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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.”
