Harris pulled his dusty 1965 Chevy C-10 pickup into the parking lot of a nondescript bar on the outskirts of Stephenville. The day's rodeo had gone extremely well and he'd walked away with another win, but now he was ready for some downtime. Although rodeos were held year round, in a few days it would be March and the season would enter full swing. He never complained about being overworked, though, because he knew his time as a rodeo champion was limited. Already, aches and pains were becoming the norm of his daily life; however, to fulfill a lifelong dream of owning, at minimum, a thousand acre spread in southern Colorado, he needed at least two more winning years on the circuit.
As he hopped from his truck he thought about his father, Miles Brightman. Although Miles was really his stepfather, he'd never thought of him in that way. Miles was his dad. He was also the best dad any boy could have hoped for. Harris had been four when his mother met her future husband and seven when they married. His awesome childhood had included the addition of three brothers and a sister. Harris couldn't imagine life without the integrity taught by his wonderful father and mother, and that was one of the reasons he'd turned down his father's offer to loan him the difference needed to purchase his dream. His father had acquired a fortune writing best selling suspense novels, but Harris wanted to prove to his family, and to himself, that he could stand on his own. That he could take the principles of self-reliance, entrepreneurship, goal setting, and honest hard work to achieve his own dreams.
He sighed at his ruminations and shifted his black Stetson lower over his forehead. Maybe, if he was lucky, he'd go unnoticed and no one would ask for his autograph. Sometimes a guy just wanted a beer and solitude. He opened the door and paused for a second to allow his eyes to adjust to the low lighting, then scanned the room and headed toward the bar at the back. Keeping his head low, he avoided eye contact with the dozen or so people sitting at tables, and a couple of guys belly up to the bar who had glanced his way.
He stepped to the opposite end of the counter and the bartender called, "What'll it be, cowboy?"
"Bud. On tap."
"You got it."
The short and rotund bartender, who looked more like a jolly grandpa with his rosy cheeks and friendly smile, set a large, frosty mug of beer in front of Harris, studied him for a second, registered recognition in his expression, and then started wiping the counter with a white towel. Harris held his breath, waiting for the man to announce that a rodeo champion was in the room.
It didn't happen.
He released his breath when the bartender returned to his other customers and asked it they wanted refills.
For the next twenty minutes he enjoyed his beer and thought about Eli and Angel. Eli was five years younger than him, and the first child born to his mom and Miles. Harris had loved his brother from the first moment he'd seen the squalling babe, and, over the years, protected him from the taunts of others. During childhood Harris had gotten into numerous fights when bullies called Eli names or made fun of how smart he was. When Eli was ten, however, he'd called Harris out on his protectiveness and told him in no uncertain terms to stop it, because he was capable of taking care of himself. When Harris had ignored Eli's wishes, the boy had tackled him and punched him in the nose. Their father, pulling them apart, had demanded an explanation, and Eli, with tears streaming down his cheeks, had shouted how pathetic it made him feel to have his brother fighting his battles. That tearful admission had finally pierced Harris' stubborn streak and he'd backed off. From then on, even though there were times he'd wanted to pulverize a bully, he'd walked away and allowed Eli to deal with the situation—and he had—often gaining bruises and black eyes.
Harris inwardly grinned at his musings and then turned his thoughts to Angel. God had created a sweet girl and now an amazing woman in Angel. While many girls were awkward and gangly until they reached their mid to late teens, Angel had been neither. She'd been born beautiful and graceful and became more so each day. She truly was an angel, both inside and out. During Harris' teen years, he'd known Angel had a crush on him, and suspected she still did, but he'd never encouraged her feelings because of the difference in their ages. But now that they were both in their twenties, with him approaching his thirties, there was nothing to keep him from exploring a relationship with her. Well, nothing except Eli. How could his brother be a hell raiser with bullies, but such a wimp with women? When Eli had suggested they hire Angel as their assistant, Harris had seen the momentary flicker in his brother's eyes that said, "I'm crazy about her."
Harris downed the last of his beer and considered ordering another one, but rejected the thought since he was driving. At the other end of the bar, the two cowboys called goodbye to the bartender who was now drying and stacking shot glasses. The jovial man reciprocated their farewells, stacked a final glass, and said to Harris, "Another?"
"No. And thanks for keeping my identity quiet."
"Not a problem. I figured you came in here to get away from the rat race."
Harris smiled. "You got that right."
The bartender said, "My name is Samson," and grinned as he smoothed a hand over his balding head.
"Good to meet you Samson. Call me Harris."
"Good to meet you too, sir." He nodded toward the hallway leading to the restrooms.
Harris turned to see what he was indicating.
Samson said, "That guy mopping the floor was once a rodeo star. One of the finest 'til drink got the best of him. I found him sleeping in a gutter about five years ago and something in my gut said, 'Don't leave this one without an offer of help'." I followed my gut and got him to attend AA meetings with me, became his sponsor, and offered to let him live in the apartment above the bar if he wanted to work for me. It may seem strange that two alcoholics work in a bar, but somehow it works for us."
"Wow. That's a great story. What's his name? Maybe I've heard of him."
"His name is Larry. Back in the day, he was called Lucky Larry."
Harris jerked back around to stare at the stoop shouldered man while his mind screamed, Lucky Larry!
Lucky Larry was his birthfather.