.”
He pulled out a chair, too, and took a seat. “Why are you fighting this?”
“Fighting what?”
“This,” he said, leaning toward her.
Her gray eyes widened.
She thought he was about to kiss her. He could tell by the way she drew back, her chest expanding, and then didn’t move as she waited…
But he wasn’t going to kiss her. He had no intention of ever crossing the line with her. He grabbed the salad bowl.
“My desire to feed you,” he said, keeping his expression carefully blank, because he couldn’t deny they were obviously attracted to each other.
“I don’t mind you feeding me,” she said after expelling a breath. “I mean…” She ran a hand through her hair. “All right, maybe I do.”
“You need to take better care of yourself, slow down a little,” he said, trying to steer the conversation to neutral ground. His heart pounded in an odd way. “I don’t want a comatose spokesperson.”
“I can’t slow down. This is how I make my living.”
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Pamela Britton
When Ty Harrison signed up to sponsor Carolyn Sheppard's barrel-racing career, he knew he was in for a bumpy ride. The diminutive rodeo star had a reputation for being a firecracker and was as independent as they came.So he wasn't too surprised that she practically had to be roped and tied before she shot a commercial for his company's boots.But not even the photos and the PR people had prepared him for the real thing. And when he finally did corral Caro, he was totally smitten. A herd of wild horses couldn't drag him away, because the competition for her heart was one he planned to win….
Reviewers and readers love
PAMELA BRITTON!
“NASCAR fan or not, let In the Groove drive you to distraction.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews (4 stars)
“A fairy tale that succeeds.”
—Publishers Weekly on Scandal
“This is the kind of book that romance fans will read and reread on gloomy days.”
—Publishers Weekly on Tempted
“Passion and humor are a potent combination…author Pamela Britton comes up with the perfect blend.”
—Oakland Press
“This nonstop read has it all–sizzling sexuality, unforgettable characters, poignancy, a delightful plot and a well-crafted backdrop.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews (Top Pick) on Tempted
“It isn’t easy to write a tale that makes the reader laugh and cry, but Britton succeeds, thanks to her great characters.”
—Booklist (starred review) on Seduced
Dear Reader,
It’s hard to believe that my Rodeo Wranglers series is at an end. It seems like just yesterday I was planning each book. Now here we are, and the series is over. Where has all the time gone?
I hope I saved the best for last. The Cowgirl’s CEO is a definite change of pace from my other Rodeo Wrangler stories. Each of my previous books featured hunky cowboys, but this time I turned things around a bit and wrote about a cowgirl.
I hope you enjoy Carolyn and Ty’s story, and that you’ve had fun spending time with the townspeople of Los Molina. It might interest you to know that Los Molina is based on my own small hometown of Cottonwood, California. I’ve even been so bold as to steal real business names such as The Elegant Bean, our local espresso shop, which is where I write my books. (If you’re ever in town, stop by!)
If a trip to Northern California isn’t in your plans, please stop by my Web site at www.pamelabritton.com. Or “friend” me on Myspace: www.myspace.com/pamela_britton.
Thanks for riding along with me. As one of my heroes might say, “It’s been a real pleasure, ladies and gentlemen!”
Pamela Britton
The Cowgirl’s CEO
Pamela Britton
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
With over a million books in print, PAMELA BRITTON likes to call herself the best-known author nobody’s ever heard of. Of course, that’s begun to change thanks to a certain licensing agreement with that little racing organization known as NASCAR. Nowadays it’s not unusual to hear her books being discussed by the likes of Jay Leno, Keith Olbermann or Stephen Colbert. Flip open a magazine and you might read about her, too, in Sports Illustrated, Entertainment Weekly or Southwest Airlines’ Spirit Magazine. Channel surf and you might see her on The Today Show, Nightline or World News Tonight.
But before the glitz and glamour of NASCAR, Pamela wrote books that were frequently voted the best of the best by the Detroit Free Press, Barnes & Noble (two years in a row) and Romantic Times BOOKreviews magazine. She’s won numerous writing awards, including a National Reader’s Choice, and has been nominated for Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart.
When not following the race circuit, Pamela writes full-time from her ranch in Northern California, where she lives with her husband, daughter and, at last count, twenty-one four-legged friends.
Books by Pamela Britton
MILLS & BOON AMERICAN ROMANCE
985—COWBOY LESSONS
1040—COWBOY TROUBLE
1122—COWBOY M.D.
1143—COWBOY VET
HQN BOOKS
DANGEROUS CURVES
IN THE GROOVE
This one’s for my husband because it’s been a while since I’ve dedicated a book to him even though, truth be told, they’re all for him. I know you’re reading this, Pooh Bear, because I always see you sneak a peek at this page (and you thought I wasn’t paying attention!). Thank you for always being there to give me the man’s perspective, and for coming up with silly plot devices that turn out to be not so silly after all, and for all the other things you do that are too numerous to list.
I <3 U!
Contents
Chapter One (#u4a1c8e2d-0cbb-54e6-80ec-5a34ba745b80)
Chapter Two (#ubb15a2d7-d52a-5cfb-a8ff-4ac13bde08d6)
Chapter Three (#u23e84a52-222d-54f4-b529-577826143c2f)
Chapter Four (#u137f87cc-29bc-5d83-b857-6d27044f1d9b)
Chapter Five (#ua4efde03-8902-5d7e-88fa-cdbc05fb63a2)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
The horse reared.
“Easy there,” Caro said, her chest making contact with the paint’s mane. She tightened her legs, holding on. “Whoa,” she added, her black cowboy hat almost falling from her head.
Thumper came back to earth with a snort and a shake of his black mane, only to spin around. Caro did her best to point toward the narrow alley that led to the arena—and Thumper’s freedom.
“Easy there, boy,” she said, jamming down her hat.
The gelding half reared again, his mouth working the bit, flecks of foam landing on his sweaty chest. Fifteen hundred pounds of horseflesh tensed, muscles at the ready, all waiting for one thing: Caro to let him go.
“Not yet,” she told him, glancing left.
He was still there.
She’d noticed the man during her warm-up. The indoor sports complex didn’t have a big practice pen, and since only rodeo competitors were allowed behind the chutes, spectators were rare. He stood out like a tick on a hound in his brown sports coat and beige cotton slacks. His tan cowboy hat shielded his eyes from her view at the moment, but they’d been trained on her the whole time she and Thumper had been loping around the ring. Eyes as black as the hair beneath his hat.
The roar of the crowd caused Thumper to lift his head, ears pricked forward. The rider on course was nearing the end of her run. Caro couldn’t see inside the arena; the sports venue had been built for basketball and hockey, not cowgirls and cowboys. She and Thumper were tucked around a corner, so that when it was their turn to run, they’d have to race through a narrow corridor lined with aluminum fences, veer left and then crank up the speed.
Thumper lunged. Caro checked him again. Linda charged out of the tunnel right then.
Time to go.
The gate man called her number over the roar of the crowd. “One seventy-nine!” Caro could hear the voice of the rodeo announcer, but was too far away to catch how good a run Linda had had.
“Easy, boy,” Caro said, because she could see Thumper’s shoulder twitch, a certain sign he was about to erupt.
All right, Daddy, Caro prayed. Here I go again. Help me out if you can.
She applied pressure, and that was all it took. A simple squeeze. No kick, no leather strap, nothing. And even though she expected it, Caro’s upper body still jerked back, her hat almost knocked off again. The paper number pinned to her back rustled. She righted herself about the time she passed by the man who’d been watching her, her left hand on her hat, holding it in place. The arena opened up before her. She focused, not even hearing the screams of the fans. Thumper’s stride grew long. There it was: the first barrel.
Three…two…one…
They began to turn, Thumper’s hooves digging into the ground. The smell of dirt filled her nose as they leaned and tilted some more, lower still….
Her knee brushed the barrel.
She gasped. The obstacle rocked. She stretched out her arm and tried to right it, but couldn’t reach it. And now Thumper was moving on to the second barrel. Had the first one fallen? She didn’t know. Couldn’t look back. Rodeo fans rose to their feet as she careered toward the next obstacle.
Three…two…
Too fast. She tried to pull up. Thumper didn’t respond, but began his turn. It felt like being on the end of a yo-yo. Caro hung on the whole trip around, and when she looked up, she could see the first barrel. It still stood.
Thank God.
One more to go.
She thrust her upper body forward, her silky shirt with its glittering rhinestones glistening beneath the arena lights. This would be the longest run. They’d have the most speed, too, and so the timing needed to be perfect.
Three…two…one…
There. Perfect. She leaned once more. Thumper shifted, too. It felt fast.
Bam.
Her knee again. Damn it. She shot a glance back as they charged away.
The barrel stood!
Thank you, Lord, she breathed, closing her eyes for a split second. When she opened them again, she and Thumper were halfway down the arena. She could feel the saddle hit Thumper’s back. Thump, thump, thump…her reason for naming him. Faster and faster. The wind made her eyes tear. And then she and the gelding dashed through the electronic beams that tracked the elapsing seconds.
“Thirteen point forty-three!” she heard the announcer say. “Wow! That’s our best time right there, ladies and gentlemen. Caroline Sheppard is leading the barrel racing….”
She tuned the words out. Fast time. That was all she’d needed to hear. But would it hold up?
Thumper resisted when she pulled back, but Caro demanded he obey. He slowed. They passed beneath the concrete archway and into the tunnel, turned right. “Whoa,” she ordered.
Reluctantly, Thumper did as asked. “Good boy,” she said, patting his neck. He was dripping with sweat.
“Nice run,” Melanie said from the back of a horse that was rearing and snorting as badly as Thumper had been.
“Thanks.” Caro trotted past her toward the warm-up arena. She glanced around. Her male friend was gone.
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.”
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.
“Caroline,” he said, stopping abruptly. “There’s no need to be nervous.”
“What makes you think I’m nervous?”
“Aren’t you?”
She took a deep breath, relaxed her shoulders and said, “All right. I’ll admit it. I’m terrified.”
“There’s no need to be. The thing about filming a commercial is that we can do it again, if we need to.”
“Yeah, but everyone has their limits. Your director won’t be happy if I keep messing up, and neither, I suspect, will you.”
“I won’t mind.”
“You’ll mind if we end up having to reshoot the whole commercial. I imagine this is costing you a pretty penny.”
No more so than she’d cost him. “We’ll cross that bridge if we come to it.”
He saw her swallow. “It’s not just flubbing it that I’m worried about.”
“It’s not?”
She tugged her T-shirt down. “This is big. Once the commercial starts airing, my life will change. I know. I’ve seen it before. One of the bull riders got a big sponsorship deal. He started filming commercials, too, for some rental car agency. Suddenly he was being stopped for autographs, girls were calling out his name, people were writing him letters. He had to hire an assistant to deal with it all. I don’t have time to hire an assistant.”
“Harrison’s Boots can handle the fallout, Caroline. You just concentrate on winning the NFR.”
“Caro,” she said. “Only my mom calls me Caroline.”
He nodded. “And besides, I have a feeling you’ll take to stardom well.”
Stardom. When he said the word he saw her wince. “All I want to do is ride my horses, not sign autographs or do public appearances.” She brushed a hand through her hair, the long strands catching in her fingers. “Maybe this was a mistake.”
“You want to pull out?”
She looked him square in the eye. “What would you do if I said yes?”
He’d like to tell her hell no, they had way too much money invested in her to allow that. Then he’d tell her to call an attorney.
But he wouldn’t. He wasn’t an insensitive ass, as much as she might think otherwise. It was apparent by the way she braced herself that that’s exactly what she thought he’d tell her.
“If you’re truly uncomfortable with this, you don’t have to do it.” Ty placed his hand on her shoulder and immediately felt her stiffen. Her cheeks filled with color. Her eyes ducked away from his.
“Thank you,” she said to the ground.
He pulled his hand away. “You’re welcome,” he said softly.
A horse neighed in the distance. Ty could hear voices on the other side of one of the trailers.
“Let’s go,” she said, still not looking him in the eye.
Yes, they probably should go. Another moment and he might…What? Just what did he think he’d do?
Nothing, he reassured himself.
Chapter Four
Contrary to her belief that she’d muff it, Caroline could tell from the moment she said her first line that she’d been worried about nothing. Talking to the camera seemed as natural to her as riding a horse, maybe more so. She was able to smile, walk and talk, all at the same time, and without stumbling or bumping into the power cords and coaxial cables that hooked everything together.
And the whole time, Ty watched her, just as he had that first day, and she had no idea why that bothered her so much.
Afterward, Caro had a pounding headache. But she had to admit the commercial looked great. So authentic it seemed surreal—as if she really had walked her horse along a snowy lane.
“Caroline, that was fabulous,” Bill, the director said, coming out from behind the camera after they’d filmed her saying her line “Harrison’s Boots…the footwear of champions,” from the back of Thumper. “If you ever want to change vocations and become an actress, I know an agent who’d be thrilled to have you.”
“No thanks,” she replied. That was the last thing she needed—a second career. She already had her hands full riding the rodeo circuit.
“Now that we’re done with the vocals, I’d like to get some shots of you riding,” Bill said.
Caro nodded, feeling Ty’s eyes on her yet again as she led her horse toward the arena. He sat on the perimeter of the set in a dark green director’s chair, sunglasses on and the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up. The black belt around his dark gray slacks accentuated his toned stomach.
Good-looking. Go ahead. Admit it again, she told herself. But remember what happened the last time your head was turned by a handsome man. David. She only had to think his name to have all the same emotions come flooding back. Regret. Sadness. Humiliation. Never again.
“Come on, Thumper,” she said, happy to go for a ride. Grasping the leather reins, so worn and supple they felt like satin ribbons, she swung up into the saddle.
They’d attracted a crowd, she noticed once she mounted. People sat in chairs around the nearby stalls, watching the proceedings.
“Go, Caro,” someone yelled, probably Mike. She could see his wide shoulders and big grin from a mile away.
“Just get on and ride around,” Bill called through a bullhorn.
The scaffolding outside the arena didn’t thrill Thumper at first, but Caro soothed him, looking up and catching Ty’s gaze again. Damn it. Why did she keep doing that? She was like a stickpin near a magnet.
She kicked her horse forward. Someone yelled, “Yee-haw!” Probably Mike again. She felt self-conscious and silly. With a thick coat of makeup on her face and a fancy silver saddle on her horse—she had no idea where they’d gotten that from—she didn’t feel like a barrel racer, but a freak.
“Okay, we’ve got a good camera angle here,” Bill said, perched with his cameraman on one of the towers they’d erected. The long lens followed her faithfully. “If you could run now, that’d be great. Pretend you’re headed toward one of those things you run around.”
Barrel. It was called a barrel. But she did as asked, pressing her calves against Thumper. Her horse responded by lowering his neck and stretching out. Faster and faster they flew, the wind catching her hair and whipping it back, and soon she forgot everything. There was no camera, no audience, no Ty…just her and her horse and the rush of air against her face.
“Cut,” Bill called, bringing Caro back to reality. Her headache also came crashing back.
A few people applauded. Caro pulled Thumper up, her temples pounding with every beat of her heart. It was all she could do to slip off without throwing up.
“Nice,” Ty said, appearing suddenly by her side.
“Thanks,” she said.
“I think we can call it a day.”
“Good,” she breathed, resisting the urge to rub her forehead.
He stepped in front of her, forcing her gaze up. “You okay?” he asked softly.
And there it was again, that look in his eyes, the same one she’d noticed out by the trailers. Concern mixed with compassion.
“Fine,” she said, walking Thumper forward. “Did we get everything done? Or will we have to shoot some more tomorrow?”
“I think we got it all,” he said, walking beside her. Thumper’s sides were expanding and contracting, after his impromptu workout. She’d have to cool him off.
“When will we know?” she asked, glancing over at the snow-covered ground. Rice flakes. Who’d have thought?
“Bill will review what we’ve got tonight. If it’s okay, he’ll let me know.”
She nodded, her head throbbing even more. She winced.
“You’re not all right, are you?”
“Just hungry,” she said.
“You have any lunch?”
“No time.”
He didn’t look pleased. She was about to tell him to let it go, that she missed meals all the time. Part of life on the road. Fast food made you fat, and there was little or no time to cook. But Ty cut her off before she could open her mouth.
“Bill, we’re going to Ms. Sheppard’s trailer,” he called.
“What’s the matter?” The director peered into a monitor, reviewing the tape he’d just recorded.
“Caro needs an aspirin.”
“I don’t need medication,” she said, stepping aside. “I need to cool off my horse.”
“Don’t give me that,” he said. “I can tell you’re in pain.”
“I’m fine.”
“You need to sit down,” Ty said when she tried to get away.
“You’re the one giving me a headache.”
And a truer statement had never been uttered.
He frowned. “My mother had migraines, and I can tell yours is bad.”
“It’s not a migraine,” Caro said. Thumper stopped abruptly, pulling her arm back and further jarring her head. She gasped.
“Migraine,” Ty repeated.
“It’s just stress. My head feels this way after I compete, too. Once an event is over, my temples start to throb.”
“You’re going back to your trailer.”
“Ty—”
“No arguing, Caroline,” he said, taking her by the arm again. “You need to sit down.”
“Fine. But after I take something, I’m cooling down my horse.”
“I’ll do that for you.”
“You don’t know anything about horses.”
“Actually, I do. I grew up on a ranch.”
Caro was shocked, her eyes scanning his in an effort to discover if he was telling her the truth. For the first time she noticed how tanned he was. And that he appeared in excellent condition, his biceps straining against his dress shirt. She glanced at his hands.
They were a worker’s hands, long and strong, with fine hairs bleached by the sun, and calluses mixed with tiny scars.
“You grew up on a ranch?”
“The Rocking H,” he said. “We raise Herefords. Or my dad does. I haven’t had much time to do anything since taking over the reins of Harrison’s Boots, but I still get back there from time to time.”
She felt her jaw begin to drop. She snapped it closed before she looked like a complete idiot. How had she not known this? Why hadn’t anybody told her?
Why would someone tell her?
Harrison’s Boots was a household name, just as a certain type of bread was well known, or a particular brand of TV. But she knew nothing about the long-time owners of the company. And their commercials offered no clues. Until now they’d featured big, burly men holding jackhammers or climbing skyscrapers, not riding horses. But now that she stepped back and looked at him—really looked—she recognized the signs of someone who spent a great deal of time out-of-doors.
The CEO was a cowboy.
“Come on,” he said, obviously misinterpreting her silence for acquiescence. “Let’s go.”
Actually, now she really did need to sit down.
They made it to her trailer, Caro silent the whole time. “Go on inside,” he said, taking Thumper’s reins. “Sit down. As soon as I’ve unsaddled your horse, I’ll be back.”
“No,” she said, having regained some of her composure. “Thumper needs to be walked. And you don’t know where his stall is. It’d be better if I did it myself.”
“Then tell me where to get the aspirin.”
“It’s in the medicine cabinet, in the bathroom,” she said, wincing as she reached to loosen the girth.
Bong. Bong. Bong.
Her head felt like a Chinese gong whenever she bent down.
“Here,” he said a moment later, bounding down the aluminum steps of her trailer. He held out two white tables and a bottle of water.
“Thanks.”
“Where’s your saddle go?”
She was in way too much of a hurry to swallow the pills to protest. “In the tack room,” she rasped, the bitter taste of the painkiller filling her mouth. “Back of the trailer,” she added after she’d gulped them down.
But she kept an eye on him as he picked up where she’d left off, expertly looping the billet strap around a metal ring so it wouldn’t drag on the ground. Next he hooked the buckle at the end of the girth onto the leather strap attached to the side of the saddle. When he lifted the saddle off Thumper’s back, pad and all, she finally looked away. She’d seen enough. He really did know something about horses.
“I’ll be right back,” he said.
“You don’t need to walk him for too long,” she said. Thumper’s hooves clip-clopped against the pavement. “He hardly broke a sweat.”
“Do you want me to cover his back?”
She was certain Ty must have seen the surprise in her eyes. A cold back might mean muscle spasms. “If you don’t mind,” she said. “There’s a wool cooler in the trailer. Green.”
He nodded before setting off. Caro slumped down on the steps, resting her head against the aluminum door. If she sat for a few minutes, she’d feel better. That’s the way it always was.
I grew up on a ranch.
It’d been fine to think he was handsome when he wasn’t her type—busy, bossy corporate execs weren’t her thing—but now she knew otherwise. He might not know anything about rodeos, but that wasn’t because he came from the city. Obviously, he just didn’t follow the sport. Until now. Until her.
Why did that make her feel odder still? She’d seen the hint of interest in his green eyes that first night. Was that part of the reason he’d agreed to sponsor her? Had his interest in her started before he’d met her?
And maybe your headache’s made you crazy!
“Feeling better?” he asked a few minutes later.
Caro’s head snapped up. Damn. He’d sneaked up on her.
“Uh, yeah,” she said. “I think.” She tried to move, tentatively at first, then slowly stood.
He’d been in the midst of coiling the lead rope, but stopped, one eyebrow lifted.
“Getting there,” she amended.
“Good.” His gaze lingering on her lips, and she froze.
Oh, no. No. No. No. You are not interested in him merely because you’ve learned he’s a cowboy. Cowboys are clowns, remember? Cowboys are to be avoided at all costs.
Remember David?
“Um, thanks,” she said. “But I should get to work.”
“About that,” he said, his mouth tipping into a slight smile.
Oh my.
Ty Harrison with a smile turned the three-alarm bells clanging in her head into an air-raid siren.
“I was thinking while walking old Thumper here,” he said, patting the horse’s neck. “What if I make you dinner?”
She was so busy trying to recover from that smile she found herself saying, “Huh?”
“I have a rental car. I can go out and get some steaks. You have an oven in there, I noticed. Why don’t I broil some up?”
“You want to make me dinner.”
“Yeah,” he said. The smile dissolved like salt in vinegar. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Mr. Harrison, I—”
“Ty,” he corrected.
Didn’t he see? He couldn’t be “Ty.” He could never be, not to her.
“Mr. Harrison,” she said, hoping he’d get the point. “That’s really kind of you, but I’m busy—”
“You need to eat.”
“I know. And I’ll grab something. Just not right now.”
“Actually,” he said, “I’m not giving you a choice, not when I need you hale and hearty for the NFR.” He held out Thumper’s lead rope. “I’ll have dinner ready by seven.”
Chapter Five
To be honest, Ty half expected her trailer door to be locked when he got back. It was.
He smirked. Smart girl.
But he had her outwitted. Among his groceries was one lightweight, ultramodern, genuine hibachi. Hah. He also had briquettes, lighter fluid and barbecue tongs. As side dishes he’d bought potato salad and mixed greens. There were even late-season cobs of corn that he’d wrap in foil and grill. Everything he needed.
The sun had long since sunk beneath the horizon, but parking lights illuminated his cooking area at the back of the trailer. One of Caro’s neighbors—a broad-shouldered man—took one look at Ty’s groceries on the ground and said, “You need to borrow a table?”
“If you’ve got one handy,” Ty replied, the flames from the hibachi licking the air and painting the side of the trailer a Halloween orange.
“Got one right here.”
“Thanks.”
“You cooking for Caro?” he asked when he returned, hauling a small folding table.
“I think so. I told her I would, but she didn’t seem too enthusiastic.”
“Let me guess,” the man said, unfolding the table legs. “She told you not to bother.”
“Actually, she locked her trailer door. If I hadn’t bought the barbecue, I’d be stuck.”
“That’s Caro for you. Thinks she doesn’t need a man, or that we’re pretty useless.” He set the table upright. “Mike Krueger,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Ty Harrison.”
“I know. Watched you film that commercial. Interesting stuff. Caro looked like she did great. ‘Course, you could film Caro upside down, walking on her hands, and she’d look gorgeous.”
“That’s certainly true,” Ty said, arranging his groceries on the table. “You don’t happen to have a salad bowl, do you?”
“Got everything you need,” Mike said, motioning toward his own long, white trailer. The lights were on inside and Ty could see a TV flickering behind the windows. Modern day cowboys. “Just help yourself.”
“Are you leaving?” Ty asked when Mike turned away.
“Yup. I was about to close things up. I’m in the main performance. But I can leave it open in case you need something else.”
“That’d be much appreciated.”
“And before I go, think I’ll find Caro and tell her she has a guest.”
Ty smiled. “You do that.”
She showed up fifteen minutes later. By then Ty had the steaks on, and the smell of sizzling meat filled the air.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Cooking,” he said without looking up. “Like I told you.”
She didn’t say anything. Ty risked a peek. Furious didn’t begin to describe the expression on her face.
“Whatever,” she said, walking back toward the barn.
He let the steaks continue to cook. “Caro, wait.” She sped up. He was faster. “Don’t leave. Not without eating first. If you want to ignore me the whole time, fine. But at least get some food in your stomach.”
The light from Mike’s trailer perfectly illuminated her face. She seemed exhausted. Near the corners of her eyes, the skin appeared bruised, something you wouldn’t notice unless you were staring at her closely.
“How long has it been since you’ve had a home-cooked meal, anyway?”
The steaks suddenly hissed, as if punctuating his remark. She gritted her teeth. She’d changed since the shoot, the pressed cotton shirt she’d worn replaced by another T-shirt, which read I’m Going to Treat You Like My Dog, Cowboy.
You Wish!
Well, now he knew her treatment of him was nothing personal.
“Months?” He hazarded a guess.
She shrugged. “Can’t remember.”
“Do you ever slow down, Caroline?”
“I told you. Only my mom calls me Caroline,” she reminded him. “And, yes, I do slow down. When the season’s over. Until then I can’t afford to take it easy.”
“Will having one little steak hurt you?”
She raised her chin, her gray eyes managing to look even bigger in the murky half-light. “I’m behind today.”
Thanks to filming a commercial. She didn’t say it, but might as well have.
“Then take the food with you. I’ve got paper plates. Stop and eat.”
She slowly nodded. Ty wondered if she’d toss the plate away the moment he was out of sight.
“Have a seat,” he said. “The steaks need to cook for a few more minutes.”
She crossed her arms, turned and then sat in one of the folding chairs Mike had let him borrow.
“If I had my way you wouldn’t get up from that chair for at least an hour,” he said, waving the barbecue tongs at her before squatting down and flipping the steaks.
“Then it’s a good thing I don’t have to listen to you.”
He pulled out a chair, too, and took a seat. “Why are you fighting this?”
“Fighting what?”
“This,” he said, leaning toward her.
Her gray eyes widened.
She thought he was about to kiss her. He could tell by the way she drew back, her chest expanding, and then didn’t move as she waited…
But he wasn’t going to kiss her. He had no intention of ever crossing the line with her. He grabbed the salad bowl.
“My desire to feed you,” he said, keeping his expression carefully blank, because he couldn’t deny they were obviously attracted to each other.
“I don’t mind you feeding me,” she said after expelling a breath. “I mean…” She ran a hand through her hair. “All right, maybe I do.”
“You need to take better care of yourself, slow down a little,” he said, trying to steer the conversation to neutral ground. His heart pounded in an odd way. “I don’t want a comatose spokesperson.”
“I can’t slow down. This is how I make my living.”
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Pamela Britton
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: When Ty Harrison signed up to sponsor Carolyn Sheppard′s barrel-racing career, he knew he was in for a bumpy ride. The diminutive rodeo star had a reputation for being a firecracker and was as independent as they came.So he wasn′t too surprised that she practically had to be roped and tied before she shot a commercial for his company′s boots.But not even the photos and the PR people had prepared him for the real thing. And when he finally did corral Caro, he was totally smitten. A herd of wild horses couldn′t drag him away, because the competition for her heart was one he planned to win….