Lone Oaks Crossing

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 5

Brooks had experienced loss before. It was nothing new to him. The same loss was written on Jo’s face.

He glanced at her as they entered the stable at Lone Oaks Crossing. The tears she had shed minutes earlier inside Earl’s bedroom had dried on her face during the walk from the house to the stable, but the rosy flush of pain in her cheeks and the heavy anguish deep in her eyes remained.

“Thank you for helping Earl,” she whispered.

He lowered his head, barely catching her soft words, her sorrowful tone coaxing forth a deep-seated pain he’d buried long ago.

“You were very . . . tender with him.” Her cheeks flushed. “I guess I didn’t quite expect that.”

“I’m glad I could help,” he said. “I know how painful it is to see someone you love hurting and be unable to heal them.”

She glanced up at him, her long lashes still damp with tears as she surveyed his expression. “You’ve lost someone to an illness?”

He nodded. “More than once. I’ve experienced a great deal of loss in my life, actually. More than most people assume.”

At an early age, he’d lost his father to gambling and greed. Shortly after, he’d lost his mother to grief and despair. He’d lost his family’s money, his family’s land, and his family home. But worst of all, he’d lost his childhood. The happy memories he treasured—time spent with a loving mother and father who had once enjoyed spending time with him in a childhood home where he roamed freely, fearlessly, and with hope for the future—had all been tarnished in later years by understanding of his father’s weakness and greedy habits, which had been easily preyed upon by others.

After his mother’s passing, he’d been declared a ward of the state and placed in Dream House, a foster home in Lone Oaks. The plain, two-story brick building situated in the center of the small town had seemed like a prison to Brooks after spending his first fifteen years on the wide-open, serene acres of Rose Farm. A farm much like Lone Oaks Crossing.

Though he’d only spent three years in the facility, from age fifteen to age eighteen, he’d gotten his fill of the place early on, and by the time he’d aged out and left Dream House, he’d had no desire to ever return.

Not that his experience there had been all bad. On the contrary, he’d been well cared for, provided a warm bed along with an acceptable amount of privacy and solitude when he desired it, and had met a handful of boys his age who’d suffered through circumstances that made his own misfortunes pale in comparison. He’d laughed in that building on several occasions. Had fun even. But on the nights he’d locked himself in the small bathroom of his dormitory and released his grief in private, he’d shed more tears than any teenage boy ever should.

The only person he’d missed from Dream House had been Agnes St. Clair, a woman who’d been his mother’s age during their first meeting. He’d taken an instant liking to her sweet smiles and warm, comforting hugs. She’d been the only adult who’d always been there for him anytime he wanted to talk and had compassionately admonished him when necessary during the times he’d acted out. She could never fully understand his pain—no one could—but she’d empathized with him as best she could. Losing a father to suicide and a mother one year later to a heart attack was an experience no boy his age should ever have to endure.

Ironically, the loss he’d known had been all the more painful because he’d been fortunate enough to experience a happier period of time in his childhood. A time full of warm, loving moments that had held such bright hope for the future.

He still carried that loss within him every day. It had set down roots in his heart and branched out, infiltrating every cell of his being, driving him to replace it with something new. Something better. A vision of the life that should have been his.

“I’m sorry to hear you’ve had troubles,” she said as they reached the stable entrance.

He shrugged. “I suppose loss is a part of life, but sometimes good outcomes spring from bad events.” He motioned toward her. “Take your situation, for instance. You gave up your career and came back to Lone Oaks to take care of Earl. To support him through what I’m sure will be a very difficult time of healing for him and to revive his farm. I’m sure your presence and intentions are a great comfort to him.”

“My presence, sure,” she said. “But he’s unaware that I know how much trouble Lone Oaks Crossing is in. The last thing he would ever do is to cross that line of oaks separating your property from ours and ask you for charity.”

“I don’t consider my giving you help to be charity.”

“No.” A cynical tone mixed with the exhaustion in her voice. “You see it as a potential business opportunity, which is fine with me so long as we understand each other.”

She ducked her head as they entered the stable, then walked slowly from one stall to the next, her downcast eyes glancing up occasionally to observe the new horses he’d delivered before she arrived home from the hospital with Earl.

“You brought six,” she said, stopping with her back to him. “I only asked for two.”

“I know.” Brooks stopped as well and leaned against the door of an empty stall. The wood of the frame, cracked and weatherworn, creaked beneath his weight. “I thought you could use more than two, seeing as how you’ll need as much income as you can get to fix this place up.” He surveyed the six stalls stretching out in front of him, each one housing a new horse. “The two grays on the left belong to a friend of mine from out of the county. He runs a boarding service himself that has more business than he can handle, and he considered it a favor for you to take these two off his hands. The three paints on the right are from a rescue ranch near Lexington. They’re full up and needed to clear a couple stalls for new arrivals so I suggested that we board them here until we find suitable applicants for adoption.”

Jo turned her head to the side, the waves of her honey-brown hair rippling down her slender back. Her wardrobe had changed. Instead of the baggy shirt and jeans she’d worn on her visit to him a few days prior, she now wore a fitted, faded set of jeans, a long-sleeved Henley shirt, and well-worn boots. “And the chestnut?” The cynicism in her tone deepened. “He doesn’t look like a typical boarder.”

Brooks smiled, his chin lifting as he studied the two-year-old thoroughbred in the stall on Jo’s right. “No. That one’s a winner.”

Shoulders tensing, she turned slowly and faced him. “He’s yours, isn’t he?” she asked. “Your colt.”

“Yeah.” Brooks strode over to the stall. Immediately, the thoroughbred raised his head above the stall door, his damp nose sniffing the air, searching for Brooks’s outstretched hand. “Another Round is mine.”

“Another Round?” Soft footsteps fell behind him as Jo walked to his side, the sweet scent of her hair prompting Another Round’s nostrils to flare even wider. “What inspired you to give him that name? His sire?”

“No.” He stroked Another Round’s forehead, watching as the horse’s soulful eyes settled on Jo. “He doesn’t need inspiration from a sire. He stands for something in his own right. He’s strong and powerful, fierce and competitive. Capable of going the extra mile and turning things around at the last fraction of a second.”

“So, he’s a closer?”

Another Round, ears moving toward the sound of Jo’s voice, dipped his head away from Brooks’s hand and nudged his nose toward Jo.

“He’s more than a closer,” Brooks said, pride lifting his chest. “He’s a natural.”

Jo issued a wry smile. “One could say that all thoroughbreds are born for it, don’t you think?” She glanced up at him and raised one eyebrow. “Isn’t that the reason they’re born? The reason you breed them?”

Brooks remained silent for a moment, watching as Jo turned back to Another Round, her eyes following the curve of his head, jaw, neck, shoulders, and body, a grudging light of admiration for his impressive musculature brightening her expression.

“Why did you stop training?” he asked, though he had his suspicions. “What happened to change your opinion of the sport?”

Her expression dimmed again. She lifted her hand and rested it on the stall door, a few inches away from Another Round’s nose. “Sweet Dash was the first racehorse Earl and I trained together. Earl was named head trainer and I was listed as assistant, but I had a connection with Sweet Dash from the day he was born. One deeper than Earl could replicate, so he stepped aside most of the time and let me take the lead.”

Another Round moved at the tender tone of her voice, his hooves stepping on the shavings of his stall as he moved closer, stretched his neck, and brushed his nose against the center of Jo’s open palm.

Brooks smiled. Aside from his strength and talent, Another Round was a friendly, vibrant horse who sought attention.

“Sweet Dash was a natural, too.” Jo glanced at Brooks, then returned her attention to Another Round. “He loved to run. Loved to race. Loved the competition.” Her hand moved, stroking Another Round’s forehead gently. The thoroughbred seemed to crave her touch, nudging his broad head closer to her chest. “We had such high hopes for Sweet Dash, and he delivered on all fronts. He took to the track like it was home. Like he never wanted to be anywhere else. And he was friendly, too”—she lifted her chin toward Another Round—“like this one. When Sweet Dash delivered the Derby win, he was the talk of the town. The champion of the sport. Everyone wanted a piece of him.” The nostalgic sparkle in her eyes faded. “We should’ve stopped there. Should’ve taken him home after he won the Derby and let him enjoy his life. Instead, we hauled him to the next leg of the Triple Crown.” She cut her eyes at him, her hand stilling against Another Round’s forehead. “I’m sure you know what happened next. You don’t strike me as the kind of man to partner up with anyone without thoroughly researching them first.”

Brooks winced. “Yes,” he said softly. “Once Rhett gave me your name, I did some searching. I saw what happened in an old highlight clip from the Preakness Stakes. I’m sorry. It’s a tragic thing. I can’t imagine—”

“What?” Her tone hardened. “You can’t imagine a horse like yours”—she gestured toward Another Round—“like this one, stumbling for a fraction of a second during a race? A fraction of a second that’s just long enough to shatter bone, take him down, and ultimately, end his life? You can’t imagine something like that happening to Another Round?”

An uneasy feeling swirled in his gut as he looked at the horse he’d bred, raised . . . and loved. “I try not to. I try to focus on giving Another Round an opportunity to do what he loves. An opportunity every horse who loves to run should be afforded.”

Something in his voice must have hinted at the fears he harbored because her own expression gentled as she stroked Another Round’s forehead again.

“No one who loves horses wants to imagine or dwell on the tragedy when it happens,” she said. “But it’s an undeniable hazard of the sport that’s dismissed all too easily in the interest of money, tradition, and fame.” She stepped away from Another Round, shoved her hands in the pockets of her jeans, and faced him again. “I appreciate all you’ve done for me, Brooks, but I have no desire to train again. Losing another horse is just too painful a prospect.”

“Oh, but the joy, Jo. You can’t deny there’s joy in the sport—not just for trainers, owners, grooms, and all those who benefit from the economic impact of the sport, but also for the horses. These thoroughbreds live a good life.” A small laugh escaped his lips. “They live a better life than most people do—including me. And there’s no guarantee Another Round will meet the same fate as Sweet Dash. Surely you remember what that Derby win was like. What witnessing the magnificence of a thoroughbred’s strength, power, and accomplishment brings to those who are a part of it.”

She nodded. “Money and pride. Those are the biggest joys most people glean from racing. Years of hard work, dedication, and care for a one-hundred-and-twenty-second bet that risks a horse’s life. Win or lose, the typical thoroughbred only has a brief window of luxury before their lives are at stake—on and off the track. There are as many—if not more—horror stories as there are successful tales.”

Jo brushed past him and walked toward the stable doors, saying over her shoulder, “As I mentioned before, I appreciate everything you’ve done for us, but you’re wasting your time trying to persuade me into taking on that colt of yours.”

Brooks lowered his head, patted Another Round’s neck, then strolled slowly behind her. “Nothing I’ve done—or will continue to do—for you, Earl, or Lone Oaks Crossing would ever be a waste to me.”

“And why is that?”

“Because, whether you agree to train or not, I still think we’d make a good team.” He picked up his pace, drawing nearer to her. “And I enjoy being around you.”

She stopped, her feet freezing in midstep before she turned to face him, her eyes seeking his. “We barely know each other.”

He stopped, too, the tips of his boots resting in the dirt mere inches from the toes of hers. “There’s more to knowing a person than just exchanging facts or whatever fictional details they choose to present to you. There’s a person’s disposition, their spirit, their concern for others. I’ve had an opportunity to see those things in you during the short time since we’ve met.”

He tilted his head, surveying the attractive features of her face, features that seemed all-too-familiar somehow. As though an ethereal ideal he’d harbored secretly in his heart all his life had been breathed to life in front of him. It was an odd feeling—this instant affection for someone he’d just recently met. He’d always dismissed it as a sentimental notion, but now found himself experiencing it firsthand.

“I told you the other day that I don’t have a family,” he said. “But I used to have one. I used to know what love, loyalty, and devotion should look like. Or at least, what I thought they should look like. I see the way you love and support Earl and Lone Oaks Crossing. You’re willing to relocate your life here to care for your grandfather and honor your childhood home.” He reached out and tucked a stray strand of her long hair behind her ear. “I’m well aware of who I am to you right now. A man with money. A helpful neighbor, at best. But I’m hoping . . . in time, we may become friends. No matter the outcome of any potential business we may or may not undertake together, I want to help you and Earl the way I wish someone had helped the family I had years ago. Call it old-fashioned nostalgia for the childhood I lost. Maybe you can understand that?”

She swayed in his direction, just a bit. Enough so that her soft cheek grazed his knuckles as he removed his hand from her hair.

“Yes,” she said. “I can understand that, and I know you’re going out of your way to help me.” She looked up at him, those dark blue eyes of hers peering into him. “Two boarders, Frankie and I can handle. But you’ve brought six and Another Round’s going to need daily attention. A set schedule to keep his heart and lungs strong—that is, if you still plan on racing him with another trainer?”

Brooks nodded. He had every intention of entering Another Round in the Kentucky Derby, but his plan only included Jo, and he’d hold on to hope that she’d change her mind . . . even if the end result was disappointing.

“Then there’s no way Frankie and I can be available to Earl every day and also care for Another Round and the other boarders you’ve brought. At least, not without extra help.”

Brooks smiled. Even if she didn’t realize it, she was offering him another chance to stick around. “I can fix that.”

She shook her head, a grudging smile curving her lips. “You seem to have a fix for everything, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” he said. When it came to her, at least. Unable to resist, he reached out and smoothed his knuckles down her soft cheek as he eased past her. “I’ll be here first thing in the morning, and as soon as it’s convenient for you, we’ll solve that problem. In the meantime”—he glanced over her shoulder as he exited the stable, savoring the somewhat dazed but friendly look on her face as he spoke his next words—“if you need me, I’m still at your beck and call.”

* * *

Call it old-fashioned nostalgia for the childhood I lost. Maybe you can understand that?

Jo, seated in the passenger seat of Brooks’s truck, stared ahead at the paved road winding in front of them. It was early, the sun rising high in the sky, just beginning to warm the chilly fall air. Brooks had driven up the driveway to Earl’s house right at dawn—just as he’d promised yesterday—and as Earl was still sleeping soundly in his bed, she’d left Frankie with him and climbed into the passenger seat. Now she tugged the light denim jacket she wore tighter around her shoulders and rubbed her hands together in her lap to ward off the early-morning chill.

“Cold?” Brooks reached out, adjusted a control on the dash, and tilted two vents in her direction. “Does that help?”

Warm air billowed over her chest and neck, and she eased back against her seat, sighing. “Yes. Thank you.”

She glanced at him, eyeing his chiseled jaw, the strong column of his neck and confident set of his broad shoulders. Yesterday, after he’d left Lone Oaks Crossing, she’d had difficulty getting him out of her mind. She’d tossed and turned in bed last night, the memory of his deep voice and handsome features, set in a warm, inviting expression, stirring delicious thrills within her as she’d stared up at the ceiling of her bedroom.

I enjoy being around you.

Her reaction had been ridiculous, really—more like a lovesick teen than a grown woman. The last thing she’d expected to stumble upon when returning to Lone Oaks had been a charismatic, wealthy bachelor like Brooks who had an overdose of charm. One who probably couldn’t recall how many women he’d entertained, much less remember their names.

But then again, the words he’d spoken in the stable yesterday had seemed sincere. Heartfelt, even. Like those of an honest, forthright man.

I’ve experienced a great deal of loss in my life, actually. More than most people assume.

What childhood had he lost? He’d mentioned he had no family now but had acknowledged yesterday that he’d had one in the past. One he seemed to have loved and missed quite deeply, if the sorrow etched into his expression yesterday had been any indication.

It was unsettling to think that of a man of his stature, wealth, and power could have experienced such keen loss and be alone in the world. But, having worked with youth in the public school system, she’d seen her share of children suffering through devastating losses at a young age. She’d consoled children who’d lost family, shelter, security, and their very hope for a successful future. Everything in life could change in an instant, and that daunting prospect was no different for children, no matter their youth and innocence.

She looked at Brooks again, a curiosity she hadn’t anticipated prompting her to speak before she could think better of it. “What happened to your parents?”

The question seemed to hit a nerve. His broad hands tightened on the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white. He smiled, the expression strained and insincere. “I see we’re beginning the day’s conversation with lighter topics.”

She looked away, giving him some space, and returned her attention to the road in front of them. “I don’t mean to pry, but you mentioned yesterday that you used to have a family. I just couldn’t help but wonder what happened to them.”

He glanced at her, his eyes pained as he murmured, “Can we save that discussion for another time?”

“Of course.” Seeking a distraction, Jo cleared her throat and rubbed her hands over her jeans-clad knees. “So, where are we going?”

“You said you needed extra help yesterday. So, I’m taking you to get extra help.”

She frowned. “You do remember me telling you that I can’t afford to pay any extra hands? I don’t know anyone who would be willing to work for free.”

His smile fell and an ironic expression appeared on his face. “I wouldn’t say the person I have in mind is willing to work for free, but they’re obligated to do so.”

An easy feeling unfurled in Jo’s stomach. “What do you mean, they’re obligated?”

“I’m not going to bring some dangerous vagrant into your midst, in case that’s what you’re thinking.” Brooks slowed the truck as they entered the city limits of Lone Oaks, his dark eyes scanning the left side of the road. “I’m simply providing a logical solution to your problem by finding someone who needs to work to fulfill an obligation while simultaneously giving you the help you need.” He shrugged. “Room and board, home-cooked meals, and a watchful eye are all it’ll cost you.”

Jo narrowed her eyes. “A watchful eye?”

He looked at her then, his smile broad and genuine. “Only occasionally.”

Brooks guided the truck into a left turn and Jo eyed a large sign they passed at the entrance of the driveway.

“Dream House?” she asked. “What is this place?” She glanced at the two-story building in front of them. It was all brick, with small windows and cracked pavement out front, which, she supposed, was intended to serve as a sidewalk. “It sure doesn’t look like a dream to me.”

“It’s not.” Brooks’s tone had changed, taking on a heavy, sorrowful note. “But I hope to change that in the future, starting with giving the place a facelift.” He parked the truck in front of the building, cut the engine, and exited, pausing before he closed the door to say, “Hop out. A treasure trove of help awaits you.”

Jo made a face, watching as he rounded the truck and patted the hood, motioning for her to join him. She did so, glancing around her as she entered the brick building, then stood in the lobby and thrust her hands in her pockets as Brooks spoke to a lady at the reception desk.

He joined her a moment later, a pleased expression on his face. “Ms. Agnes will be with us shortly.”

“Ms. Agnes?” Jo glanced at the reception desk where the woman Brooks had spoken with answered the phone, then glided in her chair farther down the desk to type on the keyboard of a desktop computer.

Two teenaged girls strolled down one of the three halls that were located behind the reception desk, each of them wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt, one of them carrying a basketball.

Covering the phone with one hand, the receptionist called out to the teens. “Girls, be sure you’re back by curfew. Don’t go galivanting all around and drag in late like last Saturday.”

The teens made a face. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Wait a minute,” Jo said, watching the girls as they left the building, laughing. “Dream House.” She frowned at Brooks. “Is this a foster home?”

“Brooks!” An older woman with an exuberant expression and kind eyes walked quickly down one of the hallways, rounded the reception desk, and threw her arms around Brooks’s waist, burying her pudgy cheek against his chest. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you. It’s been ages since you visited.”

Brooks’s demeanor softened, his features gentling and his deep voice adopting an affectionate tone Jo had never heard before. “I didn’t mean to stay away so long, Ms. Agnes. I’ve just been buried under work.” He lifted his strong arms and returned her embrace, lowering his head and kissing the top of her gray head. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your workday,” he said softly, “but you’ve always come through for me in the past, and I have a friend in need now.”

Agnes released him and stepped back, patting his forearms with her wrinkled hands. “Oh, my boy,” she said. “You’re never an interruption to my day. I wish you’d drop in more often. And I’m more than happy to help your friend.”

“This is Jo,” Brooks said. “She’s the granddaughter of my neighbor, Earl Ellis.”

“Oh, my dear.” Agnes stepped over to Jo and clasped her hands. “I understand your grandfather had some health problems recently. I just heard yesterday that he was in the hospital.”

Jo nodded, the supportive warmth of the older woman’s hands around her offering comfort she hadn’t expected. “He was, but he came home yesterday.”

Agnes’s eyes brightened. “That’s wonderful news.”

Brooks nodded. “That’s why we’re here. Jo’s returned home to take care of Earl and run their family farm. But”—he spread his hands—“as you probably already know, Lone Oaks Crossing hasn’t been doing much business lately.”

Agnes nodded. “Yes, I’ve heard that, too.” Her brow creased. “And considering that’s the case, I wonder if there’s enough work to serve the need for the community service hours my charge has?”

“Trust me, there’s plenty,” Brooks said. “More than Jo and her friend, Frankie, can handle themselves while taking care of Earl, too.” He rocked back on his heels and shoved his hands in his pockets. “As a matter of fact, I just dropped off my thoroughbred yesterday for boarding, so Jo already has her hands full and is in need of the extra help.”

Agnes’s eyes widened. “Oh, is that so? You and Earl used to train racehorses, didn’t you? Won the Derby years ago, if I recall correctly?”

Jo smiled. “Yes, ma’am.” She cut her eyes at Brooks. “Though I don’t have any plans to train again. But Brooks is right that we’re pretty shorthanded right now, what with Earl just coming home and starting therapy. So, we’ll need help mucking out the stalls and caring for Brooks’s colt. Although”—she glanced over her shoulder as another teen sauntered in—“I don’t know if any of your charges would be suited for household chores, mucking stalls, or—”

“That’s exactly the type of work we look for in terms of fulfilling community service hours,” she said. “Steady, hard work that’s worthwhile and helps build community as well as a young person’s confidence. Brooks has been our biggest advocate. He hires at least one teen every year to help out in his stables.”

Jo glanced at Brooks. “You employ foster children?”

“He certainly does,” Agnes said proudly. She reached up and patted his cheeks. “He used to live here, so he knows how much our children need support and opportunities to learn new trades.”

“You used to live here?” Surprised, Jo stared up at him.

He nodded, his mouth tightening.

“Brooks was only with us for three years, but he’s kept in touch over the years.” Agnes smiled. “I shouldn’t say this, but he was always my favorite. He was so tough on the outside, but an absolute angel on the inside.”

Brooks cleared his throat as a red flush suffused his neck.

Agnes winced. “The girl I’ve picked out for you has a very similar disposition to Brooks at that age but, well . . . she’s not all that happy about going to a farm. But I’m hoping the prospect of working with a horse might help.”

“What’s her name?” Brooks asked. “How old is she?”

Agnes glanced over her shoulder, shrugging her shoulders as she said softly, “Cheyenne Grier. She’s fourteen and a tough nut to crack from what I’ve seen so far.”

Jo shook her head, her hands trembling in her pockets at the thought of undertaking a troubled teen like the ones she’d just left behind a week ago. “I’m sorry, Ms. Agnes. I could certainly use the help, but I don’t think our farm would be a good match for a challenging teen, especially given Earl’s condition.”

Agnes held up her hands, her eyes pleading up at Jo. “Please. She just needs a little . . . encouragement.” She bit her lip. “Discipline.”

Jo let out a heavy breath. No. No way would she take on the type of kid that had just prompted her to throw away her career. “Ms. Agnes, I can’t—”

“My only concern,” Agnes said, “is that she keep up with her schoolwork. Cheyenne’s been expelled from the local high school, you see. All of her assignments are online, and the schedule is more than feasible given the workload she carried when attending school in person. She’s bright—really bright. She’s just been let down a lot and is very angry.” She leaned in, her voice lowering to a whisper. “She’s so much like Brooks at that age. Hurt, angry, and ready to fight anyone and everyone.”

Brooks looked away, his neck flushing even more as he scanned the empty lobby. Jo studied him for a moment, then faced Agnes again.

“What’s the girl’s story?” Jo asked.

“She was abandoned as a baby,” Agnes said. “Doesn’t know her parents or any extended family. She’s bounced from foster home to foster home throughout her childhood—seems she just isn’t suited to a traditional foster home setting.” Agnes shook her head. “She was expelled from school for stealing—she broke in one night and swiped a laptop and damaged quite a bit of property—and she got into a fight with one of her roommates just yesterday. So . . . I’m not sure this environment is suited for her either. That’s why, when Brooks called me yesterday, asking if I had anyone needing to complete community hours, she came to mind first, you see?” She smiled tentatively. “I’m hoping that a change of scenery will do her good. Especially one with wide-open space. She needs a place to heal. A place to think and breathe. A place where she can see possibilities instead of pain.”

“A place to heal, huh?” Jo shoved her hands farther into her pockets and glanced at Brooks, asking under her breath, “Is that why you brought me here?”

“Wasn’t that what you told me the other day?” he asked. “That you wanted to help kids. That you wanted to help them heal and secure the future of their dreams.”

Yeah. Jo rubbed her temples. That’s exactly what she’d said. “May I meet her first?” she asked Agnes.

Agnes nodded eagerly. “Of course.” She spun on her heel and hustled off, saying over her shoulder, “She’s already packed. I’ll just go grab her and bring her out.”

“Oh, but I’m . . .” Jo’s shoulders slumped as she watched Agnes hurry away. “I’m not sure this is a good idea.” She frowned at Brooks. “I wish you’d explained to me who you had in mind before we drove out here.”

“Why?” He raised one eyebrow. “Would you have agreed to come?”

“No.” She stared at the empty hallway Agnes had walked down. “Probably not.”

“Then there you go.” Brooks sighed. “I know you’ve just had a bad experience, but there are good kids here, Jo. They just need a fair shot.”

“Like you did, you mean?”

He didn’t respond.

Agnes reemerged at the end of a hallway and a tall, skinny girl with long brown hair hanging limply around her shoulders lagged behind her.

“Here she is,” Agnes said, a broad smile engulfing her face. Her eyes sparkled like fireworks on the Fourth of July, the eager hope etched into her expression a clear clue to Jo that she was definitely getting in over her head with this kid. “Jo and Brooks, this is Cheyenne Grier. Cheyenne,” Agnes prompted, tapping the girl’s shoulder, “would you please lift your head and greet Ms. Jo and Mr. Brooks?”

The girl raised her head slowly, the movement jostling the limp strands of her hair back over her shoulders to reveal her face. Her features were plain but the sturdiness of her jaw and the deep dimple in her chin seemed to echo the stubborn glint in her expression. The black eye she sported did the same.

Cheyenne’s gaze sought Jo’s, holding her stare, judging, and weighing her as much as—if not more than—Jo had assessed her, the girl’s eyes lingering on the still slightly swollen wound in Jo’s bottom lip. “So . . . you’re the chick that wants me to shovel shit.”

Agnes gasped. “Cheyenne! Your manners are atrocious.” She wrung her hands, glancing up at Jo in dismay. “Cheyenne really is a sweet girl, Jo. And she’ll work very hard, I promise. She just needs discipline and guidance and . . . and”—she glanced at Cheyenne, the eager hope in her expression dimming—“she just needs to be given a chance.”

Cheyenne sneered and rolled her eyes.

“Excuse us for just a minute, please.” Jo stepped back, grabbed Brooks’s elbow, and dragged him with her, turning their backs to Agnes and Cheyenne, seeking space from the potential trouble and pressures the teen presented.

“Look,” Jo whispered to Brooks, “I know you’re trying to help, but this is a disaster waiting to happen. Did you see the black eye? There’s no way that kid’ll do anything I tell her.”

“Not true,” Brooks whispered back. “From what I’ve been told, you were a great teacher, and I’ll be on hand to help out. Besides, this arrangement will give you the opportunity to not only gain an extra pair of hands, but also to give your idea of a healing retreat a trial run. You did say you wanted to revive Lone Oaks Crossing into a place where horses—and people—could heal.”

Jo smirked. “Yeah, but populating my granddad’s farm with foul-mouthed teenagers isn’t what I had in mind when I walked out on my teaching job.”

Brooks grinned, the action lending him a boyish air—a far too appealing invitation for any red-blooded woman to ignore. “I admit,” he whispered, “the kid might be a challenge. But she has the potential to provide security for both of us. Security in the sense that you will have more time to spend with Earl, and security for me, knowing that you have enough help to take care of Another Round properly.”

Jo studied his face, searching for any hint of insincerity or ulterior motive, but the man definitely had a poker face.

“Look,” he said. “I know you’re probably having some painful flashbacks to the job you just left, but this is different. You and Cheyenne have both been hurt by a system that didn’t support either of you.” He held her gaze, an earnest intensity in his eyes. “Help her out and let her help you. What do you have to lose?”

Oh, sweet Lord. Just about every single thing she had left—including her sanity.

Jo closed her eyes, regretting her decision almost before she made it. “Where will she stay? At your place or Lone Oaks Crossing?”

“At Lone Oaks Crossing,” Brooks said. “That way, she’ll be ready and available anytime you need an extra hand.” He examined her resigned expression, then nodded. “Welcome to your new class of one. You won’t regret it.”

Reluctantly, Jo faced Agnes and Cheyenne again. The teen was looking at Brooks’s boots, a curious—almost excited gleam—entering her eyes as she studied them; it morphed into a frown as she looked down at her own worn tennis shoes.

“You like boots?” Jo asked. That, at least, was one perk she could provide the girl that might entice her to cooperate.

Cheyenne’s eyes snapped back to Jo’s, her lips pursing as she shrugged. “Maybe. But you should know before you put a shovel in my hand that I can’t be bought with a shiny pair of boots.”

Jo tilted her head, her attention lingering on the fresh black eye marring Cheyenne’s face, her own hand lifting to touch the wound on her lip. The kid might not be excited about working on a farm, but a farmhand needed gut and gumption to work with horses. And, judging from her outspoken comments, the kid was honest, at least.

Jo sighed. “I suppose she’ll do.”