Summer Sweat (Spruce Texas)

It’s like Hoyt’s still got a grasp of me with his hands.

Hands that are stronger than they look.

Is it too late to cancel dinner?

When I arrive at the main house, which is just a brisk walk across the field from the bunkhouse, I stand on Gary’s giant porch and listen to the commotion of everyone laughing and chatting inside. Judging from the shiny Chevy Silverado in the driveway, I guess Tanner’s dad is already here.

Footsteps clack on the steps of the porch behind me. I turn.

It’s Hoyt. He’s in those stylish gray jeans he wore on his first day and a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He’s got a small cut across his nose, which I’m not sure if I’m responsible for, or if it was from cleaning the horse barn. But I can tell from his tensed face he doesn’t have any good thoughts in that head of his with regard to me.

Regardless, he stuffs his hands in his pockets, lifts his chin, and greets me without looking my way. “Harrison.”

“Hoyt,” I return just as coolly.

He looks like he’s about to pass by and head inside, but then he stops, hesitating. I watch him gnaw on the inside of his cheek.

I lift an eyebrow. “Something wrong?”

“Nah,” he says, but he doesn’t move, staring at the door. The noise inside fills our ears. Emmalea’s distinctive cackle rings out, followed by laughter from the rest of the crew.

I don’t know if I should address earlier. Am I even still angry about it? Is he? “Look, about earlier, with the pigs …”

“It was nothing,” he cuts me off, still staring at the front door. “It was an old shirt anyway, the one you tore off of me.”

I frown at him. He’s not making this easy, and I can’t read a damned thing from his face. He’s like stone. “So if you aren’t upset about that, why do you look like you’re about to wet yourself?”

He stiffens up. “I … I haven’t had … some fancy dinner before. Don’t really know Coach Tanner’s father, either. Never met him.”

“Really? Four years at Spruce High and you never—?” I let out a snort. “Look, just relax. There isn’t anything ‘fancy’ about that dinner in there.”

“I know the Strongs, though. They’re loaded. And now Mrs. Strong’s the mayor. And don’t they own that high-end restaurant in Fairview everyone goes to for prom? I have … I have no idea what to expect in there.”

I take a breath, then face him fully. “Look at me. Listen.”

Hoyt glances my way. His soft eyes fall on mine.

I still see the guy I was squaring off with in the pig pen. The one I straddled just hours ago, pinning his wrists to the mud. I see the reluctant curiosity in his eyes, curiosity that almost looks like excitement … or terror. Hoyt says so much with his eyes.

Why doesn’t he talk more with his words? Why do I have to keep staring into his eyes to get a glimpse of what’s in his mind?

“Well?” he says, copping an attitude. “I’m looking. Listening.”

I frown. Okay, maybe he’s a better speaker with his eyes. “Paul Strong is about as unpretentious as you can get,” I tell him. “He’s not fancy. He’s the nicest, calmest, down-to-earth guy. Nothing like his wife.” I just realized how that sounds. “I mean, nothin’ against Nadine, she’s great, but … she can be a handful. The only thing is, Paul and Gary can sometimes … try to show each other up, so … you might hear a little bit of a friendly, brotherly pissing match between them. Everyone pretends not to notice. Gary’s wife keeps out of it. Just enjoy the food and the atmosphere, because this kind of dinner doesn’t happen but once or twice a season, and it’s a damned luxury compared to the daily meals you’ll be getting used to at the bunkhouse.”

Hoyt nods slowly. “Alright.”

“You done pissin’ your pants, then?”

He eyes me. “Can you stop sayin’ that? It isn’t funny. And I …” He sighs with frustration, his face red. “Never mind.” He pushes through the front door without further comment, leaving me standing out here, confused.

What? Did I say something wrong?

I don’t have time to deal with Hoyt and his moods, I decide, then head in myself, putting all thoughts of him behind me.

The main house is fairly big, but spread out, traditional style, and single story. The entryway opens to a den on the left, a dining area on the right that leads to the kitchen, and an archway ahead that opens to the main living room, off which a long hallway leads to the bedrooms, bathrooms, and a screened-in sun room built off of the back door. Everyone is gathered in the living room, and even though there’s less than a dozen of us here tonight, the noise level suggests there’s well over thirty. Half that noise comes from Emmalea, who more than lets loose when she drinks, and seems to find anything anyone says to be cackle-worthy hilarious. I spot Mr. Paul Strong by the fireplace talking with his brother Gary, beers fisted in their hands. No doubt the verbal pissing matches have started already between them, though you’d never know, considering how kind-natured the brothers are. Paul is essentially a carbon copy of Gary, minus the mustache, plus a pair of glasses and a couple inches in height.