Judging by the glow on her son’s face, he felt as if he’d just been handed the Ten Commandments by Moses on Mount Sinai. The other campers looked just as riveted.
Okay, so maybe Jesse the Ramrod would be okay after all. The Cowboy Code had a lot of merit, and the boys would benefit from knowing it.
Sara grudgingly admitted to herself that she’d developed some respect for Jesse. Not only was he presenting good rules for living, but he was also telling the wranglers of Bunkhouse 13 what he expected of them.
Ingenious ramrod!
Maybe not.
Sara picked up speed and walked to the Cowgirls’ Bunkhouse, Number 16, which Lori had circled on the map with a big “Sara’s Bunkhouse” in red.
Stopping at her car, she picked up her two suitcases, both of which had the theme of the New York City skyline. She could understand how Mickey would have been mocked by the kids, after Jesse pointed it out to her. Mickey could have indicated that he didn’t want to bring the suitcase to Camp Care, but that would have required some type of communication, and that wasn’t Mickey.
Rolling her two suitcases on the dirt walkway, she headed to the stairs of Bunkhouse 16. As she got closer, she could hear the laughter coming out the open windows. With her hand on the doorknob, she paused. She hadn’t been camping since seventh grade, and she remembered rows of bunk beds in a dozen big green buildings at Pine Crest Camp. There, the mattresses were thin and the walls were unfinished plywood, loaded with graffiti like “Carly slept here” and “Annie loves Jake.”
She smiled, remembering good times and a lot of laughs. She’d met a lot of girls who promised “friendship forever” when their two weeks ended. Eventually, as the years passed by, those promises faded.
Now, she was even more isolated. It had been two years. Two years of silence with Mickey and giving him her every waking moment. Before that, it was nine years of marriage with Michael, a nearly sexless, but semi-companionable, marriage.
After Michael died in the accident, and Mickey became nonverbal, she became focused on helping her son.
She didn’t have time for much else.
A couple of guys she’d met at church had asked her out, but she’d turned them down. She was too tired to work at a relationship and too tired to go out. It was probably a mistake to shut them out—she should date and enjoy herself—but she couldn’t manage the energy or interest.
But friends she needed.
Sara wished that both she and Mickey would find those here at Camp Care.
Opening the door, she took a breath and stepped inside. She bit back a laugh because it was almost an exact replica of her cabin at Pine Crest Camp. Several women were sitting on their bunks and talking. Two of them approached her and gave her big hugs of welcome. They whisked her away to the group, and everyone introduced themselves.
They were all fellow moms. Three of their children were on scholarship, and they all were workers at the camp.
Sara felt lighter. She could tell that this was going to be fun.
“We were just talking about the hunky ramrod in Bunkhouse 13. We hear he’s a bull rider and a real cowboy,” said Julia, who had said that she’d be working at the chuck wagon, too. “I wonder what his name is.”
“Those blue eyes...yum!”
“Just like turquoise.”
“I wonder if he’s married.”
“I don’t think so,” Sara said. She didn’t want to tell the group that he’d been chastising her. “And his name is Jesse Beaumont.”
Julia snapped her fingers. “I thought he looked familiar. He’s one of the Beaumont Big Guns, the three brothers who are in the top three spots on the Professional Bull Riders standings on the circuit.”
Another woman who’d introduced herself as Maggie added, “They are the favorites to win the five-day PBR Finals in Las Vegas this year. Only no one can decide which brother will actually win it.”
Sara couldn’t care less if he won or lost the bull riding finals. She didn’t even know if she wanted to get to know him. He’d judged her parenting skills and found her wanting.
After all, what did he know? He should walk a mile in her sandals.
Sara picked a top bunk that had a direct view of Bunkhouse 13. She told herself that it might be fun to sleep up in the air, but to be honest, she could watch Mickey day and night from her position in front of the window.
She wondered what Ramrod Jesse would have to say about that.
Yes, Ramrod Jesse. Handsome beyond belief. His arms bulged with muscles, and he had a tan that was probably from hard work on his ranch. His lips were made for kissing. Yes, he was a cowboy through and through.
What was she doing thinking about him romantically? She didn’t need a man in her life. Men changed personality after the statement: “I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
Adding to the chatter now and then, she unpacked and put her things in the small dresser that was provided between each bunk. Then she made her bed, which was no easy task. She wasn’t short by any means, but the bunk was really high.
“Sara, we’d better get up to the chuck wagon for dinner soon. Phil wants us there an hour early. I wonder what the menu is tonight,” Julia said.
“Phil didn’t tell me,” Sara replied.
“It’s more likely that we’ll be the ones doing the cooking as the days go on,” Julia said. “This isn’t my first time here.”
“As they say, it’s not your first rodeo!” Sara quipped.
Both women laughed. “We are going to have fun in the kitchen,” Julia said. “And maybe Jesse Beaumont and I can talk a little and get to know one another.”
Sara nodded. “Fingers crossed for you.”
* * *
Jesse got a kick out of the kids—or should he say the wranglers. They were so serious when he was discussing the Cowboy Code. He purposely left out some of the rules meant for older cowboys, but the majority of the code pertained to everyone.
He chuckled when he thought about their subsequent conversation about the Golden Rule. The conversation morphed to the art of spitting and burping.
Was he ever that young?
Jesse got up from his place on the fallen log and felt every bone in his body ache. For someone who was twenty-four, he felt ancient. Bull riding was tough on the body.
As the wranglers went back to the bunkhouse to finish unpacking and to get to know one another, Jesse did some stretching exercises and, once he was feeling better, decided to do some push-ups to strengthen his arms.
His right arm anchored him to the bull when it bucked, so it had to be strong.
The sun was hot, so he got rid of his shirt. He began counting. A couple of hundred push-ups would do it while the kids were in a scheduled break in the bunkhouse. Then they’d have to line up for dinner by the flagpole.
In the neighborhood of fifty push-ups, he saw two women out of the corner of his eye. One was Sara Peterson who was trying to be aloof, the other had her mouth open and was visibly ogling him.
Jesse winked. “Hi, ladies. Just doing a little exercise while the wranglers are taking a break. Would you like to do them with me?”
Julia found her voice first. “No, thanks. I couldn’t keep up. I’d rather watch.”
Jesse stopped and slipped back into his shirt.
* * *
Julia pulled at Sara’s sleeve. “Too bad he put his shirt on, huh, Sara? I was enjoying watching him. He’s amazingly fit.”
When he put his shirt, it was like covering up a Picasso. She blinked to get back to reality. Reality was a mute son; fantasizing about this bull rider wasn’t for her. Jesse was nice to look at, but that was about it.
“Julia, you go ahead to the chuck wagon. I’ll be right there,” Sara said. “I’d like to speak with Mr. Beaumont for a second.”
Julia gasped as if Sara had just told her that
she was going to have a meeting with the Pope. “What? Really? Okay, sure.”
Sara waited until Julia was almost to the chuck wagon, then she turned to Jesse. “I couldn’t help overhearing what you said to the kids about the Cowboy Code. They were paying absolute attention to every word you were saying. Mickey was enthralled, too.”
“I noticed Mickey,” Jesse said. “It was as if he were hypnotized.”
“They all were. You’re reaching them. Mickey doesn’t look that way at me when I’m speaking.”
“You’re his mother. I’m someone different and a sports figure. That’s why.”
Sara shrugged. “You’re right.” She looked around and shifted on her feet. She should apologize to him for their earlier discussion, but she wasn’t ready to surrender the sting of his know-it-all comments. “Well, I’d better get going. I don’t want to be late my first day on the job,” she said.
“Same here.” Jesse buttoned the top button of his shirt. “I’d better get my wranglers ready for chow. See you at the chuck wagon.”
Sara entered the chuck wagon’s door, glanced at the rows of long tables and folding chairs, which wouldn’t be empty for long, and went in back to the kitchen to find Phil.
He was talking to Julia. “Hi, Sara. I understand you already met Julia.”
“Please, everyone call me Jules,” she said. “And we know each other,” she said to Phil.
“Good.” Phil handed Sara a white chef’s apron and Jules helped her tie it in the back.
“Thanks,” Sara said.
Phil pointed. “Sara, you and Jules will be at the steam table. Everyone will come through with trays and plates. Sara will dish out the spaghetti. Jules, you ladle out sauce and two meatballs. The ramrods get three meatballs,” Phil said. “Rolls and butter will be on the table, along with a bowl of family-style salad. Our other helper, my wife, Margie, will take care of that stuff.”
“I’ll keep your steam tables stocked. I figure that I’ll have to refill it all at least twice and once again for second helpings.” Cookie grinned. “And it’s as simple as that.”
“It does sound simple,” Sara said. “What aren’t you telling us?”
“The noise is unbelievable. You won’t be able to hear yourselves think.”
No wonder Phil had developed such a booming voice. She’d like nothing better than to hear Mickey make noise, so that wasn’t a problem, as far as she was concerned.
“What else?” Jules asked.
“If there’s a food fight, make sure you duck, and hurry into the kitchen.”
“They wouldn’t dare,” Sara said.
Jules chuckled. “It happens at least once a session. The little kids are the worst. And Phil makes everyone wash the walls and clean it all up. No exceptions.”
“Good. No one should waste food.” Sara thought about how there were times when she didn’t have much money for food, and how she could make soup or stew out of nothing. Wasting food should be a violation of the...the...Cowboy Code at least!
She could hear a nondenominational prayer being said by Lori Floyd over the loudspeaker. “...and help us to live by the Cowboy Code and live by the Golden Rule. Help us to be kind to everyone we meet. Help us to enjoy our time at Camp Care and have some fun. Amen.”
“Amen,” echoed most everyone.
The bunkhouses were called in numerical order. Lori explained that later they would call out bunkhouses by cleanliness; Bunkhouse 13 was the last to be called.
The doors flew open and the wranglers headed for trays and plates. Margie had already set the tables with salad and rolls and set out pitchers of water, milk and iced tea.
The wranglers headed for Sara at a dead run, but she held her ground like Stonewall Jackson. She picked up hot spaghetti with a pair of tongs and set it on plate after plate as they came sliding in front of her. She almost missed Mickey when he came by, but he clinked his spoon against his plate for her to notice him.
Sara was shocked and jubilant at the same time. Normally, her son wouldn’t call attention to himself in any way. This was a big deal to her, and Mickey hadn’t even been at Camp Care for a whole day. “Mickey! How are you?”
He nodded.
He nodded!
Mickey had to move to Jules’s station for his meatballs before the other wranglers physically pushed him along, so when Jesse Beaumont appeared at the steam table she was wiping tears from her eyes with the bottom of her apron.
Rarely did Mickey communicate when he was asked a question, and he never looked into her eyes. Never. “Mrs. Peterson, what’s wrong?” Jesse’s turquoise eyes were full of concern. “Are you hurt? Did you burn yourself?” He came around the table to where she was standing and took her hands in his. He inspected them, front and back.
“Shh...” She whispered in his ear, enjoying his smell of pine and cedar. She didn’t want Mickey or Jules to hear. “I’ll tell you later. But it’s a happy cry.”
“Oh, one of those.” Jesse winked. “My mother used to have happy cries all the time.”
Jesse got back in line, and Sara gave him the biggest portion of spaghetti that she could. Turning to Jules, she said, “Don’t forget the extra meatball for the ramrods.”
“This ramrod deserves four meatballs,” Jules said, then giggled.
“Thanks, ma’am,” Jesse reached to tweak his hat, but he wasn’t wearing one. He nodded instead, then moved on.
“That man is just gorgeous,” Jules whispered to Sara. “Are you two an item?”
“An item?” Sara gritted her teeth. “No. He’s not my type.”
But what was her type?
Her husband, Michael, had been more interested in the local bars instead. Before the bars opened, he was more enchanted with his reference books that listed car parts than he was in being with her and Mickey.
Sharpening pencils was the extent of his exercise. His black Dodge truck was his reward for a job well done from his company. If Michael could have worked twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, instead of coming home to them, he would have.
At least he’d supported them. Mickey hadn’t wanted for anything, and Sara hadn’t wanted anything from Michael.
As she sweated over the spaghetti, Sara wondered what Michael would think if he saw her now, working for tuition. He’d always wanted her to be more of a showpiece, the perfect wife and mother who entertained his supervisors with dinner parties, so his well-heeled bosses might promote him even higher.
They’d grown apart almost immediately after Mickey was born. Mickey had come as a surprise to them both, but even more to Michael, who would have rather done anything than hang with his own son. Sara supposed that Michael loved their child in his own way, but he never showed that to Mickey.
Then the accident happened. Michael had picked up Mickey from hockey practice as planned, when he got a phone call from one of his workers on the assembly line that the line had gone down.
Michael had answered it, talked for a while, went through a red light and hit that bridge piling. Michael died, and Mickey had not spoken or cried in the two years since. It was as if Mickey was punishing himself.
In those two years, she took Mickey to at least four psychiatrists. He saw school counselors and school psychologist in between. They’d all exchanged notes on Mickey, and she read them, too.
Nonverbal.
Won’t make eye contact.
In his own world.
PTSD from the accident.
Selective mutism.
Could the bull rider possibly do what the professionals could not?
Chapter 4
Two days later, as Jesse walked down the worn dirt path to the spring-fed mountain lake, he wondered why he suddenly felt unsure of himself with his wranglers.
After he attended a meeting with medical personnel, it hit him for the first time that he’d be
en roped into a big responsibility.
Eight young lives were suddenly under his care. By the end of the month, Jesse wanted to return them to their families just the way they had been dropped off, at least physically—with no bones broken or bruises. But even more, young minds were so vulnerable; he didn’t want to do or say anything that would warp them for life.
Jesse wanted to help improve their minds and help with their various special needs. After reading their files and taking copious notes, Jesse formulated a plan for each wrangler, and planned to run them by the gang who resided in the fake bank made of bricks, the specialists. His wranglers were very impressionable. Jesse already noticed Glen and J.B. imitating the way he walked, with a little limp in their gait. Six months ago, a bull had gotten a little too frisky with his horns at the Colorado event, and it resulted in a tiny hitch in his own giddyup. It would eventually go away.
Steve and Brendon had already phoned their parents and asked for Wrangler jeans and Resistol hats because that was what Jesse sported.
All his wranglers sported red bandannas around their necks. They were a gift from Jesse on the first day of camp. He thought the boys would like them. One by one they had Jesse autograph the bandannas, and they wore them all day yesterday and today, as if they were some type of symbol of Bunkhouse 13.
Yes, the wranglers in Bunkhouse 13 were bonding. Those who could, talked all night and into the wee hours of the morning. His wranglers even had a burping contest, with the non-talkers winning it. Jesse didn’t care if they pulled an all-nighter; he wanted the wranglers to enjoy their stay, but he wondered what Sara Peterson would say.
There would be hell to pay if Mickey didn’t get enough sleep and dozed off during lunch onto his tray of chicken soup and a ham and cheese sandwich.
Home on the Ranch: Oklahoma Bull Rider Page 4