Home on the Ranch: Oklahoma Bull Rider

by Christine Wenger

  * * *

  As Sara walked from the deck back into the office to claim Mickey, she fumed. Jesse Beaumont had some nerve to talk to her like he had.

  Merciful heavens! He even admitted that he was “chipping away at an associate’s degree.” He didn’t seem to have any experience in dealing with children in need, and his only claim to fame was being a bull rider and having some experience with horses.

  “I should have told him that bull riding isn’t a big deal in central New York like it is out West,” Sara mumbled under her breath as she went to the Assay Office to pick up Mickey. “I am not impressed in the least with Jesse Beaumont.”

  She had to admit that her heart skipped a few beats when Jesse looked at her. She must be jet-lagged, thinking along those lines. She’d been thinking that he was a handsome guy, even when she was questioning his credentials. That jet-black hair and piercing blue eyes made her knees buckle and her heart beat so fast, she thought it was going to jump out of her chest. Admittedly, her judgment was skewed. After all, she’d picked Mr. Good Time, Michael Peterson, to marry eleven years ago.

  She figured that she got pregnant with Mickey on their first Christmas together because Michael’s favorite sports bar was closed.

  It had been a while before she figured out that most of Michael’s affable personality resulted from hanging with his drinking buddies rather than being content with her and Mickey at home. Michael probably only managed to keep his job as a supervisor at an automobile assembly line because he never appeared intoxicated at work, and because he could talk his way out of any trouble, but after work, he never came right home, not even after Michael Jr. was born. Instead, he headed for Finley’s Sports Bar, and its endlessly flowing green beer, while she stayed and home and raised their son.

  In spite of resenting Michael, she’d stuck it out for Mickey’s sake, and look what had happened. What a fool.

  Entering the assay’s office again, she saw Mickey sitting inside, staring out the side window. Usually, he stayed where she left him and didn’t move. But Lori must have taken his hand and showed him something out the window. She glanced out the window to see what he was looking at. It was Bunkhouse 13.

  “Mickey, are you ready to get settled into your bunkhouse and meet some new friends?” Lori asked from behind her desk.

  Mickey walked toward her. To Sara, that showed an overwhelming amount of interest on his part. Usually, if someone didn’t physically touch him to get his attention, he’d stay in his own world forever.

  It had all started with the accident. Her husband had been driving with Mickey in the car, talking on his cell phone, when he collided with a bridge piling. For once he hadn’t been drinking.

  Michael died on the spot, and remarkably, their beautiful boy was unscathed physically. But he had not spoken another word since the accident and had sleepwalked through life in his own little world.

  It didn’t surprise her that Mickey was diagnosed with selective mutism and PTSD: Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. And if anyone had the right to be under stress, it was Mickey.

  Tears sprang to Sara’s eyes, but she quickly brushed them away so Mickey wouldn’t see them. Her son got upset when she cried and would hide his head. Yes, she was going to remain positive with Mickey.

  In spite of her difficulties with Jesse Beaumont, she was going to hope for the best. Maybe she’d be pleasantly surprised.

  If it didn’t work out, she’d be back to talk to Lori.

  “See you two later at dinner.” Lori waved. “Today’s lunch is sandwiches, milk and cookies. Because it’s moving-in day and the kids come in various times, bag lunches are in the little fridge by the ramrod’s desk.”

  Sara nodded. “Goodbye, Lori. I’ll check in at the kitchen—I mean, chuck wagon—as soon as I get Mickey settled in his cabin—I mean, bunkhouse.” She took Mickey’s hand and led him out of the room, onto the deck and down the stairs. Then they walked to number thirteen.

  Jesse came jogging toward them. “Lady, let go of Mickey’s hand! This isn’t the first day of kindergarten. The other kids will pick on him forever, if they see that. Do you want him to fail before he starts?”

  Sara had a feeling that Jesse might be right in this instance, so she turned to Mickey. “Okay?”

  Of course Mickey didn’t answer, but stared at Jesse.

  “Look, why don’t you go and get Mickey’s gear bag, and I’ll get him settled.”

  “Gear bag? You mean suitcase?”

  He rolled his eyes. “What does it look like?”

  “It’s white. With a skyline of New York City on it in black.”

  Jesse took her by the elbow and moved her away from Mickey, then turned to the boy. “Hang on for a second, Mickey, and I’ll get your lunch. I have to speak to your mother.”

  He took her aside and whispered, “For Pete’s sake! Mickey will be beat up before he steps a foot on the dusty wooden floor.”

  “Dusty? My son is allergic to dust.”

  “Then take him to the Ritz. It’s down the street, take a left.”

  “Is there a Ritz—”

  “Of course not!” Jesse pushed his cowboy hat back with a thumb. “Let’s get back to the suitcase problem.” He pulled a set of keys from the pocket of his jeans, singled out one, and handed it to her. “In the back seat of the black pickup over there—” He pointed to the first truck in the first row. “There’s an empty brown duffel with the PBR logo on it. Take Mickey’s stuff out of that suitcase of yours and put his gear in the PBR duffel. I promise you, he’ll be the biggest hit of Bunkhouse 13—that is, after me, of course.”

  “Oh, absolutely, Mr. Beaumont. There’s nothing conceited about you.”

  “Not a thing,” Jesse said. “Take your time. Let me introduce Mickey to the other seven wranglers before his momma comes back.”

  * * *

  Jesse motioned for Mickey to follow him, and the kid did so, with just a glance as to where his mother was going. He opened his small fridge that had contained nine bag lunches. Now, with Mickey’s arrival, all were gone.

  “Your mom is getting you one of my gear bags and is switching your stuff into it. That one you have is a little too much on the mom side. We cowboys don’t put our stuff into luggage. Right, Mickey? From now on, you’re toting your gear in a PBR duffel. You’ll be the hit of Bunkhouse 13.”

  He wasn’t positive, but it seemed that there was a light in the child’s eyes that wasn’t there before, but it was gone as soon as it appeared.

  Jesse opened the bunkhouse door for Mickey, but the boy hesitated. “I got your back,” Jesse said, and he heard Mickey let out a deep breath.

  The boy went through the door, but just barely. Jesse had to gently nudge him to go farther into the bunkhouse.

  “Wranglers, I’d like you all to meet the eighth wrangler of Bunkhouse 13, Mickey Peterson. He’s going to take the last bunk, the one under the window.” Jesse made eye contact with Mickey, then pointed to his bed. “Please make Mickey welcome.”

  “Howdy!” someone yelled. There was some clapping from those who didn’t speak.

  There was no reaction from Mickey.

  “Yo, dude, you should at least wave at your bunkmates. They’re saying hi. You need to say hi back to them,” Jesse said.

  Mickey gave a quick wave, which seemed to satisfy the other boys. Everyone went back to what they were doing, which was mostly unpacking and putting their gear into the two-drawer wooden dressers in between the bunks.

  There was a knock on the cabin door. Sara. Entering, she carried in the PBR duffel bag and stood next to Jesse. He gave her a nod, took the duffel from her, then turned to Mickey, and said in a loud voice. “That must be your gear, Mickey. Hey, nice bag! I have a PBR duffel just like that one.”

  Along with Mickey, all the boys gathered around the bag, looking at the big PBR logo.

  “
Wow,” said Steve, a boy with dark curly hair and dark features. He walked on prosthetic legs. He was hugging a package of crew socks that he hadn’t put away yet. “Dude, that is major cool.”

  “Yeehaw!” said Brendon, a tall, thin boy with shocking red hair and ears that could fly. He had muscular dystrophy. So did Jackson, a pale boy on the shy side.

  “This-s is-s so c-cool,” said David.

  Ty, J.B., Mickey and Glen were nonverbal, but they nodded.

  Brendon said, “I watch bull riding and rodeo on TV, and we have the coolest ramrod at Camp Care—a real bull rider.”

  Jesse pumped the air with a fist. “You know it! Go Bunkhouse 13!” He heard only four voices cheering, excluding his. He vowed to change that. He wanted eight voices cheering. Sure, he was aiming for a perfect score, but he was bound and determined to try like hell to achieve one. “Now, wranglers, finish unpacking. I have to talk to Mickey’s mother for a second.”

  Jesse opened the door for her and they went outside.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  She didn’t speak for several seconds. “Okay, you were right about the duffel bag.”

  “Can I have that in writing?”

  “No way.” She smiled and her whole face lit up. She should do that more often; it made her green eyes shine like twin emeralds. How come he hadn’t noticed them before?

  “Then how about a moonlight walk around the grounds?” he asked. “The wranglers will be at the campfire, according to my schedule.”

  “I don’t think so,” Sara said. “I’m not one of your teeny boppers.”

  “They’re called buckle bunnies.”

  “Whatever. But I’d bet you enjoy the attention.”

  He winked. “Enjoy? What do you mean by that?”

  “Lori Floyd, for one. I’m sure you’re used to women flirting with you.”

  Jesse winked. “All the time.” He didn’t know why he was teasing her, but he liked how she sparred with him. With all the buckle bunnies hanging around him and the rest of the bull riders, Jesse wasn’t used to women challenging him like Sara did. He kind of liked it.

  “Look, Mr. Beaumont, let’s change the subject.”

  “What did I do now, Mrs. Peterson?”

  “You assigned Mickey to the window bunk, and he has allergies, and I don’t want him to get cold at night.”

  “The fresh air will be good for him, and he can always shut the window. I’m sure he knows how to do that. And there’s a box of tissues on the dresser between each bunk. Does he take allergy meds? I don’t remember seeing that in his folder.”

  “No, but I have a box of them in my purse.”

  “Over-the-counter?”

  “Yes,” she replied, her eyes meeting his as if ready for another battle.

  “Not allowed,” he said simply. “Wranglers must go to the camp doctor for anything like that.”

  “I suppose that’s all okay.” She looked at her map. “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 five 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.”

  “What else does your gut tell you?” she asked.

  “That you have to relax, and I’m just the cowboy to show you how.”

  Chapter 3

  A half hour later, Sara seethed as she walked over to the chuck wagon with Mickey. At least the bull rider let Mickey out of Bunkhouse 13 to grab some lunch with her, since he wasn’t a fan of bologna and cheese. But she had to take another child with her—Ty was the boy’s name. He wasn’t a fan of bologna sandwiches, either.

  Jesse made it clear that from now on, they would eat what they were given. But that was nice of him, for now.

  Not that she was softening toward Jesse. The bull rider had a lot of nerve analyzing her and telling her what to do.

  Relax, he’d said.

  As if she hadn’t tried to. She’d tried meditating, yoga, power walking and taking a nap on the weekends. Nothing worked because she couldn’t quiet her mind.

  Sara thought she knew what Mickey needed, and that was this camp. It sounded therapeutic, and yet fun. Besides, Camp Care came highly recommended by Mickey’s school psychologist, so she’d put all her hope and prayers that something—someone—here would be able to reach her son.

  She’d even sunk every cent she had, even lost her job, in the hope that Mickey would respond.

  And what did Mickey get? A bull rider with “gut feelings.” And one of those gut feelings pertained to her parenting!

  She had too much at stake. Mickey needed to be in another bunkhouse.

  Sara vowed to facilitate Mickey’s transfer, but now it was time to concentrate on her scholarship job.

  She studied the kitchen as she approached. If she used her imagination, she could see the back end of a chuck wagon to the right of the door. There were fairly authentic tin cans and metal utensils hanging from various nooks and crannies of the chuck wagon.

  She opened the door and was greeted by a bear of a man. “Welcome to Camp Care’s Chuck Wagon! What can I get you?”

  “I’m Sara Peterson, and I’m assigned to work here to pay off part of my son’s fee.”

  “And I’m Phil Stillwell.” He extended a meaty hand and Sara shook it. Phil had such a strong grip, she thought that her fingers would never work again. “But they call me Cookie. In fact, every chuck wagon that ever hit the trail had a Cookie, no matter what their real name was.”

  “Then ‘Cookie’ it will be.” Sara liked him immediately.

  “And who are these wranglers?”

  “This is my son, Mickey Peterson, and this is Ty. They are both new wranglers.”

  “Excellent!” Phil’s booming voice echoed through the huge hall. “Who’s their ramrod?”

  “Jesse Beaumont.”

  “Outstanding! We are happy to have all of you here,” Phil shouted, then lowered his voice. “Lori called me and said that you’d be coming over for chow. Lunch is over, but I cooked up some hot dogs and beans. Doesn’t that sound like a cowboy meal, hey, Mickey? Ty?”

  No answer. But both boys followed Phil with his eyes. That at least was some kind of reaction.

  “We’d love lunch,” Sara said.

  Phil pointed to the front of the room. “Help yourself to drinks and take a seat. Then we’ll talk about your duties. Okay? I’ll be right back.”

  After Phil left, Sara looked around the dining hall. The hangings on the wall were more cooking implements and big poster-size pictures of authentic chuck wagons of old. Sara turned to the two boys. “I think this is going to be a fun place for you wranglers.”

  By the time Sara got three iced teas, Phil returned, and was setting three heaping plates of beans and two hot dogs in front of them.

  Mickey started eating immediately. He must be hungry—so was Sara—though Ty waited a few minutes.

  Phil slapped his palms on the table, and the three of them jumped. “I suppose you’d like to know what your duties will be.”

  “Yes. I would.”

  “Eat! Eat! We can talk while you’re eating.” He grinned. “Well, Sara, you’ll be doing everything from preparing meals to dishing them out on the assembly line, and then cleaning up afterward. The kids and the ramrods will take their trays to the table over there, clean everything off, and place the dishes and such in the gray bins. Then you will take over and feed the dishwasher.”

  “And this is for every meal?” she asked.

  “Yes, Sara. It’s not as bad as it sounds, and you’ll have help. I have others whose kids are on scholarships as
signed to work here.”

  “Oh, I don’t think it’s bad at all. When do I start?” she asked.

  “Come back at about four o’clock. We eat at five. It’ll be chaos with the new wranglers and ramrods and everyone getting to know one another and them getting to know us, but I guarantee you that it’ll be fun. Now finish your chow and put your dishes and trays over there.” He pointed to the back of the room.

  He held out his hand, and Sara took it. “See you later, Sara. And, Mickey and Ty, you wranglers have a great time at the Double C.”

  Sara nodded. “See you later, Cookie.”

  They finished their “chow” and put their trays where Cookie instructed. Sara couldn’t help but laugh as she and Mickey and Ty walked down the stairs of the chuck wagon. The food was actually good.

  She had a warm feeling that this was going to be a fun job. She was just hoping that Mickey and his fellow wranglers would enjoy their experiences, too.

  Having fun was fine, but she wanted Mickey to benefit from the fun.

  But she’d like to help in the kitchen as much as she was able. When she saw a menu, she could suggest changes to the cowboy grub to make it a bit healthier for Mickey and everyone else. She liked to cook and liked to experiment with herbs and spices. She smiled; wait until the bull rider heard about her plan!

  Ahead and to the right of the chuck wagon, she could see Jesse Beaumont sitting on a large log. He was surrounded by most of the kids from Bunkhouse 13, who were also sitting on logs.

  She reminded herself that it was a plus that Bunkhouse 13 was right next to the chuck wagon. She could observe both Mickey and Jesse, and note any progress, or lack thereof.

  Jesse waved Mickey and Ty over, and both boys slowly walked toward the gathering. The other boys moved over for them to take a seat.

  Sara slowed her pace as she walked by the gathering on the way to her bunkhouse.

  “Real cowboys live by the Cowboy Code. The Cowboy Code is rules for living. For instance, you should never pass anyone on the trail without saying ‘Howdy.’ Oh, and if you complain about the cooking, you’d better be prepared to be the Cookie. And honesty is gold. Your word is your bond, and a handshake is more binding than a contract. And speaking of gold, always live by the Golden Rule—‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.’ A cowboy’s job is never done. Kindness and respect are what makes a cowboy a cowboy. There’s more, but we’ll take them a couple at a time, right here, every day, and talk about each one.”