Summer Sweat (Spruce Texas)

Then she comes around the front and heads straight for me.

I spread my hands. “Here, girl!” I call out, seesawing from left to right, predicting where she’s heading.

Then she darts off to the far left, way out of reach. I leap to catch her, miss by a hair, and crash to the ground.

Hoyt soars over me like he’s doing hurdles, then descends on her in seconds. Mysteriously, she stops running and faces off with him, bleating playfully. He takes hold of her around the neck, then starts laughing. “Jeez, you gave me a workout, girl!” Then he turns around and looks at us. “Now how do we get her back in the pen?”

Then Peepers slips from his grip and takes off running again.

“Dang it!” He goes after her once more.

The story of how Hoyt wrangled Peepers back home becomes the whole talk of dinner that night. Emmalea is hitting the bottle again, and she’s full of laughter and jokes, poking fun at how Hoyt had no idea what he was doing, yet miraculously managed to get her back to the rest of the flock. “I really didn’t have a clue,” Hoyt says with a mouthful of mashed potatoes, laughing. “I just went runnin’ after her like a squirrel was in my underwear boxin’ my nuts or something. I thought I had her, like, three times, and y’all weren’t kidding, that sassy sheep is as slippery as soap!”

The sound of laughter keeps ringing in my ears as I stare from the head of the table, dumbfounded at how everything has turned around so dramatically from just a few nights ago.

I can’t get over it. He’s a new person.

But why can’t I trust it?

Even days later, Hoyt is still putting in the work, impressing everyone and joining in every conversation at the table. Hell, even Turtle seems taken by him, and on Saturday night, he pulls out his ukulele and improvises a cheery tune during dinner about Hoyt’s triumphant feats of the week, highlighting each one—like when Hoyt got to ride a horse he’d saddled himself. But no sooner than he mounted her, she decided to take a giant dump right there. And as Hoyt stared over his shoulder, aghast at what was happening, everyone around him busted out laughing. Emmalea was in tears. I was watching from the barn, arms crossed, unsure what to make of any of it.

Tonight, as I watch everyone relax, party, and have fun with each other, I become a big brooding fly on the wall, detached from everything, just an outsider looking in.

At one point, Hoyt meets my eyes from across the room, like he was searching for me. He’s on the couch with a few others. I just stare back, silent and blank-faced. After a moment, he returns his full attention to whoever’s talking, and I resume my beer.

The night is winding down when I go to the fridge to get one last bottle. Just as I shut the door, bottle in hand, he appears at the counter next to me like a ghost from thin air. “Hey, man.”

I pop open my bottle and nod at him. “Hoyt.”

“I know I already said it a few times, but …” He leans against the counter. “Just wanted to say thanks again. Y’know. For giving me another chance. You didn’t have to, but dang it, you did.”

I don’t quite make eye contact with him. “Better thank Gary for that. He’s got a huge soft spot for you, clearly. He apparently wouldn’t let you work for free, either.” I kick back my beer.

“Yeah, I noticed! That paycheck was a surprise.” He clears his throat, clearly searching for something else to say. “So how ‘bout that day I caught Peepers? Phew, she’s wild.” He lets out a laugh. “She’s … She’s wild, that one. Wild sheep. Wild Peepers. Heh, yeah.” He draws silent, then clears his throat, out of words to say.

He’s awkward and fidgety. The exact opposite of his usual cocky self. I’m not sure what to make of that.

“You did good,” I decide to tell him, then glance at the clock hanging on the wall. Saturday nights in the bunkhouse always go long and hard. “It’s getting late. Better turn in.” I turn to go.

But Hoyt isn’t done. “What’s it gonna take?”

I stop and look at him. “Huh?”

“For us to actually work together again. For us to … be okay.”

His eyes are intense as he speaks, but not angry. His tone is firm, yet pleading. It doesn’t take a psychologist to see his need for my approval seeping out of his pores. He’s desperate for all of his past grievances to just vanish. Forgiven. Absolved. Poof, gone.

He’s a guy who’s used to being let off the hook. That was my first and only impression of him since the day he arrived.