Page 2 of A Cameo for a Cowgirl

Ugh. When Richard had first mentioned living on-site, Harrison had been tempted to say no. But his agent had assured him there would be a trailer outfitted with all the modern conveniences. Just as well. He didn’t do rustic accommodation. Had vowed never to live that way again, after a childhood where his dad drank away the rent money, forcing them to one-bedder dives and trailer parks. And he’d certainly never done camping. He’d have no idea even where to begin. This TV show being filmed mostly outdoors would be enough of a challenge for him. Especially given he’d be expected to ride horses.

Harrison winced. He knew how to ride a horse, but the last time he’d done so had been back in his mid-twenties, over half a decade ago. Fortunately, his audition this time around hadn’t depended on his horsemanship skills. He suspected the casting director had seen footage from previous jobs, including from his breakout role on TV, where a random episode had him riding a horse along the beach in a gratuitous shirtless moment. Ugh. At least this show meant he’d be keeping his shirt on. But he wasn’t looking forward to revisiting the nitty gritty of horse-riding.

He was looking forward to acting opposite Ainsley Beckett. Industry gossip said she was as nice as she was pretty. Last he’d heard, Ainsley wasn’t dating anyone, and despite what Marcia—the most recent of his exes—might think, he was flying solo these days. But he’d be willing to reconsider that if he and Ainsley hit it off. Their onscreen chemistry so evident in his audition might well translate to offscreen also. A man could hope, right?

But Ainsley and a decent pay packet were about the only advantages he could see. Despite what Richard said, Harrison still wasn’t sure if this was a good career move or just a stop-gap while he waited for his true big break. Historical drama aimed at conservative-leaning women sure wasn’t the gritty police detective series Lincoln Cash was now doing. But even Linc had done a stint on this, so who knew what lay in Harrison’s future?

His gaze flicked to his phone more than a few times as he carefully navigated to the ranch. He didn’t trust the directions pumped out by the onboard system anymore. He swung right, onto a side road, then followed it slowly, as evidence of the past winter was made plain by the road’s corrugated ridges and shallow dips. Another glance at the clock and he groaned aloud. It was already ten minutes past the designated arrival time. Definitely not the way to start.

A large sign advertising the Three Creek Ranch, Western Town and Backlot was placed near a gate that led to a long avenue of poplars. He steered his convertible past the gate, the anxiety within easing a little at the glorious view. The Canadian Rockies soared ahead, dressed in spruce and fir, some distant mountains still wearing caps of snow. It might be late spring, almost summer, but he could imagine how cold it would get around here. He’d heard reports of deep minuses in Albertan winters, minus forty or worse. He shuddered. Imagine having to live here in temperatures like that. He was thankful to have a place in LA for most of the year that he could rent out when he wasn’t staying there.

His lip curled as a rough wooden frame overhung what looked like the drive to the ranch house. He peered more closely. Yep. A two-storey ranch house with a steep-pitched roof lay at the end of another drive. But that wasn’t where he was headed. He followed the arrowed sign to the Western Town and Backlot, passing reddish-brown cattle grazing nearby. He drove over a slight rise, past another forested hill on which perched a rustic-looking farmhouse that had clearly seen better days, that he recognized as one of the sets from his viewing of the show. A sign warning of a “Texas gate” was immediately followed by the teeth-rattling car suspension testing of a cattle guard. Yep, a true ranch. The road led past a large red barn then down to where a spacious parking area was bordered by a clump of trailers and several portable buildings, next to a tree-covered hill. They sure liked their trees around here.

A silver-haired man dressed in a yellow hazard vest held a clipboard—so old school—and gestured for Harrison to slow from his snail-like pace. Harrison powered down the window as he braked.

“Name?” the man barked. His nametag read Hector.

He cleared his throat. “Harrison Woods.”

“Cast or crew?”

Wow. Good to know he was unrecognizable around here. “Cast.” He almost added “Leading man” but figured that wouldn’t go down well. But sheesh. Didn’t this man know who Ainsley Beckett’s new hero was meant to be?

“You’re late,” Hector said.

“I know that,” Harrison gritted out.

“The rest of the cast is doing a walk-through of the town with some crew, so you better hurry.”

He bit back a sigh. “Where should I park?”

Hector gestured behind him. “Anywhere’ll do.”

Anywhere? Didn’t this place have designated parking places for leading cast members and crew? He cleared his throat. “Where is the western town?”

The man pointed to the tree-clad hill. Harrison nodded, then drove his Chevy to the nearest available spot and parked. He grabbed his phone, then, after stepping outside, reached in and grabbed his leather jacket as well. It might be almost summer, but that breeze held plenty of chill still. He nodded to another worker, then hurried up the hill.

Another glance at his watch said he was only thirty minutes late. That wasn’t too bad. He’d been on some sets where people hadn’t shown for several hours. He wasn’t that late, at least. And Mal Hendricks, the show’s frontrunner—lead writer and director—had been pretty easygoing in their interactions so far. Not that Harrison wanted to push things on day one.

He was sweating by the time he crested the hill—he didn’t usually jog in a leather jacket—and forced his breathing to slow as he surveyed the scene. Huh. It really did appear old. From this vantage point, the wooden buildings splayed around the dirt track looked like they’d been here for a century or so. A score of single and two-storey wooden shingled buildings led down to what looked to be old railroad tracks and a white steepled chapel at the end of the dirt street. Whoever cared for the place had done an impressive job. The buildings looked weathertight and well-cared for, apart from a couple that appeared obviously worn, no doubt to provide contrast. A couple of buildings held wooden facades behind which lay white canvas tents, like the true olden days. It must be a huge job to care for this.

He glanced around. Not a modern antennae or powerline to be seen. If he hadn’t just seen the backlot and all those cars he could believe himself to be the only one here, transported back in time five generations. He pushed out a reluctant smile. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad, after all. Especially if the catering was okay, and they served hot food and hotter coffee. And nobody hated on him for being a little late on his first day.

A collection of people emerged from the church, and he pushed back his shoulders. He wasn’t too sorry to have missed that. The church might only be a set, but he’d be happy to avoid it just the same. He may be an actor, but there was no point pretending he had any use for God these days. God certainly had no use for him.

He hurried past several white-trunked aspens and behind a building, working to avoid being seen. If he could join the little crowd and pretend he’d been here a while, that might be best. He slipped behind a saloon, then realized the door was unlocked, and he could go inside. So he did.

Inside was dim and dark, but even with the small square windows only allowing a little light, he could appreciate his surroundings. The rough timber poles holding up the wooden slatted roof were decked in animal skulls and pelts—an animal lover’s hell, as all of them looked real. Oak barrels lined one wall, while another held a few rickety-looking tables and chairs, and a third held a very ancient bar. But even this looked authentic, with uneven shelves displaying a collection of brown and dark glass bottles, along with some earthenware tankards and drinking glasses of various shapes and sizes. Above him hung several oil lanterns, and the huge white skull of what looked like a bighorn sheep. Hmm. If each building was dressed this way, it really could be interesting, and a great way to get in character.

He stroked a pelt—coyote, maybe?—then stilled as a creak came from outside. Uh oh. But he didn’t have time to get to the back entrance. He slid behind the front door, hoping that whoever was outside would either not feel the need to come inside, or if they did, the door would swing inwards and hide him. Looking like he was playing hooky in the saloon was definitely not the impression he needed to be making, especially on his first day. He stood in the shadows, waiting.

A murmur of voices came from outside. Then a woman’s voice, pitched low.

“And this is what we call Harry’s Saloon—”

He froze. What did she say?

“—and another of the original buildings from when it was a town. You’ll see it’s not nearly as nice inside as the Silver Spur, but it’s a good contrast with its skulls and furs, all of which came from here on Three Creek Ranch property.”

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