“Huh?”
“He’s not foreman anymore; he’s… in town. He’s… not like you remember.”
Hoyt tilted his chin. “I remember a lot.”
Great, how did I explain this? Maybe now wasn’t the right time, but it had to be soon. “We need to sit down and talk.”
“Yeah, we will,” Hoyt said, shoulders coming up like a shield, his mouth set in a way I knew too well. Defensive. Braced.
“There’s stuff you need to know about Dad and?—”
“Yeah, I said okay, but not now,” he cut in fast. “Shit, Jesse, I don’t wanna think about that man.” The sharpness cost him; he winced, breath hitching before he could stop it. “I’m not here for him.”
I studied him for a beat, the way he talked around the truth instead of at it. Same old Hoyt. “No,” I said, not unkind, just honest. “You’re here for you.”
“I wanted to see you and?—”
“Not just that. You’re fucked-up and out of options.”
His mouth fell open as if he was going to argue, but then, he sighed.
“Not all options, and I want… look, I’m sorry for losing my shit.”
Then, it got a hundred kinds of awkward when I didn’t know what to say next.
“I told Lucas you made me the best Pop-Tarts on my birthday,” I blurted, grasping for something normal.
That got me my first real smile. “You remember that?”
“Sometimes.”
Hoyt’s lips tipped up for a second, as if the memory landed right. Then, it slipped. I saw it happen in real time—the happiness flickering out as the weight of this place came down on him. Snow Creek. The house. The barn. All of it. His gaze drifted past me, unfocused, and his expression tightened as if something inside him had pulled too hard. He rolled his good shoulder, uneasy, as if he needed to move or he might come apart. Whatever he’d survived here flooded back in that quiet beat, and suddenly he looked braced for impact again.
Silence settled heavily between us.
“I’m beat,” Hoyt said. “I’ll get set up.”
“You need help?” I wanted to help.
“Nah.” He said it gently, giving me an out.
I knew that was what he was doing. I knew he was trying not to ask for more than he thought I could give. But something inside me twisted anyway, sharp and wanting. I wanted him to tell me he needed help. Wanted him to say he didn’t want to do this alone. That he wanted his little brother. That he still saw me that way.
“All meals in the kitchens still,” I said. “You’re welcome.”
“I’ll work for it. You have some work for me to do?” he asked, bartering for fucking food.
“You’re our guest.”
“Work,” he said, with a stubborn expression.
I wanted to tell him he was a guest. That he didn’t owe uslabor for food or space or air. All I really wanted was to learn how to be his brother. But this was a ranch, and work was how men proved they still had worth. Even injured, there were things he could do. Feed runs that didn’t require lifting. Keeping an eye on stock from the ATV. Mending tack at the bench. Sorting tools. Keeping records. Jobs that mattered without breaking him further. I just didn’t know how to say any of that without it sounding like permission instead of care.
“We have a ton of tack that needs seeing to, new stuff to be ordered?” I offered and asked at the same time.
Hoyt nodded once. “Okay then.”
We talked a bit more after that, or tried to. I told him about our father’s TBI, the drinking, the way things had gone sideways years before the diagnosis gave it a name. He listened, jaw tight, not looking at me, and I watched the guilt and anger work through him, trying not to resent the fact he hadn’t been here. He felt bad for leaving, and I knew that.
