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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?”
