Reunited With The Bull Rider. Christine Wenger
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“Good.”
“What a bull rider has to do, huh?” he asked.
“Probably with all the publicity you are getting, you’ll get new fans, and then there’ll be new fans for the PBR. The money doesn’t hurt, either. Your product endorsements are very lucrative, too.”
“The Three Musketeers are putting most every cent we can into the ranch.”
Callie nodded. “I can tell you are all pitching in, from some of the bank statements I’ve seen.”
“You’re going to know all about us, except what size underwear we wear.”
“Oh, I found a receipt from the Beaumont Emporium. I know that, too.”
He looked at Callie, eyes as wide as some of the belt buckles he sported.
She laughed. “Only kidding.”
He laughed. She enjoyed how he laughed—free and easy—as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
In fact, that was the essence of his personality. It must be nice to be like that.
“Reed, can I make a suggestion?”
“Try and stop you.”
“I think you should wear your cowboy clothes. Cargo shorts and a T-shirt that says Beach Bum might not be what this show is looking for.”
“Point taken. I’ll be right back.” He hurried down the hallway.
Callie wondered if Reed’s room was the same as it was in high school. She remembered it as a cheery room with colorful Navajo blankets and shelves packed with trophies and belt buckles. Each award displayed a picture of the presenter and the name of the event. There were bigger pictures of saddles, rifles and boots that he’d won—more boots than a man could ever wear. No wonder that they always looked like he’d just taken them out of a box. He had.
Several minutes later, the doorbell rang, and Reed yelled, “Do you mind getting that, Callie?”
“No problem.” She put down the files she was labeling on a cleared spot on the big desk and headed for the door.
“Hi,” she said, looking at all the equipment several people were unloading from a van parked out front.
An older woman with a clipboard waved. “We’re from What’s in Your Refrigerator?”
“Come in,” Callie said. “I’ll show you where the kitchen is and you can set up.”
A man with a white chef’s jacket and black-and-white-checked pants whistled. “I am Chef Marty. What a fabulous place! I heard that it was historic, but this is amazing.”
“Hello, Chef Marty. I’m Callie, assistant for the Beaumont family. The ranch really is a historic place. It was founded at the time of the Oklahoma Land Rush.” Callie grinned. “The founder, Daniel Beaumont, was said to be a Sooner. He was Reed’s great-grandfather, times a few greats.”
She thought she sounded like a tour guide, but she had grown up in the light of one of the most historical places in Oklahoma. Every man, woman and child in Beaumont knew the story of the old place.
“It’s totally ancient. It’s totally medieval,” said a kid in sunglasses lugging an aluminum suitcase and with an e-cigarette in his mouth; she thought he was probably an intern.
“Not quite medieval,” Reed said, entering in the kitchen. “But close.”
“Excuse me, I have work to do,” Callie said, hurrying back to the study. As much as she would like to ogle Reed, she was better off away from him. Their earlier exchange had been a lot of fun, as was any time they talked together, but she needed to focus on her job.
She supposed she could stretch her duties to make sure everything was going smoothly in the kitchen, but what could go wrong?
Thump! Boom!
Someone swore.
Then three more people swore.
“Dude, are you okay?”
Callie went running. In her gut, she knew what had happened: Reed had lost his balance.
Oh, no! She hoped that he hadn’t hurt his knee even more.
But it wasn’t Reed on the ground. It was a crock of chili that Inez had made before she left that had hit the thick tiles and splashed all over Reed, the chef and the lady and her clipboard.
“Dude, this is epic,” said the kid with the sunglasses.
“I’ll double down on that,” Reed said.
Callie sprang into action. She grabbed a roll of paper towels and began scooping the chili into a trash can.
As best as he could, Reed tried to help her. None of the TV people lifted a finger, and that annoyed her.
“Reed, you can’t kneel down with your problems. I’ll take care of this while you change your jeans.”
“I hate to stick you with cleaning up.”
“I have twin brothers who play high school football, baseball and basketball. Can you guess at how many things hit the floor? They’re always tossing something, bouncing something or knocking over something with some kind of ball.”
“You’re too good. My mother would have made us clean it up,” Reed said.
“Oh, I do. Then I clean it up much better after they’re finished.” She turned toward Chef Marty. “Is it still a go for the show?”
“Absolutely. It looks like we are going to make grilled ham and cheese using flour tortillas. Then we are going to make salsa.”
“I think Reed can handle that,” Callie said.
While the TV crew took a break outside, Callie found a mop and bucket in the walk-in pantry and mopped the area. Then she dried it with more paper towels.
“I can’t thank you enough, Callie.”
She jumped at the low but familiar voice. Puffs of air teased her neck as he whispered close to her ear. Turning, she noticed that Reed had changed into black jeans that clung perfectly in all the right places, along with a long-sleeved white shirt covered with either embroidery or sewed-on patches of products and companies that sponsored him.
He had changed his boots from brown to black—alligator, maybe, or some kind of snake.
Not that she’d noticed.
“Oh, uh...you’re welcome,” she said, managing to look away from Reed. “Well, I’d better get back to work.”
“I’ll take you out for your kindness, Callie. I won’t forget.” Reed turned, probably knowing she’d protest. “Let’s get this show back to the kitchen and get cooking.”
She couldn’t help it. She had to watch him walk—crutch—away.
Callie had to get away from Reed, the scent of chili and the young kid with the e-cigarette that smelled like bubble gum.
She couldn’t wait to return to the pounds of paper that divulged the financial secrets of the Beaumonts and get everything entered on her spreadsheet.
* * *
CALLIE SURE WAS a good sport, Reed thought. Whatever Luke was paying her, it wasn’t enough. She was even cleaning up chili explosions. It didn’t go unnoticed that the rest of the people in the kitchen hadn’t lifted a finger to help, except for the young dude with the sunglasses who’d kept handing Callie paper towels. His name was Arnold and, as it turned out, he was the director of the show.
Reed, who had been feeling every ache and pain lately that came from riding bulls, really felt like an elder statesman of the bull-riding world when he realized he had saddles older than Arnie.
“Let’s