never met, although he supposed his picture had appeared in enough western magazines that she might have seen his photo a time or two.
“You know why I didn’t tell you I’d be here.”
She looked guilty, then contrite and finally amused. “You going to arrest me then?” she asked. “Am I in trouble for failure to return a sponsor’s calls?”
“Your horse looks as if he needs cooling down,” he answered brusquely, unwilling to play along. He was still peeved. They’d spent thousands of dollars supporting her rodeo career this year. The least she could have done was call them back. But they’d been trying to track her down for weeks. Rodeo performers, he’d learned, were as fickle as the wind. They could enter two, three, sometimes five rodeos a weekend—but they didn’t always show up at them. Figuring out which ones Caroline Sheppard had entered had been like throwing darts at a board.
“Let me slide off,” she said, dropping her reins before swinging her right leg over the saddle and slipping to the ground.
She was tiny. When he’d seen her out in the arena, her lithe body clinging to her horse, blond hair streaming behind her like the tail of the horse she rode, she’d looked tall. But clearly that had been an illusion. Standing beside him, she barely came to Ty’s shoulder.
“Look,” she said, “I’ve been busy. Making it to the NFR is the most important thing in the world to me.”
“More important than your sponsor?”
She winced, patting her horse’s neck as they went through an opening in the pipe panels. “I don’t really have time to go off and film a commercial or talk to reporters or whatever else you have planned for me.”
“It’s part of the contract,” he said, resisting the urge to add that she was currently in breach of that contract.
“I know that,” she said, pausing for a second along the rail. “But can’t we do it later?”
“No, we need you to film the commercial now. Before you make it to the NFR.”
“If I make it.”
“You will.”
“Not if I’m off filming a commercial.”
She stumbled on a clod of dirt. He steadied her.
Mistake.
“Thank you,” she said.
He released her, clenching his hands afterward.
“The dirt they truck in for a rodeo is never any good,” she said. “It clumps together like kitty litter.”
“I see that,” he murmured.
He’d wanted to meet her face to face he suddenly realized. Had been fascinated by her photo. After watching her ride, he found his interest had only grown.
“We’ll do everything we can to make this easy on you,” he said. “We’re not asking you to fly off and film the commercial at a different location. We’ll come to you. We just need a few hours of your time.”
She watched a horse and rider walk by. Ty followed suit, their gazes meeting again as she said, “Just a few hours.” Her shoulder brushed her horse’s neck.
She was beyond pretty, he thought. Gorgeous was a more apt word. And as he stared down at her, the idea popped into his head that perhaps his interest in her was bordering on personal.
“Will you commit to that?” he asked.
“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.”
Chapter Two
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