Pamela Britton - The Cowgirl's CEO

“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.”

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.”