Home on the Ranch: Oklahoma Bull Rider

by Christine Wenger

  Sara pulled into a parking space, shut her car off and looked at Mickey. He was staring straight ahead at the assay office.

  “Mickey, let’s get you registered and then you’ll get a cabin. Isn’t this going to be fun?”

  No answer.

  It wasn’t as if Sara had expected one, but she could always hope.

  If this ramshackle place could get her son to talk, then losing her job and working off some of Mickey’s tuition in the camp kitchen would be worth it.

  “Okay, Mickey. Let’s go check in.”

  As she walked up the stairs, which were surprisingly sturdy for the old building, she silently cursed Charles Ryan and Son. Since old Charlie Ryan retired and his son took over Charles Ryan and Son Appliances, Ryan Junior wouldn’t hear of her taking leave in the summer. He said that was their busiest time. Even when she explained about Mickey and how she was going to work in Camp Care’s kitchen in exchange for having some of her son’s camp tuition waived, Charlie Junior stood firm.

  How much business could an appliance place have during the summer in little Henderson Falls, New York? That was when most took their vacations.

  She’d worked there since she was eighteen, designing spreadsheets, entering all kinds of appliance information, ordering stock and parts and putting in orders for repairs. In all of those ten years, she’d never noticed a spike in appliance sales in the summer. In fact, business declined.

  Then Junior had let her go, saying that his wife was going to take over Sara’s job anyway to save him money.

  She was outraged and stormed out of the place, but not before dumping her “things to do” basket all over Junior’s desk. Then she combed the classified ads and went out for numerous job interviews. Nothing had come through. When she’d called Lori Floyd, the business manager of Camp Care, and told her that her insurance had been terminated and that their round-trip airline tickets from Syracuse to Beaumont, Oklahoma, took up the last of her savings, the wonderful woman told her that the cost of Mickey’s stay would be covered, and would she like to work in the kitchen?

  Absolutely!

  Maybe, Charlie Ryan Junior would figure out that he couldn’t get along without her and ask her back.

  But she wouldn’t go back to Charles Ryan and Son Appliances. She’d take great pleasure in turning Junior down. Especially when she’d been treated miserably and left crying and wondering how she’d get the money for all of Mickey’s counselors. Where would she get the money for their next round of groceries when they returned to New York? Unemployment and food stamps were a blessing, but they didn’t cover everything she needed.

  She wasn’t going to ask her parents for money anymore. As it was, they were paying for a lot of Mickey’s psychiatrist fees. They were on a fixed income. She wouldn’t ask them for one more cent.

  Sara’s meager savings paid for his other counselors and whatever else he needed, like specialized doctors who all said that there was nothing physical wrong with Mickey’s ear canals or his throat nor any other sign of trauma from the accident.

  So the diagnosis was PTSD and selective mutism from the accident.

  The last psychiatrist that she’d taken him to endorsed Camp Care very highly. So, clinging to her recommendation, she started the wheels turning...or should she say wagon wheels?

  Sara had to think positive. Maybe being let go was a sign that it was time for a change. Charles Ryan and Son Appliances was a dead end anyway.

  They walked into the Assay Office, where the theme continued. Yellowed “Wanted” posters littered the gray, wooden walls. There were signs detailing the prices for a bath. She had to smile at the descriptions. A tub of water and a sliver of soap, could be had for fifty cents. A clean towel was an extra twenty-five cents.

  “Hello and welcome to Camp Care! I’m Lori Floyd, Camp Care’s administrator. Who is this young man? Is he going to be one of our wranglers?”

  Mickey stared straight ahead oblivious of Lori Floyd’s cheerful demeanor.

  “I’m Sara Peterson, and this is my son, Mickey.”

  “Hi, Sara! And welcome, Mickey. Let me check you in. I love checking in our wranglers.”

  Mickey was seemingly oblivious to her excitement. Tears stung Sara’s eyes when she remembered how Mickey used to play any game that involved a ball or stick. Now, he just sat and watched TV. Even with the crazy comedies on, Mickey never cracked a smile.

  “Just call me Lori. We’re pretty informal here at the Double C.”

  “Okay. Lori it is. And please, call me Sara. We spoke on the phone. And I’d like to thank you for everything you’ve done. I’m sure that Mickey’s thrilled to be here.”

  Lori waved the air dismissing her gratitude. “No problem.” She picked up a sheet of paper. “And you’re going to work in our chuck wagon, right, Sara? You’ll have a great time with everyone, especially Phil. He’s the chef, also known as Cookie. I’ll check Mickey in, then Mickey can go to his bunkhouse for a bag lunch. We do that on moving-in day. After you drop Mickey off, go to the chuck wagon and have some lunch, and you can let Phil know you’re here and pick up your schedule. You’ll be serving dinner tonight. Did you bring your cowgirl duds to wear?”

  “Yes. I brought jeans and boots and a couple of long-sleeved blouses,” Sara replied.

  “Perfect.” Lori turned her attention to Mickey. “Mickey, a chuck wagon is what accompanied the trail drives in the old days. Usually, the cook drove the wagon and all his supplies were there—pots and pans, flour, coffee, bacon, tin plates and cups. That’s why we call our food hall the chuck wagon.”

  There wasn’t any visible interest from Mickey.

  Lori kept talking. “And, Mickey, we have a wonderful cabin for you with a wonderful ramrod. That means he’s the boss of the bunkhouse, just like a ramrod was the cowboy in charge of the cattle and the cowboys in the old days. Everyone had to listen to him. Your ramrod is a little new, but you can break him in.” She giggled.

  “He’s a local guy,” Lori said, typing on a laptop. “Oh, and, Mickey, he’s a top bull rider with the Professional Bull Riders. You are going to like him a lot. He’s definitely cool.” Lori had a dreamy expression on her face.

  “Sara, you are in Bunkhouse 16. Mickey, you are in Bunkhouse 13.” Lori scribbled on a yellow piece of paper. “And, Mickey, your ramrod is Jesse Beaumont. He is volunteering to serve out a sentence of community service. The town and county of Beaumont was even named for his ancestor, who founded the town. And you two flew into the Beaumont Airport, I’m sure.”

  “Jesse Beaumont,” Sara repeated. She was betting her last cent on the skills of this...um...bull rider to help her son?

  A bull rider?

  “Oh,” Lori puffed up her hair, and hurriedly slid on a bright slash of lipstick. Then she looked out the window as if she were expecting someone.

  “You’ll love Jesse,” Lori continued. “So, Sara, drop Mickey off at Bunkhouse 13 and check in with Cookie at the chuck wagon.”

  Sara nodded woodenly. A bull rider serving a sentence... She couldn’t wait to meet this guy.

  Chapter 2

  “I know Judge Connor sentenced me to Camp Care, but it’s cruel and unusual punishment. It’s not cruel and unusual to me, you understand, but to the kids.”

  Lori grinned from ear to ear. She was so easy to flirt with. “And not that I’m superstitious, but Bunkhouse 13 is a little ironic, isn’t it? But why don’t you just call it Bunkhouse Titanic?”

  Lori tilted her head and twirled a brown curl. “You’ll be wonderful, Jesse. Just be yourself.”

  “Be myself? Okay. I ride bulls. I’ll go into Bunkhouse 13 for eight seconds. Then I’ll hit the ground and run away.”

  She laughed loudly.

  Her eyes twinkled. “The psychiatrists, counselors, therapists and psychologists on our staff can help you. That’s what they do.”

  �
��Oh, yes. They are in that nice house that looks like a bank. Meantime, I’m in a bunkhouse that was built in 1860.”

  “Jesse, you’re a hoot.” Lori chuckled. “And guess who’s monitoring your community service and reporting back to Judge Connor?”

  “You?”

  “At your service, cowboy.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Jesse saw a woman enter with a young boy. Maybe the kid was about nine or ten.

  Lori cleared her throat. “Hold that thought, Jesse. I’m going to see what Mrs. Peterson needs.” She turned to Sara. “Is there something else, Mrs. Peterson?”

  “I need directions to the chuck wagon and Mickey’s cabin. I checked the map but I couldn’t find either one.”

  Lori pointed to the map. “Oh, see? It’s right here. It’s in the shape of a big chuck wagon...sort of,” Lori said, giggling. “We changed the facade on it to look like a chuck wagon after those flyers were printed. But I guess you have to use your imagination.”

  “Mickey’s cabin is right next to the chuck wagon. That’s terrific. I can keep an eye on him.” Sara turned to Jesse and raised an eyebrow.

  “Oh, where are my manners?” Lori said. “Sara Peterson, I’d like you to meet Jesse Beaumont. He’s going to be Mickey’s ramrod. And this is Mickey. Mickey, this is Mr. Beaumont. Sara and Mickey live in Henderson Falls, near Syracuse, New York.”

  Sara ignored Jesse’s outstretched hand and turned to Lori.

  Ouch, that hurt. Nothing like a complete snub.

  “I am going to go out on the deck and talk to Jesse. Then, Lori, the three of us need to have a conversation.”

  Sara Peterson might be even better looking if her blond hair wasn’t pulled back into such a tight bun at the nape of her neck. Maybe she had a nice smile, but he hadn’t seen evidence of one at all.

  To top it all off, she was bossy.

  Sara shook her head. “I’m sorry, but based on what I’ve overheard, I’ve reconsidered placing Mickey in your program.” She took a deep breath. “Are all your staff defendants serving a sentence here?”

  “Jesse’s the only one. Community service, you know.”

  “That...cowboy...is a defendant?” she asked, eyes narrowed.

  Lori grinned. “Uh...um...technically, yes, but he’ll be great.”

  Jesse raised an eyebrow. “Uh, he’s standing right here.”

  “And he’s going to be responsible for my Mickey? To help him get better?” Sara asked, clearly disgusted.

  “Sure,” Lori said.

  “Um...why don’t you ask him?” Jesse shifted his stance. “He’s been standing here listening.”

  She looked shocked as if Jesse had just entered the room. Suddenly, her face softened, and she turned to Jesse.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Beaumont, but I can’t help how I feel. I don’t trust a lot of people with Mickey. Lori, please, just please, find Mickey another bunkhouse with a ramrod who is not a criminal and who has had some experience dealing with kids like him.”

  Darn it all. He resented being called a criminal and was irritated with the woman. She didn’t even know him. Shoot. It probably would be worth it to just to do his time in jail and watch this place disappear in his rearview mirror.

  “Lori.” Jesse moved toward the door. “This lady doesn’t want a criminal taking care of her kid, and probably the other parents think the same way, so, Lori, please tell Judge Connor that Jesse Beaumont should hit the trail,” he said, keeping with the Western theme.

  Lori tapped the counter with a pen. “Can’t do it, Jesse. The judge said that you’d try to worm out of your sentence. He said to tell you each time to quit whining and get to work. He said that no one is better with horses than you, and he has faith in your ability to work with kids.”

  “Dam...darn him!”

  “He also said that you’d try and pick me up.”

  At that remark, Jesse couldn’t help but let loose a loud belly laugh. Poor Sara Peterson jumped a foot at his sound. So did her son.

  Jesse turned toward Sara, who had her hand on the doorknob, seemingly ready to escape. “Mrs. Peterson, it appears that I’m stuck here for a while. If nothing else, I am great with bulls and horses. I won’t let your kid fall off a horse if that’s what you’re worried about, and I won’t corrupt him.”

  Sara looked from Lori to Jesse. She was going to lose this one. “Please step outside, Mr. Beaumont. I’d like to speak with you in private.”

  He leaned down to Mickey and winked. “I hope your mom isn’t going to beat me up.”

  The boy blinked, but not much else. Poor kid. Jesse wondered why Mickey didn’t talk, didn’t react.

  Sara Peterson was waiting for him on the deck. This wasn’t going to be good.

  She crossed her arms as he closed the office door and stood across from her. “Go ahead, Mrs. Peterson.”

  “One more time, Mr. Beaumont, I don’t want to offend you, but I don’t want a criminal in charge of my son. I don’t want him to be my son’s ramrod or camp counselor or whatever you’re to be called.”

  “Call me Jesse.”

  “Mr. Beaumont, there’s a lot at stake here. I think that my money is best spent elsewhere.”

  Suddenly, Jesse decided to put his objections aside and do his best.

  “Bull! This is a great program. I’ve heard that there have been a lot of success stories as a result of the kids staying here, and kids who started out not speaking left chattering away.” That he did know. “Mickey could be one of them. Give him a chance.”

  Sara uncrossed her arms, but looked ready to pounce on him.

  He took a deep breath and let it out. “Look, Mrs. Peterson, please keep Mickey in the program, and I’ll do my best not to be a criminal. Okay?”

  “I should ask you what you did to become a criminal.”

  “It’s a long story. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “As was every criminal before you.”

  “No. Really. And if I satisfactorily ramrod the kids and wrangle the horses for the month—or is it the other way around?—my arrest will be expunged.”

  “So what did you do?” Sara asked. “Give me the short version.”

  “My crime was disorderly conduct—a fight in the parking lot of a bar after a rodeo. It was bull riders versus bronc riders, and I’m proud to say that the bull riders won. It’s not the crime of the century, but I hope I eased your mind.”

  “You did somewhat ease my mind, Mr. Beaumont.”

  “Jesse.”

  “Mr. Beaumont, I’ll give you a small period of time to see how you are doing with my son. If you’re not performing to my satisfaction, I’ll pull Mickey from the program or get him another...ramrod. I’ll be watching you from the kitchen—I mean the chuck wagon—where I’ll be working. Working there, I can see what Mickey eats, too.”

  She sounds just like Mrs. Flanagan, my fourth-grade teacher!

  When she wasn’t bossy and overbearing, Sara Peterson was probably a looker, but Jesse found it difficult to get past her attitude. But perhaps Mickey’s silence came from losing a parent.

  He could understand that.

  “I wanted to discuss something with you. Mickey seems to have a lot of food allergies,” he stated.

  “What do you mean, Mr. Beaumont?”

  “I was reading the folders of my wranglers, and Mickey had quite the list. Can he really be allergic to candy and all other sweets? That’s the pits, the poor little wrangler!”

  Jesse continued. “You ought to give your kid a break and leave him alone for a while. It’s camp, for heaven’s sake. This is going to be the Land of the S’mores around the campfire. I’d hate to tell Mickey that he can’t have any.”

  “I just want him to eat healthy.” Her eyes sparked like his backfiring old Ford pickup.

  “He will. With some fun
stuff thrown in.”

  Sara ground her foot into the dirt like a mad bull. “Where did you get your degree, Mr. Beaumont?”

  “Jesse.” He grinned. “I joined the Professional Bull Riders when I was eighteen. Although I have been chipping away at an associate’s degree during the summer when the PBR is on break. This summer, my classes are on hold.”

  “Chipping away?” She fingered her bun, tucking in loose hair. “Chipping away? On what? Child psychology?”

  “Animal husbandry and ranch management.”

  “That certainly doesn’t qualify you to take care of my son, does it?”

  “Lady, there are psychologists, certified instructors and many more professionals on staff. I am not a certified equine therapist, but we have those that are with many degrees and initials after their names.”

  “Thank goodness they aren’t chipping away at their degrees.”

  Jesse let out a long whistle. “How about you, Mrs. Peterson? Child psychology?”

  “I started working at eighteen,” she said quietly, looking down as if she were embarrassed.

  What a jerk he was. He didn’t mean to humiliate her.

  “Look, Mrs. Peterson, like I said, I never professed to be a counselor or a shrink. But kids relate to me, maybe it’s because I’m a bull rider and kids like sports players. How do I know? All I know is that I’m going to be in charge of Bunkhouse 13 and the equine program, and I won’t let your kid or any kid fail. Is that plain enough, Mrs. Flanagan?”

  “Who?”

  “I mean, Mrs. Peterson. Sorry, I had you mixed up with someone else for a moment.”

  She stared up at the sky, then raised her hands as if she was giving up. “Oh, just call me Sara.”

  “Someday.” He tweaked his hat. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have my wranglers to meet and greet and enjoy some bag lunches.” He turned to leave, then snapped his fingers. “Oh, and Mrs. Peterson, please make sure you bring Mickey to Bunkhouse 13 as soon as possible. I’d like him to get acquainted with his fellow campers, or wranglers, all seven of them, plus me.”