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Jesus fucking Christ.
If one more person asked Dooley Robbins to get one more horse to do one more thing that was physically impossible, he was gonna explode. Or maybe shove them up a horse's butt, face first. The thing about Hollywood types was that they didn't understand the anatomy or temperament of horses. They said that was his job. But you couldn't treat them like a herd of milling extras. You had to treat them like animals, and expensive fucking ones at that.
Why in hell had he left the rodeo circuit again?
Oh, yeah. He'd blown his knee out.
"Goddamn it!" Dooley bellowed at some five-foot-three actor that most folks would be surprised to know was a pencil-dick whiney boy. "Stop whacking that mare's neck or I'll tear off your arm and beat you with it."
Somebody started chuckling behind him, the sound low and husky as hell. "I'd pay to see that. Hello Marcus."
"Fuck you, Ty. Couldn't your agent get you another sci-fi film?"
"I'm in a western phase, thanks."
Dooley turned around, came face-to-face with big old blue eyes that were just laughing. He knew that face. Not that he could place the name, but he knew that face. Interesting. "You here to collect the big gray?"
"I am." One square hand was held out to him. "Ty Garrison."
Well, that was better than he'd gotten from anyone else. Dooley shook the man's hand, the name lining up with the face. "Dooley. Stock wrangler. You got to watch the bit on that gray; he's got a soft mouth."
"He got a name?" The man wore the tightest pair of Wranglers known to man, broad shoulders tapering down into a teeny tiny little butt. Goddamn.
He almost looked like a cowboy.