Pamela Britton - The Cowgirl's CEO

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.

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.”