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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?”
