“All right,” she said. “I understand that you feel sad and that you miss your mother. And maybe you’re a little mad, too. It wasn’t fair what happened to you and her.”
He started a slow tapping of his fingers on his leg, an unconscious movement that indicated she’d struck a nerve. “But it wasn’t your fault, you know that, don’t you?”
He went so still that Jordan had to grip her hands together not to reach out and pull him in her arms.
“Well, it wasn’t. Sometimes bad things just happen to good people.” She pulled the modeling clay from the bin next to the table and removed the different colors. “Someday maybe you can tell me about her.”
His lower lip quivered.
“But only when you’re ready.” She began to roll out the red dough. “For now though, we’re just going to get to know each other.” She eased the blob of blue clay toward him, then gestured around the room at the bin of toys she’d ordered. Blocks, easels for painting and drawing, a toy ranch set with plastic horses, barns, stables and riding pens, puzzles and games and peg boards, and in the corner she’d hung a punching bag. “In fact, when you come here, you can play with whatever you’d like. But today I thought we might work on this clay. Then we’ll go meet your playgroup and catch up with your daddy.”
He didn’t make a move to touch the clay, so she continued to roll hers on the table, shaping it into a ball. Next she poked a hole in the middle. “You can make anything you want. I like doughnuts for breakfast so I made a red doughnut.”
He simply stared at the clay while she continued to talk about other foods she liked. “Ms. Ellen makes the best pies in the world. And she puts ice cream on top. Do you like ice cream?”
He shifted slightly, and she took that as a yes.
“I’m glad you came to stay with us at the Bucking Bronc Lodge,” she said. “There are other kids here to play with. We take hikes, and study nature, and have campouts, and ride horses. Do you know how to ride?”
He drummed his fingers again, then inched one hand up to touch the clay.
“I bet you do. Your daddy’s a cowboy. He’s probably a good rider, too.”
He punched the clay with one finger.
“I know he cares a lot about you. You probably spent a lot of time together before you came here.”
Suddenly he rolled his hand into a fist and pounded the clay.
Jordan forced herself not to react, but something she’d said had hit a nerve. “Do you have horses where you live?”
He punched the clay again.
“Maybe your mommy used to go riding with you.”
This time he pressed both hands onto the clay and began to beat it harder. Over and over until it was as flat as a pancake. She molded hers into the shape of a face, allowing him to vent his emotions.
Finally he hit the clay one last time, then seemed to sag in the chair with a weary sigh. She reminded herself not to push, that he needed time to heal. Purging his anger through healthy means was a baby step, but every step counted.
Jordan checked her watch. “I think it’s time for us to meet your playgroup.” Jordan swept the clay back into the containers, then gestured for him to follow her.
She didn’t give him time to protest but slipped on her jacket, then took his hand and guided him out the front door. The scent of hay, horses and fresh air suffused her, the sound of horses galloping across the pasture breaking the quiet. Timmy’s gaze veered toward the stables, the tension in him easing slightly.
As they walked toward the younger boys’ bunkhouse, she told him more about the ranch. “We have a lot of campers here,” she said. “Some of the older boys came as campers but are now counselors who help us out with riding lessons, campouts and other activities. Last year we had a rodeo and the boys got to participate. We may do another one sometime soon.”
He didn’t comment, but he continued to watch the horses as if he was drawn to them in some way.
They passed a field where several quarter horses galloped freely, and his eyes widened a tiny fraction. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” Jordan said softly.
A little of the haunted look in his eyes lifted.
Jordan tugged her jacket around her tighter as they passed the stream. “Sometimes we fish here. Then the boys cook the dinner over the campfire. Everyone also has chores, too. Working on a ranch is fun but hard work, and the animals need a lot of care.”
Just like little boys, she wanted to say, but she held her tongue. She had to ease into this relationship. Win Timmy’s trust.
They’d reached the bunkhouse, so she knocked, then pushed the door open. Carlos, a sixteen-year-old who’d come here with a bad attitude and record, had recently joined the ranks of assistant counselors. “Carlos, I want the other guys to meet Timmy.”