Chapter Four

Twenty Years ago in a seedy bar…

Rodney was dressed in his usual Saturday night get-up—jeans that looked sprayed on, a tight black T-shirt, biker boots, and his beaten, black leather jacket. The jacket was old and creased, the leather cracked in a few places, but he would die before he traded it in on a new one. He’d had the jacket since he was sixteen, and would have it, he pledged, until the day they shoveled dirt over his casket. Even longer—he planned to be buried in it.

He knew he didn’t cut an impressive figure—he wasn’t tall, long-legged, or broad-shouldered enough. He was on the short side, thick through the chest, and while he was handsome enough, he wasn’t supermodel pretty.

What he was—and while most people meant it as an insult, Rodney took it as a compliment—was stubborn, onery, and quick to temper. He was also loyal to a fault, the first to jump in headfirst when someone he knew needed help and would happily take a bullet for anyone he considered a brother.

It was those exact qualities, particularly the second set, that caught the eye of Daniel Riggs, Prime Rooster and Don of the Red Wattle Clan, or so Daniel told him later in their relationship.

Rodney would never forget the first time he met Daniel Riggs, nor the first time he was introduced to the RWC—the Red Wattle Clan of Gasper, Kentucky. He was dressed much as he was tonight, including wearing his black leather jacket. He was twenty-one by roughly two days and having his first—okay, sixth —legal beer in a juke joint in the middle of nowhere, when a female server had found herself hip-deep in trouble with a group of local boys.

The bouncer was nowhere in sight, and the boys were getting rough with the girl, pushing her back and forth between them. Rodney didn’t think, didn’t muse out the situation. He jumped in with both feet, swinging a hard fist and kicking out a foot, connecting with whatever male flesh he could reach.

It was a pitcher of beer smashed over his head that brought him out of his fighting frenzy, and to his shock, it had been wielded by the server. “These are my customers, you idiot! Did I ask for your help? We do this all the time. Look at what you did to my brother, Freddie! He’s lost two teeth! How am I gonna explain that to our mama?” Over her shoulder, she bellowed for the bouncer. “Gordon! Gordon! Get your ass over here and beat on this guy. Then kick him in a ditch to die!”

Suddenly, a shadow came over the group and they all fell silent. Rodney looked up, beer-soaked and bloody, his eyes stinging like they’d been basted in honey and put in a hornets’ nest, as the largest man he’d ever seen came between Rodney and the group of rowdies he’d attacked.

“Ain’t nobody gonna beat nobody or leave nobody in a ditch to die, Arlene. Think your mama would be happy if’n you went to jail for accessory to murder?” The man’s voice was deep and gravelly. “Ain’t it enough your oldest brother, Raphie, is locked up in Green River?”

“No, sir. I reckon not.” Arlene looked down at her shoes and scuffed one across the floor. “But look at what he done to Freddie! Mama’s gonna be pissed.”

“Leave your mama to me. I’ll explain, and the bar will pay for his dental bill. Get him in the truck and take him into town to Doc Brady. Tell him I sent y’all. He’ll fix Freddie up and find him a dentist.” The man looked at the rest of the group. “All y’all go on home now. Time you got to your own beds.”

The group broke up as quickly as if the man had thrown ice water on them. But when Rodney turned to go, a big, beefy hand landed heavily on his shoulder. “Not you, son. You come on back with me.”

Not that he had much—or any—choice, Rodney accompanied the big man to a shadowed booth at the rear of the bar. Several men of varying heights and builds sat around it. Some had full beards; others were clean-shaven, but all had hard looks in their eyes and were staring at Rodney. The one who’d intervened on Rodney’s behalf was bigger than any of them, dark hair shot through with silver, a goatee, and a scar that missed the corner of his right eye by millimeters.

He didn’t know what was going to happen, but whatever it was, he hoped it would be over soon. His head hurt like a bitch, and he could feel blood running over his cheek, dripping on to his T-shirt.

“My name is Daniel Riggs. This is Jim, Buck, Ranch, Duke, and Buzz. What’s your name, kid?”

“R-Rodney Randall Cogburn,” Rodney stuttered. His head throbbed so hard he felt it might explode like an overripe melon.

“Danny, best let us take him to the hospital over in Russellville. He don’t look too good,” Ranch said. “Might have a… a whatchacallit? A percussion or something.”

“We will, we will. First things first. Rodney, you showed a lot of nerve and courage trying to defend Arlene, even though she didn’t need it and she bopped you over the head with a pitcher of beer for your trouble. That’s the sort of nature we look for in a candidate for the Red Wattle Clan.”

“The what?”

All of the men gaped at him in shock. “Ain’t you never heard of the Red Wattle Clan?” Buck asked.

“No, sir, I ain’t. I… well, I’ve been on my own since I was thirteen. My folks kicked me out of the house. Never mind why.” The last thing Rodney wanted right now was go into the reason he’d been kicked out by his evangelical parents was because he’d been caught with a farmhand behind the barn on a Friday night doing things that would scare the sheep. “I’ve been living hand-to-mouth since then, traveling when I could. I ain’t educated past the eighth grade, so… Oh, fuck but my head hurts.” He reached up to touch it, but Daniel stayed his hand.

“Leave your head be, and don’t worry. Every man deserves a secret or two in his past. What matters is now, how he conducts himself. How he does for others. How loyal he is. You a loyal man, Rodney?” Daniel asked.

Rodney actually took a minute to think it over. Loyalty was a word that was practically sacred to Rodney. Maybe because so few people had shown him any in his lifetime—not even his own parents. Certainly not the farmhand he’d been caught fucking. That rat bastard had taken off at first chance and left Rodney to fend for himself. He looked up at Daniel. “Yes, sir. I’d be loyal to somebody who was loyal to me.”

“An honest answer. I wouldn’t expect less. Truth is, son, I’ve been watching you for a few days. You done nothing but good in this little town. I saw you help that three-legged dog across the highway. Saw you feed that mutt half of your sandwich, and I expect you don’t eat all that often. Saw you pick up a wallet dropped by an old man and run to return it to him, didn’t even open it to take a peek. Now you jump in to help Arlene. You may not be school educated, but you got heart. Soul. And that’s what we need in our group. The Red Wattle Clan is a nationwide club of poultry-shifters. I can smell it on you—you’re a rooster, ain’t you?”

“Yes, sir. A Rhode Island Red.” Damn, he wished Daniel would hurry up and do whatever it was Daniel was doing. His head hurt like the bejeebus. Tears were streaming down his face—or was that blood? He couldn’t tell, but he was feeling woozy.

“Danny? The boy is swaying on his feet. He needs stitches for sure. Hurry up, or he’s gonna bleed out.” Buck stepped out from behind the table and stood behind Rodney as if to catch him if he fell.

“Rodney, you made a sacrifice tonight. And all to save a stranger you thought was in trouble. For that, I am putting you up for membership in the Red Wattle Clan.”

Rodney didn’t know what Daniel was talking about, nor did he really care. Nothing was making much sense anymore, and then blackness swooped in like a big dark bird and wrapped him with ebony wings.

***

Sunlight streamed in through a window, waking him. The first thing he realized was that he wasn’t home—if the cheap motel in which he’d scored a room could be called home —he wasn’t lying on his threadbare bed with the familiar springs jabbing him in the back. This was a relatively soft mattress on a twin-sized bed. Silver rails on each side prevented him from rolling out of the bed. Everything looked and smelled clean. Was he still at the bar? Maybe in a back room or something? No, he was definitely lying in a hospital bed. How badly had he been hurt?

A large shadow loomed over him. Daniel, he thought. That’s the man’s name. “You been out for three days, son. Don’t worry though. Got Doc Brady to fix you up. Best doc in town. Did a damn fine decent job, too. Cracked your skull, is what you did, when Arlene bashed you on the noggin with the pitcher. They had to go in and operate, drain out some fluid and relieve the pressure on your brain. Doc says you’ll be right as rain in a couple three days.”

“I… ah…” Words didn’t want to come to him. He could hear them in his mind, but his mouth refused to form the sounds.

“Now, you just lie there and hush. When you get released, we’ll take you home to my place. Got plenty of room, and Doc Brady will see to you until you’re your old self again. Until then, I have something for you.” He handed Rodney his old black leather jacket, folded to show a new addition. A splash of color in the form of a purple and red patch. “Congratulations, son. You’re now a member of the Red Wattle Clan.”