A family for the rancher
Sara Peterson has room for only one man in her life—her son, Mickey, who hasn’t spoken since a tragic accident. When Mickey enters an equine therapy program, Sara bumps heads with stubborn bull rider Jesse Beaumont.
Jesse’s great at helping the kids around the ranch, but he’s hardly parent material...or so Sara keeps telling herself. Can the single mom build a forever family with her cowboy?
“I suppose that’s all okay.” Sara looked from Bunkhouse 13 to the chuck wagon. “At least if he needs me, I’m not far away.”
“I’m sure you don’t want Mickey treated any different than the other seven wranglers whose mothers aren’t here. Right?”
“But I am here, Mr. Beaumont.”
“Mrs. Peterson, please, give him some room.”
She rolled her eyes. “Is that your professional advice?”
“Nope. It’s my gut feeling,” Jesse said.
“What else does your gut tell you?” she asked.
“That you have to relax, and I’m just the cowboy to show you how.”
Dear Reader,
Welcome back to Beaumont, Oklahoma, the home of the three bull-riding Beaumont brothers: Luke, Reed and Jesse. They are all Gold Buckle Cowboys.
This is Jesse Beaumont’s story.
Jesse would rather be doing anything but wrangling a bunch of kids at Camp Care, but he soon grows to like them all, especially Sara Peterson’s son, Mickey, who hasn’t spoken a word since his father died in a car accident. Unfortunately, Mickey was in the same accident.
Jesse and Sara don’t agree on anything, least of all how to deal with Mickey. After all, Jesse is the boy’s ramrod, but Sara is the boy’s mother. Jesse doesn’t have any credentials other than that he can ride bulls, but the kids of Camp Care—along with the entire female staff!—seem to be caught up in Jesse’s charisma.
Life is good here in central New York. As I write this, there is a foot of snow on the ground and the Professional Bull Riders (PBR) are going to be at Madison Square Garden starting their next season of competition.
Yee haw!
Christine Wenger
Home on the Ranch: Oklahoma Bull Rider
Christine Wenger
Christine Wenger has worked in the criminal-justice field for more years than she cares to remember, but now spends her time reading, writing and seeing the sights in our beautiful world. A native central New Yorker, she loves watching professional bull riding and rodeo with her favorite cowboy, her husband, Jim. You can reach Chris at PO Box 1823, Cicero, NY 13039, or through her website at christinewenger.com.
Books by Christine Wenger
Harlequin Western Romance
Gold Buckle Cowboys
The Cowboy and the Cop
Reunited with the Bull Rider
Harlequin Special Edition
Gold Buckle Cowboys
The Rancher’s Surprise Son
Lassoed into Marriage
How to Lasso a Cowboy
The Cowboy Code
The Hawkins Legacy
The Tycoon’s Perfect Match
It’s That Time of Year
Not Your Average Cowboy
The Cowboy and the CEO
The Cowboy Way
Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.
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To my dear brother, John Matyjasik, who is strong, silent and has a heart of gold. I love you.
And to the memories of Ed Francis, Eddie Francis and Joan Paries. Rest in peace.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue
Excerpt from Her Favorite Maverick by Christine Rimmer
Chapter 1
“Jesse Daniel Beaumont, will you stand and approach the bench, please?”
Jesse did as instructed.
Justice Richard Connor leaned over his huge oak desk, looked down upon him from a high platform and whispered, “Jess, a bar fight?” He sighed. “I remember those days. Your brother Luke and I got into some doozies.”
“Ricky, technically, it wasn’t a bar fight. It was outside the bar in the parking lot.”
“You bull riders and bronc riders have to stop fighting, for heaven’s sake.” The judge kicked up the volume of his voice, probably for the benefit of the spectators in the courtroom.
Judge Connor couldn’t show favoritism to one of the town of Beaumont’s leading citizens and one of his oldest friends.
Ricky continued, “Mr. Beaumont, this matter is a violation of the law, not a felony or misdemeanor. A lawyer is not necessary in this court, but this matter will be adjourned should you wish to obtain one.”
“No, thanks, Your Honor. Let’s just get this over with. The bronc riders decided to blow off some steam, and—”
The judge raised a thick black eyebrow and whispered, “I don’t care who started it, but I have to hold you to a higher standard since Beaumont—”
Jesse nodded. “Was founded by my ancestor.” Jesse had heard it all before, many times. “And you need to make an example out of me. Right, Ricky?”
“Sheesh. Keep your voice down, Jess.” The judge looked stern, but still whispered. “Camp Care over in Conifer Hill needs some wranglers to live and work with the horses and the kids. You’d be perfect.”
“What are you saying?” Jesse shook his head. “You want me to wrangle kids?”
“No, I don’t want you to wrangle kids! Shut up, Jess, and let me finish. In July, Camp Care opens for boys with special needs. You know, equine therapy. Riding horses strengthens their bones, gives them confidence, responsibility and a great role model in the form of a bunkhouse ramrod for a month. Well, maybe you’re not a great role model right now, but you’re a natural with kids. They love you.”
“They like me because I’m a sports figure, but aww...c’mon, Ricky. A whole month? I have things to do at the ranch while I’m on summer break from the Professional Bull Riders. You know, the Beaumont Ranch is still rebuilding after Hurricane Chloe and my brothers are building houses, and I’d like to help them.
“Can’t you just let me go?”
“Sure. If you promise me that you’ll work at Camp Care and that you’ll stay away from bronc riders.” Okay, one more try to convince Ricky that he wasn’t the right cowboy for the job.
“Speaking of bronc riders, after they were arrested, all you gave them was a fine.”
“I know, but you’re a great horseman, and Camp Care needs you.”
“But those bronc riders practically live on horses! They would have been perfect for Camp Care.”
“Nope. You’re the one. You’d be a terrific bunkhouse ramrod and horse wrangler,” Ricky said quickly. “C’mon, Jess, will you do it? Camp Care needs the help.”
“Bunkhouse ramrod? Does that mean what I think it does, Ricky?”
“Eight kids to a bunkhouse with basical
ly the same needs and one bunkhouse ramrod. That’ll be you. You’ll be given extra training by the best psychologists, school and medical personnel. And they will always be available to assist you.”
“I know that Camp Care is a special charity of yours, and I’ve been promising to help you out for a couple of years now.” Jesse took a deep breath. “I’ll be glad to help out during July.”
There went his plans to help his brothers build their houses.
“Yeah. Okay. And I’ll assist the kids when they ride horses, too.”
Maybe he was sweating for nothing.
Jesse regularly helped out whenever the Professional Bull Riders sponsored equine programs for the kids before an event in various states, and he took a training class on the side. He figured he could handle whatever Camp Care needed him to do while standing on his head.
Yeah, right. Who was he kidding?
But Jesse was trapped and he knew it. He didn’t mind helping the kids ride, but living with a bunkhouse full of them for a whole month? That would try the best counselors, and he wasn’t a counselor by a long stretch. In fact, he was more nervous about living with the kids and counseling them than he was straddling a two-thousand-pound bull with baseball bats for horns. He needed to help his family build their houses. The Beaumont brothers had always stuck together, since their days of playing musketeers.
The judge nodded. “Oh, and would you mind autographing one of your riding gloves for Stevie? You’re his favorite of the Beaumont Big Guns. His birthday is coming up, and he’d be higher than a kite if he got one of your signed gloves.”
“Sure.” Jesse grinned. “I think I have a riding glove in the car or in my gear bag at home. I’ll get it to you.”
The judge motioned for him to go back to his seat, then spoke in a booming voice. “Mr. Beaumont, please return to your seat and face the bench.”
“Mr. Jesse Daniel Beaumont, how do you plead, guilty or not guilty?”
Jesse ground his teeth. Okay, he did throw a couple of punches, but he’d tried to break up a couple fights, too.
“Guilty, Your Honor.”
“Jesse Beaumont, you are hereby sentenced to a conditional discharge with the condition that you complete a month of community service at Camp Care on a full-time basis during the month of July. When your community service is satisfactorily completed, your charge will be dismissed. I will appoint an individual at Camp Care to report back to the court as to your progress, or lack thereof. If you fail to complete your community service, the charge against you will be reinstated and you’ll be sentenced to a period of time at the Beaumont County Jail.”
Jail time at the same institution that proclaimed his family’s name in blazing metal letters over the entrance? The same institution that his father spent some time in? If he was incarcerated there, too, the walls would come crumbling down!
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Jesse said respectfully. “I will do my best.” He felt like he was participating in a play, but only he and Ricky were in on the secret.
“See that you do, Mr. Beaumont.” He tapped his index finger on his bench. “And no more fighting, please.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
As Jesse walked out of the courtroom and down the steps, he convinced himself that he didn’t have to worry about his community service at all. It wasn’t as if he were a rookie; he’d had some practice with the PBR, and he had a whole Camp Care staff to help him.
He knew about horses, and damn, he sure knew about bulls, and he knew how to handle just about every other livestock animal on the planet. His mom had been famous for bringing injured animals home and letting her three boys nurse them back to health.
With kids, he was a rookie; with horses and bulls, not so much.
Whenever he thought about his mother, he remembered how he lost her when he was sixteen. It seemed like only yesterday that she’d been kicked by a horse and had died in his father’s arms on the way to the hospital. Big Dan Beaumont hadn’t been the same since.
But after long years on probation, a diligent probation officer, and months in alcohol rehab, at least Big Dan was sober now instead of being the town menace.
Someday, he’d like to find the love that his parents had. So far, he was busy dodging buckle bunnies and making sure they didn’t sneak into his hotel room when he was on the road or corner him at one of his autograph events.
As Jesse got into his big black pickup truck that he’d received as a gift from one of his corporate sponsors, he chuckled. Big Dan and he had both been accused of fighting, only the difference was that Jesse hadn’t been drinking, and he hadn’t wrecked a couple of bars like his father.
Jesse had been coming out of a charity event at the fairgrounds, he and a bunch of other riders. He didn’t know who said what or who threw the first punch, but they’d all scattered like the wind when the cops came. He hadn’t moved, because the thought of running from his sister-in-law, Beaumont County Sheriff Amber Chapman Beaumont, seemed ludicrous.
But it wasn’t Amber who was on patrol that evening. On duty were two deputies and two rookies who were so fast they must have won gold medals for track and field in the Olympics.
When Sergeant Jay Prestin whizzed by, he said, “Jesse, stay put. Don’t move a muscle.”
So he stayed put and didn’t move a muscle.
“Jay, cut me some slack, will you?”
“Aww, Jess. I wish I could, but I arrested six bronc riders and couldn’t very well let you go.”
While handing him an appearance ticket, Jay apologized to him. “Sorry, Jess. Normally, I wouldn’t have even made any arrests for disorderly conduct, but one of the bar patrons had complained that two combatants had landed on his opened-top convertible and were brawling on his front seat, then flipped to his back seat, and vice versa and crushed some of his opera CDs like potato chips.”
“That wasn’t me, Jay. I did my fighting in the parking lot.”
Jesse shook his head at the memory and turned left onto the “highway,” Trish Perkins Road, which was posted at fifty miles an hour. That was a lot of speed for Beaumont with Trish’s twists and turns.
He turned right onto—what else?—Beaumont Road, which led to the ranch. He drove under the wrought iron arch that said—what else?—Beaumont Ranch with B’s and some tasteful scrollwork.
Whenever he drove under the arch, he thought about the unbelievable history that he’d inherited. With that history came responsibility. He and his brothers did what they could to help fellow ranchers and neighbors get good prices for their stock, and when their neighbors found themselves in financial trouble, a windfall suddenly appeared.
Sure, the homestead was founded when Ezra Beaumont was alleged to have jumped the gun a little too soon and first claimed this parcel, but throughout the years, his ancestors had added land, horses and cattle to the ranch, and established the town.
A sense of responsibility to his heritage had been instilled into him on a regular basis. He always felt the pressure to live up to Beaumont family standards. That was why it had hurt him to see his father become the local drunk and the town joke. But many of their good neighbors and friends knew that Big Dan had been mourning his wife with liquor and bar fights.
To this day, the schoolchildren of Beaumont had to learn the history. They also received tours of the grounds and the historic ranch house every two years along with a barbecue and a singalong with the Cowhand Band.
When he wasn’t on the road riding bulls, Jesse enjoyed being home. Right now, both of his older brothers were building houses on their land, and Jesse planned on helping out. He loved construction work, but now in a couple of weeks, he had to be heading for Camp Care. It was at the upper left corner of Beaumont County, and he could commute back and forth, but he had a sinking feeling that he’d be staying at the camp around the clock unless he could talk his “handler” into letting him go hom
e.
It all depended on how he took to his job of a bunkhouse ramrod and horse wrangler.
* * *
Sara Peterson drove the gray rental car onto the rutted Camp Care driveway. Her budget only allowed her to keep it for a week, but she was sure that she’d know if this place was going to help Mickey by then.
If the answer was “no,” she’d ask for a refund and the two of them would fly back immediately.
The instruction booklet, which she’d almost memorized, indicated that she should check in at the administrative office. There it was, on her left. In keeping with the cowboy theme, a sign said “Assay Office. Miners Welcome. File your claim here.”
She pitied those who hadn’t read the booklet carefully. They’d be looking for a sign that said Administrative Office instead of an old miner’s shack...ahem...assay office.
She had to look up “assay.” Basically, it was an office set up to examine rocks for gold, silver or copper and to file claims on property. These valuable metals were what the miners strove for in an attempt to hit it big. Some did, most didn’t. Sara looked around at all the rustic buildings that seemed as if they all could use new paint and even newer roofs. Was this derelict mess what she’d scrimped and saved for? The place that she’d lost her job over because Charles Ryan and Son Appliances wouldn’t give her a leave of absence? Was this the place that was supposed to help her ten-year-old son speak again?
She saw some kids in wheelchairs and recumbent bikes. Some had guide dogs and walked in pairs of two or three or more. She hoped that Mickey would find friends here.
Her once talkative and joyful Mickey, now silent and so alone for more than two years.
She loved to run her fingers through his black hair, so soft and shiny. His big brown eyes, once twinkling, were now dimmed with sadness and melancholy. Mickey, who used to do wheelies on his bicycle and raced his bike with his friends, now sat silent and isolated. His spindly legs and knobby knees, which once propelled him to make basket after basket, now were under his desk while he played on his computer.
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