Cowboy Up (Lucas Brothers)

I turn off the engine, and just look out the windshield—not really seeing anything. My hands grip the steering wheel tightly as I white knuckle it, trying to get control of my emotions.

I fail.

I’m angry, pissed, and so fucking tired of it all that I can barely breathe. The fucking kicker is that this isn’t a new feeling. I’ve felt this exact same way before. I can still remember the day I learned Meadow was pregnant and was marrying Clark. It shouldn’t have bothered me, but it did. I just assumed that we would find our way back to one another. We were young—finding our way. It was important we made sure of who we were before taking the next step.

At least that’s where my head when I said we needed space before we jumped into marriage. Hell, at the time, I even saw it as a good thing. I had questions about myself that I needed answers to, and I didn’t know how to approach Meadow with it. Us taking time apart gave me the opportunity to explore the questions I had. Never once, however, did I think that I’d end up anywhere but with Meadow. I loved her. I needed to figure out the man I was. It didn’t have anything to do with Meadow. I just needed a little space. It wasn’t about finding another woman. She was it. I never thought she’d turn to another man.

I was a fool.

And now, because I held onto a grudge I should have killed long ago, history is repeating itself. I drop my head down against the steering wheel and try to breathe. Then, I straighten up. There’s no one to blame but myself.

Myself and Parker Huntington.

And that’s why I’m here.

I force myself to get out. I hold onto my anger tightly. Most of it is indeed directed at myself, but luckily, there’s plenty left over for ole’ Parker. I pass through security with little more than a grunt to the guard out front. I stop once I get to the main corridor. It’s not because there’s about ten doors in front of me and I have no idea which one Parker’s miserable ass may be hiding behind. It’s because there’s a plump, red hen on the marble floor with a very big rooster over her, getting his. He’s got shiny white feathers and long black feathers on his tail. Except for the fact his comb is a little crooked, he could almost be majestic.

Now, I live on a farm and ranch. Nothing about any of this should be shocking. Still, the fact that it’s happening in a state-of-the-art training facility is jarring. Add in the fact that most roosters hit it and quit it, in seconds really, and this guy is digging in for what appears the long haul, you can understand why I’m stunned to the point I stop moving and just plain gawk. I blink twice when I see the rooster do something I’ve never seen in my life. He literally cranes his head down and buries his beak into the back of the hen’s neck. The hen goes completely still—well, other than making a noise that I swear to God sounds like a happy purr. I didn’t even know chickens could make that noise. I stand transfixed until eventually the rooster gets off her and begins strutting a circle around the hen, preening and ruffling his feathers. I don’t think I would be more surprised if he began dancing like John Travolta in one of those bad disco movies.

“Damn it, Gladys, I told you not here. Take your whores to your pad before Green finds you and we’re both fired.”

I look up to see an old man that looks vaguely familiar. Now that I think about it, I guess the rooster does, too.

“You’re Green’s brother,” the old man says, and I frown.

“Yeah.”

“I remember you from that crazy broad’s wedding,” he mutters, and it clicks. He came to Mom’s wedding. Although, looking at him, I don’t think he could call my mom crazy. He’s wearing a bright yellow sweatshirt that has big black letters that read “Save The Chickens.” His pants are green with yellow chicken feet on them. I blink. He’s a tall, lanky man with dark chocolate skin and somehow even darker eyes. His hair is shorn short to his head, which makes the gray really stand out. “You looked like a thundercloud that was too late to the party to help drown the world.”

I clear my throat. It’s a weird description but probably accurate. “Have you seen my brother?”

“He’s around here somewhere. I’d try the field. He was trying to teach some of our new guys how to hit the damn ball correctly. Something they should have learned as kids. I swear the future of this sport is shit. The players these days are so full of themselves that there’s nowhere for knowledge to go,” he grumbles.