The Cowgirl's CEO. Pamela Britton

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.”

      She felt her jaw begin to drop. She snapped it closed before she looked like a complete idiot. How had she not known this? Why hadn’t anybody told her?

      Why would someone tell her?

      Harrison’s Boots was a household name, just as a certain type of bread was well known, or a particular brand of TV. But she knew nothing about the long-time owners of the company. And their commercials offered no clues. Until now they’d featured big, burly men holding jackhammers or climbing skyscrapers, not riding horses. But now that she stepped back and looked at him—really looked—she recognized the signs of someone who spent a great deal of time out-of-doors.

      The CEO was a cowboy.

      “Come on,” he said, obviously misinterpreting her silence for acquiescence. “Let’s go.”

      Actually, now she really did need to sit down.

      They made it to her trailer, Caro silent the whole time. “Go on inside,” he said, taking Thumper’s reins. “Sit down. As soon as I’ve unsaddled your horse, I’ll be back.”

      “No,” she said, having regained some of her composure. “Thumper needs to be walked. And you don’t know where his stall is. It’d be better if I did it myself.”

      “Then tell me where to get the aspirin.”

      “It’s in the medicine cabinet, in the bathroom,” she said, wincing as she reached to loosen the girth.

      Bong. Bong. Bong.

      Her head felt like a Chinese gong whenever she bent down.

      “Here,” he said a moment later, bounding down the aluminum steps of her trailer. He held out two white tables and a bottle of water.

      “Thanks.”

      “Where’s your saddle go?”

      She was in way too much of a hurry to swallow the pills to protest. “In the tack room,” she rasped, the bitter taste of the painkiller filling her mouth. “Back of the trailer,” she added after she’d gulped them down.

      But she kept an eye on him as he picked up where she’d left off,