Pamela Britton - The Cowgirl's CEO

“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.”