The Cowgirl's CEO. Pamela Britton
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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,