Читать книгу The Cowgirl's CEO - Pamela Britton - Страница 11

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.