Every Thursday the Most Eligible Rancher in Pendleton Drove 90 Miles Out of Town and Came Back With Glitter in His Beard. The Whole County Wanted to Know Why. I Was That Rancher

The real reason was the competition.

The Oregon State Senior Games, in June, in Salem. A dance division for teams over sixty-five. Twenty teams. Prize money for the winner, two thousand dollars, which the Golden Steppers wanted to give to the assisted living center for a new van, because the old one had broken down in February and their insurance wouldn’t pay to fix it.

And there was a rule.

Every team had to perform with a coach-partner on the floor. Somebody to lead the couples dance in the middle of the routine.

That was going to be me.

On a stage. In front of two thousand people. In Salem. Dancing a cha-cha with an eighty-seven-year-old woman in a sequin jacket.

There was going to be video.

“I’ve spent twenty-five years being the serious one,” I told my mother. “The one who runs the ranch. Who sits on the water district board. Who negotiates with the bank about the operating loan every spring. People in this town take me seriously.”

“And you think they’ll stop if they see you dance?”

“Mom. I’m going to be wearing a gold vest.”

She covered her mouth with her hand.

Her shoulders started shaking.

“It’s not funny.”

“It’s very funny,” she said, and wiped her eyes. “Hayden. Honey. Do you know what this town has been saying about you for eight weeks? Gambling debts. A cult. Rusty thinks you’re dying.”

“Rusty thinks I’m *dying*?”

“He’s been praying for you at Bible study,” she said.

I put my head down on the kitchen table.

She reached across and patted my hand.

“When’s the competition?”

“June 14th. Salem.”

“I’ll drive,” she said.

“Mom. You can’t tell anybody.”

She stood up and picked up her purse.

“Hayden,” she said. “I’m seventy-six years old. I’m not going to promise something I’m definitely not going to do.”