Lone Oaks Crossing

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 6

Two days later, Jo realized her new class of one (as Brooks had put it) was unmotivated, disrespectful, and irresponsible. Not that she’d expected anything different after the introduction Agnes had given her to the troubled teen.

Cheyenne Grier was indeed a challenging kid in need of discipline and guidance.

After Brooks had driven Jo and Cheyenne from Dream House to Lone Oaks Crossing forty-eight hours ago, Jo had tried her best to bond with the girl on at least a superficial level. She’d given Cheyenne a tour of Lone Oaks Crossing, leading her to the sprawling fields, walking with her through the stables and the house, and showing her the guest room where she’d be staying.

Cheyenne had been unimpressed with her new living quarters. She’d stood in the center of the guest room and spun slowly around, frowning deeper as she’d eyed the sparse furnishings. There was one single bed, one nightstand (which had seen better days), a lamp, a small dresser, and a glider that had been used by Jo’s grandmother decades ago, its cushion flat and faded.

“Really?” Cheyenne had flung her bag on the bed, propped her hands on her hips, and eyed Jo with disdain. “This is where you expect me to stay?”

Jo hadn’t been surprised by Cheyenne’s response—the teen hadn’t been very amenable to anything Jo had introduced her to that day. But wanting to give the girl the benefit of the doubt and taking her recent hardships into consideration, Jo had continued showing Cheyenne around the house and pointed out the small bathroom down the hall which Cheyenne would use as her own.

After giving Cheyenne the tour of Lone Oaks Crossing, Jo had left her in Frankie’s care long enough to run to the grocery store, where she picked up extra food and a few fresh toiletries for the teen. Jo had given herself a pep talk regarding her new teenage farmhand along the way, reminding herself that every child was different and had their own unique personality and needs. Just because Cheyenne reminded her of Natasha didn’t mean Cheyenne would give her the same trouble Natasha had—including the busted lip. Cheyenne might very well turn out to be the great help to her that Brooks had suggested.

And surprisingly, the empathy and compassion that she’d thought had completely left her over a week ago when she’d walked out on her teaching job had pricked her conscience. Though her patience and goodwill had been exhausted by the hopelessness of Stone Hill High School, she wasn’t completely inured to Cheyenne’s needs. She still cared.

The sense of relief that accompanied the realization overwhelmed Jo. She might have abandoned her teaching career, but the innate drive to teach, support, and protect hadn’t abandoned her. Maybe, just maybe, employing Cheyenne would afford her the opportunity to improve a child’s life even though she no longer taught in a classroom.

Jo had left the store, her spirits high, and returned to Lone Oaks Crossing with the hope that she might connect with Cheyenne. That Cheyenne might allow her to help turn her life around and, in turn, Cheyenne might help ease hers and Frankie’s workloads. Only, when she’d returned to the farm and parked Earl’s truck in front of the house, she’d found Frankie sitting on the porch, a newly opened bottle of Brooks’s bourbon in her hand and an expression of disgust on her face.

Apparently, Cheyenne had taken it upon herself to return to the guest room after Jo had left. She’d shut the door, locked it, and refused to exit no matter how many times Frankie had demanded she do so. Frankie, struggling to cope with Earl’s frustrated shouts at being bedridden and Cheyenne’s stubbornness, had reached her wits’ end, flopped in a rocking chair on the porch, and taken a shot of bourbon to soothe her nerves.

The next day had not gone any better, and as Jo had quickly discovered this morning, Cheyenne was determined to continue her same pattern of isolation.

“Cheyenne!” Jo, standing outside Cheyenne’s guest room, pounded on the locked door for the third time that morning. “Cheyenne? You were supposed to be down at the stables an hour ago.”

It wasn’t as though the teen didn’t know what was expected of her. Jo had gone over the rules in explicit detail during the tour she’d given Cheyenne on the afternoon she’d arrived. The rules were simple—at least to Jo—but it seemed Cheyenne either didn’t understand them . . . or more than likely, simply chose to disregard them. The rules, which were as basic as Jo could make them, included: wake and dress at dawn, come downstairs for breakfast, wash the breakfast dishes, join Jo at the stables, and muck the stalls while Jo groomed and turned the horses out to the paddocks. After that, Cheyenne was expected to return to the main house and complete the lessons in her online classes for the day.

Cheyenne had done none of this over the past two days. Instead, she’d holed up in her guest room, save for the few times she used the bathroom and snuck into the kitchen after midnight to rustle up some sugary snacks, from what Jo could gather from the empty wrappers left behind.

In Jo’s opinion, Cheyenne’s visit had been nothing but a disaster so far. All the girl had brought to the farm for the past two days was disruption and careless disregard for Jo and Frankie. Rather than easing Jo’s worries, Cheyenne had increased them.

“Cheyenne, I have a key.” Jo retrieved said key from her pocket and turned it over in her palm. “If you don’t unlock this door within the next five seconds, I’m coming in.”

A muffled snort sounded behind her. Jo glanced over her shoulder at Frankie, who leaned against the wall, her arms crossed over her chest and a humorless smile on her face.

“You think that girl gives a durn whether you got a key or not?” Frankie asked. “She don’t give a rat’s patootie what you do so long as you stay out of her hair.”

Jo dragged her hand over her face. “What else do you want me to do? You want me to call Brooks? Because I can. I’ll call him right now, tell him to come pick this kid up, and take her back to the foster home.”

Frankie blew out a breath, uncrossed her arms and shoved away from the wall. “No. I don’t want you doing that. Like it or not, we need the kid.”

That sentiment was one Jo agreed with completely, like it or not. Earl’s physical therapist was scheduled to arrive tomorrow, and Frankie wanted to stay with Earl during the session so she could better support and help him along the way. That meant Jo needed Cheyenne in the stables first thing in the morning to help her muck the stalls and feed and turn out the horses as Frankie would have normally done.

And as long as Cheyenne was bedding down under Lone Oaks Crossing’s roof, there was no way Jo would ask Frankie to leave Earl to help with chores. Not when Cheyenne was available and fully capable.

“Here’s what I think,” Jo said quietly. She turned the key over again in her palm, considering. “I want to give this kid a fair shot for all our sakes, and since I’m not laboring in a school under someone else’s direction anymore, I think it’s time for some good, old-fashioned tough love.”

Frankie smiled—the first smile Jo had seen on her face since Cheyenne had arrived. “Amen, sister. What’s the plan?”

Jo narrowed her eyes. “I’m going to unlock the door, we’re both going to go in, haul her out of that bed, down the stairs, and out to the stable. She’s not going to be allowed back in this house until she’s mucked those stalls or chooses to return to the foster home. In the end, we will have given her a chance—it’ll be her choice whether she stays or goes.”

Frankie, seemingly eager for a bit of payback, rubbed her hands together. “Sounds good to me. Go on. Open up that door.”

Jo steeled herself, her resolve wearing thin as a result of the week’s exhausting events, but she managed to unlock the door and thrust it open.

Cheyenne, still sleeping (or pretending to sleep), had burrowed under the covers, her face obscured by the thin sheet she clutched over her head.

“All right, Cheyenne,” Jo said. “I’m giving you one last chance to come out of that bed under your own steam.”

Cheyenne did not respond. There was no movement or sound from the bed.

Shaking her head, Jo crossed the room to the bed, cursing herself for the millionth time in two days for agreeing to take on the teen. “You want her head or feet, Frankie?”

A muffled squeak emerged from beneath the sheet.

“Oh, I’ll be happy to take those stinky feet.” Frankie almost skipped across the room—her giddiness completely out of place but somehow comforting to Jo—flung back the sheet, and grabbed Cheyenne’s ankles before the girl could wriggle them away.

Jo followed suit, ignoring the shocked anger on Cheyenne’s face and getting a good grip under the girl’s arms.

“I don’t know what you people think you’re doing—”

“This is a working farm. We don’t sleep all day in this joint.” Jo released Cheyenne’s arms and held up a hand, signaling Frankie to freeze, then looked down at Cheyenne’s disgruntled expression. “Are you ready to get out of the bed without help or not?”

Cheyenne glared up at her, then sank back against the pillow. “I ain’t going anywhere—especially at the crack of dawn. I didn’t ask to be here, I don’t want to be here, and I ain’t doing anything you crazy people say. If you want me out of this bed,” Cheyenne said, her lip curling, “you’re gonna have to drag me out.”

Jo stared down at her. Cheyenne’s words were harsh and angry—completely defiant. But her eyes told a different story. The black eye she’d sported two days ago had lightened in color and the swelling had receded (much like Jo’s own wounded lip), and the look in Cheyenne’s eyes almost begged Jo to act. To call her bluff and see if Jo cared enough to show her attention and follow through.

“You want it, kid? You got it.” Jo slid her hands under the girl’s arms again, secured a gentle grip on her armpits, then nodded in Frankie’s direction. “Up, Frankie.”

They heaved at the same time, lifting Cheyenne into the air and carrying her dead weight through the open doorway and down the hall.

The stairs were another story. By this time, Cheyenne’s dignity had taken a blow. She began writhing and kicking, her flailing heels and elbows catching Frankie and Jo in sensitive places. But Jo and Frankie managed somehow, sucking up the pain and maneuvering the teen down the stairs, out the front door, and across the lawn. They carried her to the stable, where they deposited her gently—but decisively—on the dirt in front of the stables’ entrance.

Gasping for breath, Frankie bent, braced her hands on her knees, and whooped. “Girl, you may look like you weigh five pounds, but you have some muscle in there somewhere under that skin. That, or”—she dragged in a ragged breath—“could be I’m just getting old.”

Cheyenne, lying on the ground, propped herself on her elbows and glared up at Frankie. “You’re just old.”

“Watch it, Cheyenne.” Jo dragged the back of her hand over her sweaty forehead and sighed. “This is your last chance. You get in that stable and you muck those stalls—and you do a decent job of it—or I call Brooks and you go right back to that foster home. It’s your choice. Either way, you’re not coming back into our house, sleeping in that bed, or eating our food until you’ve contributed to this farm.”

Cheyenne’s glare relaxed just a bit—not much, but enough that Jo noticed. “I’ll clean Another Round’s stall, but I ain’t messing with the other ones. Especially the old gray one. She smells like a fart.”

Frankie clucked her tongue. “My Lord! You are one crass kid. Do you always talk like that?”

Cheyenne grinned, apparently pleased she’d managed to offend.

Jo looked down at Cheyenne and narrowed her eyes, deliberately softening her tone. “I know you didn’t ask to be here, Cheyenne. Believe it or not, neither did I. But I’m here and you’re here and we have a decision to make. I need help and I know you can help me if you choose to. There’ll be no hard feelings and no more big scenes. If you really don’t want to give this a try, say the word and I’ll load you up in Earl’s truck and drive you back to Dream House—or to Brooks’s stables—whichever you prefer. But given our circumstances, we simply can’t afford to house a freeloader right now.”

Jo expected the girl to spring to her feet, dust off the dirt, and head back to the house to pack her things. But surprisingly, she gave Jo a once-over, did the same to Frankie, then rolled her eyes and shoved slowly to her feet.

“If I scoop the poop out of the stalls,” she said, “do I get to pick what I want to eat for lunch?”

Jo glanced at Frankie, who shrugged. “Yeah. I think Frankie can handle that.”

Cheyenne stood there for a moment, clearly thinking it over, then spun around and flounced into the stable.

It was progress—albeit very little progress—but Jo would take it.

* * *

It seemed peanut butter and jelly did the trick for Cheyenne.

“Poor thing acts like no one fed her at that foster home,” Frankie said, watching Cheyenne shove another three mouthfuls of sandwich into her mouth across the kitchen table.

“They didn’t,” Cheyenne mumbled around a big mouthful of peanut butter and jelly. “At least, nothin’ decent. All they ever gave us was rotisserie chicken and pinto beans.”

“Oh,” Jo said after sipping her sweet tea. “Heaven forbid they feed y’all something healthy. And please use your napkin when you eat, Cheyenne. We use polite manners at the table during meals.” Despite the trouble the girl had given them this morning, she couldn’t help but smile. Cheyenne had a healthy appetite—as strong and healthy as her attitude, in fact. “Go ahead and eat up,” she said, smiling wider. “You worked hard this morning and earned that sandwich. Thank you for that, Cheyenne.”

The teen shrugged off the compliment, but her mouth curved up slightly as she chomped into a second sandwich, then wiped a stray glob of jelly from her chin.

Jo meant it when she said Cheyenne had earned her favorite lunch. She’d earned the praise, too. Not only had Cheyenne mucked the stalls thoroughly, but she’d also helped round the horses up from the paddock and return them to the stable. It hadn’t escaped Jo’s notice that Cheyenne’s gaze seemed to linger on Another Round. She’d hovered by the colt’s stall as Jo had stroked Another Round’s neck and whispered soothing words in his ear, helping him feel at home in his new, unfamiliar quarters.

Jo hadn’t asked to board Another Round and she certainly hadn’t asked to have Cheyenne as a stable hand or temporary guest, but they both brought a new energy to Lone Oaks Crossing that was reminiscent of the farm’s earlier days. And it seemed, at least to Jo, as though Cheyenne and Another Round might pair well together, if Cheyenne decided to drop that stubbornness of hers and open up enough to let Jo know she was interested in getting better acquainted with the thoroughbred.

“So, who’s this Earl y’all keep checking on?” Cheyenne asked, taking a gulp of cold milk from the glass in front of her. Milk splashed down Cheyenne’s chin and onto the table.

“Please chew, drink, and swallow completely before you speak, Cheyenne.” Jo spun her glass of sweet tea slowly around on the table, her fingers tracing the rim of the glass, before taking a sip. Normally, after a morning of hard work mucking the stalls and working on the grounds, a cold glass of sweet tea hit the spot, but with the cool fall wind blowing in through the open kitchen window along with the reminder of Earl’s misfortunes, Jo shivered as the cold liquid trickled down her throat. “Earl is my grandfather and Frankie’s close friend,” she explained as goose bumps broke out on her forearms. “He had a stroke and is having trouble getting around.” She glanced at her wristwatch, a shameful sense of dread creeping through her. “Speaking of Earl, it’s almost time for us to bring him his lunch.”

Frankie reached across the table, grabbed the pitcher of sweet tea, and refilled her empty glass. “And he’ll probably be in a great mood when I bring it to him,” she drawled sarcastically.

A painful throb began behind Jo’s eyes. Earl had become a handful ever since they’d brought him home from the hospital. He hated being weak, hated his wheelchair, and hated relying on her and Frankie even more, which led to frequent outbursts from him every time they entered his room. “Yeah. I’m sure he’ll be in fine spirits.”

Cheyenne, who’d polished off a second peanut butter sandwich, stared at them with a surprised expression. “He don’t like to eat?”

“Doesn’t,” Jo corrected. “And yes. Earl does enjoy eating. He just doesn’t like being served lunch in bed.”

Frankie sighed. “He’s always been a hard worker and an active man, so being confined to a bed and wheelchair in the house ain’t exactly his cup of tea, even if it’s only temporary.”

Cheyenne smirked. “Y’all can’t pick him up out of bed like you did me, plop him in his wheelchair, and roll him down here to the table?”

Jo considered this, her gaze meeting Frankie’s. “We’ve tried once before, but he was a bit more than we could handle. I suppose we could try again . . . but it’d take some maneuvering.”

Frankie nodded slowly, then eyed Cheyenne. “Me and Jo might not be able to pull it off by ourselves, but a third pair of hands might do the trick. Might help us get the hang of it.”

Cheyenne rolled her eyes, then huffed out a breath. “All right. I’ll help you get the old dude out of the bed and to the table, but only if you let me have another sandwich.”

Frankie whistled low and sat back in her chair. “You best not refer to him as ‘old dude.’ He won’t cotton to that.”

“Whatever,” Cheyenne mumbled.

Five minutes later when they entered Earl’s bedroom, he was already sitting up in bed against the pillows, a sour expression on his face.

“I . . . sick . . . this . . . bed.” His mouth twisted around the words, his brow creasing more with each syllable as he struggled to speak.

Jo crossed the room and rubbed his shoulder. “I know. We’re here to remedy that.” She gestured over her shoulder toward Cheyenne, who stood on the threshold of the room, leaning against the doorframe. “Meet Cheyenne, our new stable hand. She’s going to help us get you settled in your wheelchair and into the kitchen for a hot, home-cooked meal before your therapist arrives.”

Earl surveyed Cheyenne. “Who . . . you?”

Cheyenne returned Earl’s scrutiny for a moment, then said, “The help. I’ve been scooping the poop out of your stable.”

Earl eyed Cheyenne warily, a muscle in his jaw ticking. “Don’t . . . want . . . no . . . wheelchair. And don’t . . . eed . . . you . . . help.”

“Too bad, old dude.” Cheyenne grinned. “I want another PB and J so you’re gonna have to plop your butt down in that wheelchair.”

“Cheyenne!” Jo shot her a stern look, though her irritation wasn’t quite as intense as it normally would be considering the kid had used the word poop when explaining her job to Earl instead of the expletive she’d enjoyed tossing around a couple days ago.

“Here we go.” Frankie walked into the room, rolling a wheelchair, and stopped by the side of Earl’s bed. “We’re gonna get you out of this bed so you can have a nice lunch at the kitchen table, where you can look out the window and get some sun and fresh air on your face. Then, once you finish with the therapist this afternoon, you can lie back down and take a nice nap.”

Earl frowned. He lifted one gnarled finger, stabbing it in Cheyenne’s direction. “Don’t want . . . no . . . h-help from that k-kid.”

Cheyenne, returning Earl’s glare, cocked one eyebrow. “Too bad. They say I can’t eat if I don’t help around here, so I’m gonna help get you out of that bed.”

Earl glared at Jo. “I can . . . w-walk . . . on . . . my own. No n-need that kid—”

“Whatever, dude.” Cheyenne shoved off the doorjamb, walked across the room, and tugged the sheet off Earl’s legs. “Grump all you want but you’re getting in that wheelchair. Sooner we do this, the sooner we can eat.”

“Come on, Earl,” Jo said, joining Cheyenne and easing his legs, one at a time, over the side of the bed. “You may think you’re able to walk but I don’t want to risk you taking a fall. We’ll have a better idea of what the therapist thinks is appropriate exercise for you after his visit this afternoon, but for now, we’re going to play it safe. Now let’s get you in that wheelchair, down the hall, and to the kitchen table.”

Earl didn’t like that. He grunted, glared at Jo, then settled his gaze on Cheyenne. His eyes narrowed and his scowl deepened. “Y-you . . . just . . . hold chair.”

Cheyenne made a face as though the task was beneath her but did as Earl directed. She walked over to the wheelchair, stood behind it, and placed her hands on the handgrips.

“All right,” Jo said, sliding her arm around Earl’s back and waiting as Frankie did the same on his opposite side. “On three.”

They both heaved on three, and with a little patience and a lot of effort, they managed to lift Earl from his bed and settle him in the wheelchair. To her credit, Cheyenne didn’t complain about helping. As a matter of fact, she helped shift Earl’s weight in the wheelchair to a more comfortable position once he was seated, then took it upon herself to wheel him down the hallway and into the kitchen.

“Here’s your napkin,” Cheyenne said, dropping a napkin in Earl’s lap after she positioned his wheelchair at the head of the table. “Jo likes good manners around the table.”

“Get way . . . kid!” Earl sagged back against the wheelchair, closed his eyes, and waved a hand weakly in the air. “Go. . . . on. Get!”

Cheyenne frowned. “Whatever, dude. It ain’t like you could just say thank you or something.”

Jo quickly stepped between them. “Cheyenne.”

She and Earl continued exchanging glares. It was amazing, really, finding someone as stubborn and hardheaded as Earl who gave as good as she got.

“Cheyenne,” Jo repeated, prompting the girl to drag her attention away from Earl. “Let’s go outside and work on sprucing up the training track while Earl eats lunch with Frankie.”

“Training track?” Cheyenne asked as Jo hustled her outside. “What’s that for? The horses?”

“Yep.” Jo shielded her eyes from the glare of the afternoon sun as they stepped out onto the front porch. “Another Round, in particular. He’s a racehorse and needs regular workouts to keep his . . .”

A familiar truck rumbled up the driveway and drowned out her words. Hauling a flatbed trailer loaded down with various sizes of lumber and toolboxes, it slowed as it reached the main house and drew to a stop.

The door opened and Brooks hopped out of the cab and strode over to the porch, grinning wide. “Afternoon, ladies.”

Jo smiled back, trying not to allow her gaze to linger on his flirtatious grin. His broad chest and lean hips were encased in a casual long-sleeved shirt and faded jeans as though he were prepared for manual outdoor labor. “This is a surprise. Especially, seeing as how I haven’t called or beckoned.”

He grinned wider as he climbed the porch steps. “Well, I figured I’d beat you to it.” He looked at Cheyenne. “Hello, Cheyenne. How’s it going so far?”

She looked away, crossed her arms over her chest, and shrugged.

Brooks glanced at Jo and raised on eyebrow. “No profanity-laden outburst? I suppose I’ll take that as a good sign.”

Jo gestured toward the trailer that was hitched to the back of Brooks’s truck. “What’s up with the lumber?”

He motioned toward the front steps he’d just ascended. “I got to thinking, it’ll probably be a while before Earl will be able to walk up and down these steps without trouble, so I figured I’d help him out by building a ramp and a small deck. That way he can use his wheelchair to get outside on his own if he’d like and have a place to sit in the sun.”

His words stirred a tender sensation in Jo’s chest. “That’s . . . very kind of you.” She staved off that inconvenient sensation by kneading the center of her chest as she glanced around the porch. “I don’t know that this is the best place for the deck, though. Maybe at the back of the house instead? Where the paddocks are? There’s a set of steps leading off the back door of the house and there’d be a much better view of the horses from that vantage point.” An ache spread through her as she glanced at the open window of the kitchen. “Earl always enjoyed having a cup of coffee out there in the afternoons while watching the horses graze.”

Brooks nodded. “Then that’s where we’ll build it.”

Cheyenne shot him a glare. “We?”

“Yep.” Brooks’s grin widened. “We’ll unload everything now and get started early tomorrow morning. And by ‘we,’ ” he said, looking at Cheyenne, “I mean you.”

Cheyenne flung her head back, closed her eyes, and groaned with disgust.