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“Nothing of significant consequence.” Jo downed another shot. “No such thing as discipline anymore. Just talking. And more talking. By people who don’t really know what they’re talking about.” She stared down at the bottle. Picked at the label with her fingertip. “I’m never asked for my input or considered in any of the decisions that are made. Our district leaders—most of whom haven’t set foot in a classroom in years—announce their politically influenced decrees from their peaceful office while we and our students continue to struggle to survive in the classroom . . . sometimes literally.”
A hollow opened in Jo’s gut, her hand trembling around the bottle of bourbon. “Do you know, after that kid socked me in the mouth . . . the first—and only—person to ask if I was okay, was a gas station attendant at Jimbo’s Pit? That’s how little I mattered at Stone Hill High School.” She looked at Frankie and tried to still the wobble in her lips. “I’ve thrown away ten years of my life on people who barely see me as human, Frankie.”
“Oh, no,” Frankie said softly. “I wouldn’t say that. You’ve helped many children. You got four years of college education, six years of experience teaching, and from what Earl has told me, you were one of the best teachers at that school. Why don’t you take a look at a school closer to home? One with leaders you trust? I bet if you apply to a school around here, they’d scoop you up so fast—”
“I quit.” Jo pressed the rim of the bottle to her lips, took another shot of bourbon, and closed her eyes as the liquid scorched a path down her throat, the bitter burn masking the ache in her chest. “For good.”
Frankie was silent for a moment, then asked, “Are you sure that’s what you want to do?”
“It’s what I should’ve done years ago.”
They sat silently for a while, staring at the fire, listening to the logs pop among the flames and the breeze sift through the branches of nearby oak trees. Jo turned her head slowly and scanned the expansive grounds of Lone Oaks Crossing. It was difficult to see much detail beyond the flames of the fire, but the bright glow of the crescent moon overhead bathed the farm’s rolling hills in silvery light. The shadowy outlines of the oak trees lining the property were visible, the branches of which were beginning to shed their leaves, and fresh bales of hay were stacked along the center of a thirteen-acre hayfield that lay beyond the fire pit. The outlines of a multistall barn, two outbuildings, and a modest two-story house were also just visible in the distance.
Two decades ago, when Jo had been left here as a child, Lone Oaks Crossing had been bustling with guests, ranch hands, and horses. Trainers and horsemen eager for the next winning thoroughbred would line up almost every day at Lone Oaks Crossing’s entrance and ring Earl’s phone incessantly for a chance to buy the best foal bred on the farm. Reservations for training sessions had always been fully booked, every stall in the barn occupied by a thoroughbred, and every paddock populated with yearlings and trainers hard at work. In the past, the potential for Lone Oaks Crossing’s success had been unlimited.
Now, however, the silent grounds, abandoned paddocks, and empty stables were testament to a failing business and a dying dream. A monumental shame.
Jo returned her attention to the fire, the hot flames spitting orange sparks high into the air. “I should’ve stayed.”
Frankie sighed. “You grew up.” A sad smile appeared. “Had it been up to me and Earl, we would’ve kept you a little girl forever. But time passes and circumstances change. You wanted to find your own way in the world and to do that you had to leave.”
“But I should’ve come back sooner. Maybe then things wouldn’t have fallen apart here.” She licked a drop of bourbon from her lips and continued staring at the blazing fire. “How bad is it?”
Frankie was quiet for a moment, then sighed. “By my estimate, Earl has about another month or so until foreclosure.”
Jo closed her eyes and focused on the heat radiating from the fire pit, her face and neck scorching with drunken anger, shame, and regret as she pictured Brooks’s guarded features. “Brooks knows, doesn’t he? That’s why he swooped in today, He does believe we’re in need of rescuing. What’s he after—our land?”
“No. He’s got more than enough of that. But he ain’t just in the bourbon business. He’s got a top-notch thoroughbred on the other side of that tree line and, from what his former trainer, Rhett, told me on the phone this afternoon, he’s on the hunt for another one.”
Jo glanced at her and frowned. “Another thoroughbred?”
Frankie, her own gaze growing heavy and unfocused, shook her head. “Trainer. Rhett told Brooks about you. ’Bout your win at the Derby nine years ago.”
“It wasn’t recorded as my win,” Jo whispered. “It was set down as Earl’s . . . and Sweet Dash’s.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Frankie’s tone softened with affection as she spoke of the thoroughbred they’d once loved—and lost—nine years ago. “Sweet Dash was one of a kind. But everybody who circulates behind the scenes in the sport knows which trainer was really behind Sweet Dash’s win. And Brooks wants that trainer.”
“So, I can lead his colt to the same fate Sweet Dash met?” Jo stared down at the bourbon bottle, now almost empty, and scowled. “Don’t care how good his liquor is. I have no interest in training again.”
“I know. I told Rhett the same thing on the phone today.” Frankie’s fingernail tapped against her shot glass again. “But no one around here had any doubts that Earl was already in need of money and now . . . well, his debts are only gonna build from here on out. Brooks, I’m sure, is aware of that and looking to capitalize.”
Eyes heavy, Jo struggled to focus on the thoughts swirling in her foggy mind. “H-how much will it cost to keep foreclosure at bay?”
Frankie named a figure.
“Astronomical!” Jo sagged back against her chair and rolled her eyes at the heavens. “You’re not giving us a fair shot, are you, Big Guy?”
Frankie laughed. “Ah, but that’s not His job.” She lifted her shot glass in the direction of the glowing moon. “Ain’t that right, Big Guy? You just keep that eye of yours on us and give us a nudge now and then to help us through the pain, yeah?”
A wispy cloud, the only one marring the sky, drifted over the moon, dulling its shine. “I should never have left Earl,” Jo whispered.
“You’re here now. That’s all that matters.” Frankie held out her shot glass and Jo obliged, pouring her another shot.
The bottle was empty now, and the liquor had loosened Jo’s tongue. “Thank you for being there for Earl today when I wasn’t,” she said. “You always loved him so.”
For as long as Jo could remember, Frankie had been at Earl’s side, and though Frankie and Earl’s relationship had never been clearly defined over the years, the two had been a permanent fixture in Jo’s life.
When Jo’s mother, Amy, had succumbed to the lure of drugs and drifting, she had taken off with her boyfriend—one of many at the time—and had left Jo, then seven years old, on the front stoop of Earl’s house at Lone Oaks Crossing. Jo couldn’t remember much from that time of her life, but she did remember Earl scooping her up in his arms, hugging her tight, and that Frankie had been there, too. Right by Earl’s side . . . and Jo’s, too.
