Lone Oaks Crossing

Book 8: New Americana Series

by Janet Dailey

Genres: Women's Fiction

Synopsis

In the lush rolling hills of Lone Oaks, KY, the good life is measured in sips of aged bourbon and the thrill of the world’s most famous horse race: the Kentucky Derby . . .

When news of her grandfather’s stroke sends Jo Beth Ellis back to the family farm, she finds it in danger of foreclosure. Lone Oaks Crossing is in rough shape, but Jo has big plans—she’ll use her expertise as a Derby-winning horse trainer to reinvent the property as a healing retreat. But renovating while trying to keep her independent grandfather in check is a huge job for one woman—and even more challenging when she receives her first client, the unruly fourteen-year-old Cheyenne, who is determined to do anything but cooperate. Jo is at the end of her rope when neighbor Brooks Moore offers her a deal she can’t possibly refuse . . .

Jo may have sworn to leave the gambling and vicious competition of horse racing behind her, but training Brooks’s gorgeous thoroughbred is a challenge she can’t resist, especially when sulky Cheyenne takes a shine to him—and when Brooks is sinking an outrageous amount of money into rehabbing the farm, and even rolling up his sleeves to help. With a troubled teen’s spirit and her grandfather’s faith in her on the line, Jo steps into a tentative partnership with the undeniably attractive Brooks. Against all odds, she dreams of winning a trifecta—a champion horse, a happy family, and a forever love.

Release date: April 23, 2024

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 368

Sample

Jo Beth Ellis had never been a quitter and she wouldn’t start today.

“This morning’s events were unfortunate. I’m sorry this happened to you.”

Jo, her bottom lip bleeding, stood by a window in the principal’s office of Stone Hill High School, ignoring the somber drawl of the man behind her and the silent vibrations of the cell phone ringing in her pocket (one she never had time to answer—even during her planning period) and stared out at the parking lot that bordered the front of the school. A cool September breeze rustled the thorny hedges along the cracked sidewalks, and the Kentucky sun struggled to nourish life, glinting off the metal hoods and rearview mirrors of parked cars, barely piercing the shadows covering sparse tufts of grass hidden between the brick wings of the school.

For a place that was intended to be a safe, nurturing environment, the landscape lacked warmth or welcome. Inside, the atmosphere was worse: hallways reeked of bleach and floor wax, profanities echoed against cinder blocks behind locked classroom doors, and voices of harried administrators crackled through static-laden two-way radios clipped to the hips of patrolling campus security officers.

The place had become more of a prison than a high school.

Heart pounding, Jo closed her eyes and tried to remember her first day as a teacher, six years ago when she’d been an energetic twenty-one-year-old college graduate. The day she’d marched up that sidewalk and into Stone Hill High School, head high and smile wide, eager to make a difference in the lives of students she loved, to help them improve their futures and achieve security.

But the realities of teaching were far different from the ones she’d been led to envision in college, and thoughts of quitting—along with the realization that she’d thrown away what amounted to a decade of her life—were stronger than ever.

Only, there was no way she could walk away and abandon the same student body to whom she’d committed herself faithfully years ago. How many other adults had abandoned these children when they had been needed the most? And hadn’t she told her students to stick with it countless times over the years? To keep trying? To not give up? She couldn’t let them down—especially not now. . . not when she’d sacrificed her relationship with what was left of her own family for them.

Earl. She thought of her grandfather, whom she’d left behind for her career, mucking stalls, grooming horses, and carrying the full weight of their family horse farm, Lone Oaks Crossing, alone. She thought of him, exhausted, ending each day in an empty house, a shot of bourbon and a view of dark pastures his only comforts.

An ache spread through her, stealing her breath.

“Perhaps,” her principal, Dr. McKenzie, continued, “employing a more effective de-escalation technique would have deterred Natasha from striking out at you. Next time—”

“Next time?” Jo winced as the act of speaking split the wound in her bottom lip more deeply. She touched her tongue to it, tasting blood, and faced him. “Twice wasn’t enough? Natasha has attacked other students and teachers like this before—all through elementary, middle, and now high school. And what else was I supposed to do? Ask her mid-swing to have a seat, give her a talking stick, then tell her to share her feelings? And what about the other thirty-two teens in the class, sitting there, with nowhere to go, having to watch that play out?”

She spread her hands, searching for words.

“Our kids are exposed to violence every day in this building,” she continued. “Not to mention the amount of quality instruction incidents like this cost their education. The interventions you’ve dictated to us aren’t working. The entire schoolwide behavior plan hasn’t been working for years. I have no voice, no autonomy—not even in my own classroom. Our kids—especially Natasha—need more help than we’re giving them. As it is—”

“As it is”—McKenzie leaned forward in his seat and rested his elbows on his wide desk—“Natasha’s mother is threatening to sue the district and you, personally.”

“For what? Natasha attacked a female student half her size from behind—unprovoked—in my classroom.” Voice catching at the images the memory conjured, Jo inhaled a shaky breath. “She was slamming the other child’s head into a cinder block wall. If I hadn’t stepped in, that child might’ve walked away with more than just a bleeding forehead and bruised eye.”

He picked up a pen. Twirled it between his thumb and forefinger. “I instructed you, as well as the entire faculty and staff, at the start of the year not to intervene in fights.”

“I pulled Natasha off the student, stepped in front of her to protect the other child, and Natasha took a swing at me.” Oh, dear God, her lip throbbed. “That’s what happened, from beginning to end. The other child’s blood is still on the wall. Check the classroom camera, it’s all there.”

He frowned. “We already have, but that’s not the point. You’re not allowed to restrain students. Stepping in is someone else’s job. Our administration is dedicated to ensuring a safe environ—”

“Then where was the safety officer? Where were you? I hit the emergency call button.” She shook her head. “If a shooter enters the building, I’m expected to step in front of a bullet to save a child, but if that same child is attacked by a peer, I’m supposed to simply stand there and watch the child be beaten to death? If I fail to act in the first scenario, I’m crucified. In the second scenario, if I do act, I’m in danger of being sued. Do I need to ask for permission before I’m even allowed to protect myself?” A mirthless chuckle broke free of her chest. “And when, in the midst of all of this, am I supposed to be able to teach?”

Sighing, he put down the pen. “You’re a great teacher, Ms. Ellis. One of our best. Admittedly, today was a bad day. But one bad day shouldn’t make or break an entire career.”

“But it’s not just one bad day,” she said softly.

There had been so many, and increasingly more every year. More violence, more anger, more arguments, more blame, more politics, more chaos, more confusion, more criticism . . . but always less time and support, fewer resources. The more she spoke up about the toxic school culture and working conditions and the more she asked for help, the more she paid for voicing her concerns—personally as well as professionally. Every day inside these walls, students’ and teachers’ safety, well-being, and futures were gambled. And today, a typical Monday at Stone Hill High School, had been no exception.

Something wet plopped onto her collarbone. She looked down and a second drop of blood fell from her lip to join the first, rolled over her skin, then settled against the collar of her blouse. The white cotton absorbed it, the stain spreading.

Oh, dear God. Here she stood, bleeding in her boss’s office, as he blamed her for being physically assaulted on the job. This was no way to make a living . . . and certainly no way to live.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she whispered.

“Then do it for the kids,” he said quietly.

McKenzie stood, tugged a tissue from a tissue box on his desk, and handed it to Jo. “As punishment, I’ve suspended Natasha from school for the rest of the week, but she’d like to speak to you before she leaves today.” He crossed the room and opened the closed door of his office. “Natasha, please come in.”

There were hushed voices and footsteps outside the door along the corridor of the school’s main office, then a tall, blond girl sauntered in and crossed her arms over her chest. Another blonde, who appeared to be in her late thirties, propped her fists on her hips, and stood on the threshold of the room, glaring at Jo.

“Natasha,” McKenzie said. “Don’t you have something to say to Ms. Ellis?”

The teen narrowed her eyes at Jo and remained silent.

“Natasha,” he prompted again.

Natasha’s lip curled as she locked eyes with Jo. The sheer hatred in the girl’s gaze made Jo shudder. “Sorry you got your lip busted. Next time, stay out of my way.”

McKenzie’s chest lifted on a sharp inhale. “Natash—”

“She ought to be fired.” The blonde in the doorway—Natasha’s mother, Jo presumed—stabbed a finger in the air, aimed toward Jo. “She had no right to put her hands on my child. Had no idea what that other girl said about her. From now on, I expect this woman to report to me every day on Natasha’s progress—academically and otherwise. And if Natasha sees fit to take care of gossip again herself, that woman had better not interfere.”

“If an incident occurs in Ms. Ellis’s classroom, Mrs. Bennett,” McKenzie said tightly, “Ms. Ellis has no choice but to address it, just as she did in this instance. And district leadership has also decided to leave it up to Ms. Ellis as to whether charges will be filed against Natasha for striking her in the face.” He leveled a look at Jo. “Though I’m sure that’s not what Ms. Ellis wants. She, like district leadership, cares deeply for all students, and I don’t think she’d want one unpleasant mistake to mar a student’s permanent record.” He paused, holding Jo’s gaze, then asked, “Do you, Ms. Ellis?”

Jo lifted her bloody chin. “Or the school’s record?”

He blinked, then stared back at her. “Excuse me?”

“You mean, you don’t want to mar the school’s record either.”

He didn’t answer, and he didn’t have to. McKenzie had a family to support. Everything he did was in support of his efforts to boost Stone Hill High’s public image and ensure he kept his position—a position that paid triple the salary of the average classroom teacher who worked tirelessly in the trenches.

This was McKenzie’s first year serving as a high school principal. Prior to his current position, he’d taught U.S. History and coached football for a few years before being promoted. McKenzie was a good guy, but an inexperienced and ill-prepared leader, which, over the years, had become the rule rather than the exception in public education as more and more experienced educators left the profession.

Jo looked at Natasha again, her eyes searching the younger girl’s face as a residual trickle of sympathy moved through her. She’d noticed Natasha on the first day of class seven weeks ago, the girl’s stony expression and disdainful gaze having caught her attention, raising the hairs on the back of her neck.

Natasha, like so many other students at Stone Hill High, was hurting—that had been easy to detect. No teenager her age became so hardened, angry, and cynical without external influence of some kind. But despite repeated—and exhaustive—attempts, Jo had failed to reach her. And even now, Jo, lip split and dignity stripped, still found herself wanting to reach out, to strive to make a connection of some kind. To prove to Natasha that someone did, in fact, care.

“Natasha,” Jo said. “Hurting someone else won’t solve your problems, and the only reason I teach—have ever taught—is to educate, protect, and support students like you in a healthy way. If you need help, I want to help y—”

“I’m not listening to this, bitch.” Natasha spun around, pushed past her mother, and stalked out of the office. “Let her press charges. I don’t give a damn.”

Natasha’s mother shot Jo one more hard glare, then left, too, following her daughter down the corridor.

Jo stood silently for a few moments, her breaths coming in tandem with the painful throb in her bottom lip. Her mouth had begun to swell and the adrenaline that had shot through her veins for hours had subsided. She felt heavy suddenly, as though her limbs were made of dense concrete.

“I won’t file charges.” She removed her classroom keys, which were attached to a lanyard, from her neck, then lifted the lanyard over her head. “And I won’t be back.”

McKenzie’s mouth opened, then closed, soundlessly, as she handed him the lanyard and keys as well as the unused tissue he’d given her earlier. He stared down at them then lifted his head, a stern gleam in his eyes. “You signed a contract, Ms. Ellis, and we’re not even two months into the current school year. If you leave now rather than honoring your obligations for the full year, I’ll be obligated to report you to the Professional Standards Board for neglecting your duties. Your teaching certificate will be suspended or, possibly, revoked. And there’s a financial penalty for breach of contract.”

Jo shrugged. What did it matter? She’d been broke for ten years. First, she’d struggled to pay her way through four years of college to earn a teaching degree, and for the past six years, her teaching salary had been barely enough to pay for her tiny, one-bedroom apartment and buy groceries, which left her with nothing left over to save. So, what was one less paycheck anyway?

She headed for the door. “I’ll mail a check to you to cover my financial obligation for breach of contract. Do whatever you have to do as far as my teaching certificate. I won’t need it again anyway.”

“Ms. Ellis.” His voice changed, the stern bravado fading, a desperate tone taking its place. “You’ve done an exceptional job in the classroom for six years. You’re appreciated and we need you—especially now that we’re understaffed. Please don’t give up now. We’ll sit down and talk. Explore your ideas and find a compromise.”

Hmm. If only he’d said that years ago . . . and if only he meant it now.

“Please don’t go,” he said.

Jo kept walking, shocked by the depth of her apathy. “I’m already gone.”

The sun hit her hard when she stepped outside the building, her eyes squinting, her injured mouth tightening painfully against its warm rays. She forced her legs to keep moving until she reached her car, then got in, cranked the engine, and drove away, refusing to allow herself to look back.

She’d sacrificed so much for a thankless job—including precious time she should’ve spent with Earl, helping to ease his burden at Lone Oaks Crossing—serving gate duty at athletic events, staying hours after school to tutor struggling students and conduct parent conferences, grading lesson plans at night, writing lesson plans on weekends and holidays, holding down a second job and attending professional learning sessions during the summer break. Years of time she could never recover.

Teaching had been a mistake. One she’d rectify, starting now.

Jo drove on, past the apartment complex that housed her meager belongings, through the bustling city limits of Stone Hill and into the rural landscape that lay on the outskirts of the small Kentucky town, her hands and foot sending the car in the familiar direction of her childhood home.

The car ate up the miles toward Lone Oaks Crossing. She hadn’t visited in over a year, but the place had been on her mind more often than not recently. She’d have to tell Earl, of course. He’d say he’d told her so, and he’d be disappointed in her—but no more so than she already was with herself.

Soon, emerald hills emerged, rolling peacefully alongside her car, the breeze gracefully bending the lush bluegrass of sprawling fields in an easy rhythm. She rolled the windows down and inhaled, the swift wind cooling her hot cheeks, slowing her pulse.

The loud peal of her cell phone rang through her car’s speakers, the computer system connecting the call.

“Hello?” A female voice chimed through the speakers. “I’m trying to reach Ms. Jo Beth Ellis.”

Jo licked her dry lips and cleared her throat. “This is Jo. Who is this?”

“This is Sarah Wyndham,” the voice said. “I’m a nurse, calling from Lone Oaks Hospital.”

Lone Oaks? Home. Earl. Jo straightened in her seat. “Does this have something to do with Earl? Is he okay? Has h—”

“Yes, I’m calling about Earl Ellis, but please don’t be alarmed. He’s resting comfortably now and was very lucky.”

“What do you mean? What’s happened?”

“I see here”—rustling crossed the line—“that you’re listed as Mr. Ellis’s granddaughter. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve been trying to reach you all morning. Your grandfather has had a stroke.”

Jo’s pulse picked up again, her muscles clenching.

“But he’s stable now and resting well in room four-o-eight,” Sarah continued. “He’ll need to stay here for a few days. He’ll require an extensive period of rehabilitation, and as you’re listed as his emergency cont—”

“I’m already on my way.” Jo pressed the pedal harder, the car picking up speed. “But I’m two hours out.”

“There’s no rush, Ms. Ellis. As I said, your grandfather’s resting peacefully now and will be for some time. If anything changes prior to your arrival, I’ll call you immediately.”

Jo nodded, then, remembering she was on the phone, said, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. We’ll see you soon.”

The call disconnected.

Thoughts racing, Jo drove for an hour then, tank running low, pulled into a gas station—Jimbo’s Pit—and fueled up. A man exited the small convenience store and walked by her car on the way to his, an odd expression crossing his face as he eyed her face, then chest.

Jo looked down at the blood staining her white blouse. Oh, no. She couldn’t show up at Earl’s bedside looking like this. She touched her fingertip to the dried blood on her bottom lip and flinched. There were two restrooms outside the convenience store, both with signs that read SEE CLERK FOR KEY.

Tank full, she replaced the pump handle and went inside to pay, grabbing salt, bottled water, and gauze before approaching the checkout counter. The clerk, a young man with blue hair, rang up her purchases, bagged them, and handed the sack to her.

“May I have the restroom key, please?” She kept her eyes down but felt the intensity of his scrutiny on her bloody lip anyway.

His hands left the counter briefly then returned, holding a key out toward her. “Ma’am?”

She took the key, then looked up, meeting his concerned gaze.

“Are you okay?” He glanced out the window, then back at her and whispered, “If you need help . . .”

That mirthless laugh returned, bursting from her lips before she could stop it, her eyes burning. “D-do you know I offered someone the very same thing today?”

He tilted his head and his concerned expression changed to confusion.

“No, I—” She backed away, clutching her bag. “No, thank you.”

Jo went inside the restroom and locked the door, dumped the salt she’d purchased into the bottle of water, soaked a strip of gauze in the mixture, and dabbed at her bloody mouth. She hissed at the sharp sting, her eyes welling.

She thought of Earl, ill and alone; McKenzie, shorthanded and disappointed; Natasha, angry and full of hate; and her students who sat in a classroom without her. She thought of how she’d failed them all and how she’d failed herself.

Then her fingers stilled against her throbbing lip, and an unexpected surge of determination coursed through her as she realized how much Earl would need her in the coming days . . . and how—even though her life was crumbling around her—she wouldn’t fail him again.

“What do you mean you’re quitting?” Brooks Moore demanded.

He had spent the past decade of his thirty-two years of life adhering to a strategic business plan he’d infused with one primary goal: justice. A hard-fought objective he’d been on the brink of achieving but that now squirmed in his clenched fist, threatening to slide between his fingers and bolt out of his reach.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this to me now,” Brooks said. “We’re only nine months away from the Derby.” The fall breeze tugged at the resignation letter he held, fluttering the crumpled corners against his knuckles as he eyed the older man who stood in front of him. “Your reputation for loyalty is unblemished. That’s the reason I hired you in the first place.”

Rhett Thomas, sharp-eyed, thin-lipped, and hard-bitten—a testimony to thirty years spent navigating the corrupt underbelly of horse racing as a trainer—stepped closer on the porch of Brooks’s three-story colonial-style home and met him head-on. “Is that the only reason?”

Brooks cut his gaze to the left, past Rhett’s stocky physique, to the eight hundred acres of sunlit Kentucky land that housed his custom-built home, state-of-the-art stables, and bourbon distillery buildings. He’d undertaken a risky venture—blending bourbon, thoroughbreds, tourism, and his ultimate life’s goal into the thriving business of Original Sin—but his plan had been solid and successful . . . until now.

Gritting his teeth, he faced Rhett again. “I hired you because you were known as the most hi. . .