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“Please, Harrison.”
But I’m not myself when I look at him. I’m something worse. I feel like I’m staring into the face of every opponent I ever had on the football field. I’m squared off with every adversary I’ve faced since my football days. I’m staring into my youth—and all the guys who didn’t give me the time of day, no matter how badly my heart raced when I was around them.
I’m staring at myself.
“This … This is gonna be your last shot, Hoyt,” I finally tell him. “One more screw up, and you’re—”
He straightens up at once. For a second, I think he’s about to hug me. Then he lifts his chin. “You won’t regret it, sir. I swear.”
I peer at Gary, then nod. “Sure hope I don’t.”
Chapter 10
Harrison
I try a different approach this time.
It’s called: Harrison keeps the hell away and lets Hoyt fuck up all on his own.
But when I pass by the barn, I see Hoyt working hard, shovel in his hand. When I pass by the pigs, I see him cleaning out the trough. As I walk by the paddock, I spot him grooming the horses with Fred as a guide, listening to instructions and following along.
By dinnertime, he seems totally back in with the group, eating at the table with everyone else. Emmalea shares a story about a run-in she had with Reverend Trey and his hubby Cody at Country Lovin’ this morning on a trip into town. Hoyt makes a remark about how the reverend’s big sermon a while ago about keys and honesty and “freeing ourselves from our own cages” touched him, and that takes the conversation in a new direction. “Hmm, I didn’t take you for a big churchgoer,” says Rust as he goes for another dinner roll. To that, Hoyt just shrugs and says, “Maybe there’s a lot ‘bout me you don’t know. I’m pretty much an open book … except for maybe a chapter or two.” That last part makes Rust chuckle, and just like that, it seems like their beef is over.
But I’m sitting at my end of the table, listening to all of this, and I just can’t shake the nagging feeling that it’s only a matter of time before Hoyt shows his true colors again.
Wait until tomorrow, I tell myself. He’ll be back to his old self.
But tomorrow comes, and when I walk by the barn at sunrise, I find Hoyt already there, hard at work. His back is to me, so he doesn’t notice me watching him.
I don’t get it. I’m genuinely stunned.
What came over him? What changed from just a couple days ago when he was yelling in my face?
I can’t make any sense out of it.
Later in the day, I catch sight of him heading to the coop. He’s just in a tank top today, and as he walks with a bag of feed hoisted over his shoulder, his tank top is pulled up slightly, showing off his waistline, his low-hanging jeans, and the white waistband of his underwear. Just that little peek of skin is enough to distract me in the middle of letting myself out of the sheep enclosure, gate now half-open, me standing there like I just turned to stone.
The way his jeans shift and move as he walks.
His hips. His lean, toned midsection. His ass, which my fingers still fondly remember from grabbing a hearty handful of it.
But it’s more than just superficial visuals. It’s something about his sudden turn-around. His determination. His focus. With every effort he makes. With the sensitivity he employs as he enters the coop, minding the chickens at his feet, then setting down the bag. With his smile as he looks down at the chickens, saying something to them, like he’s greeting a bunch of familiar feathered friends. The spackle of mud on his face he doesn’t even seem to mind. The flush of heat in his cheeks and the sweat on his brow.
What the hell is coming over me …?
That answer comes in the form of a sudden shove at my side, which is inexplicably forceful enough to cause me to fall against the gate. Then the culprit flies past me, escaping the enclosure.
“Hey!” calls out Emmalea, who’s on horseback nearby. “Peeps got out!”
“I see that!” I shout back, annoyed, as I take off running after my favorite pain in my ass.
That troublemakin’ sheep Peepers.
But just as I round the corner, here comes Hoyt, soaring out in front of me at record speed, chasing down the rogue sheep. He was in the coop just a second ago, and now—“I got her!” he shouts as he zips across the grass, his voice turning into a squeal echoing over the field. “I got her! Dang she’s fast! But I got her!”
I slow down as I watch, mouth agape. Peepers rounds the distant outside corner of her enclosure, racing to escape capture as Hoyt comes up to her tail. At first, he tries to reach out and grab her leg, but trips, somersaulting forward and crashing face-first to the dirt. He gets right back up and keeps running without missing a beat, like the boy didn’t just eat grass, as Peepers bleats merrily on, like she’s enjoying a brisk jog under the sun. Her delightful baas sound like happy taunts at her sweaty, tireless pursuer.
