Bishop hadn't mentioned Willa's old career, but Rodeo reckons it makes sense when he hears it. She seems to have a certain prowess with animals, if the shine Sweet Melissa appears to have taken to her is any indication. The big blond mutt is by Willa's side now, peering into the pot as she scalds the bird inside, her gold eyes thoughtful as she takes it all in. Rodeo wipes the blood from his ka-bar on the edge of his flannel, not caring about the stains it will leave-- besides, the ladies who do his laundry seem to be awful good at getting out bloodstains.
"I didn't mind, darlin'," he assures her. "There ain't much I couldn't reconcile for a hot dinner." Most nights his dinner consists of washing down gulps from a can of cold Spaghettios with whiskey, so there's no doubt that he's thankful for this. Besides, the knife he's returning to its sheath on his belt has slain many men-- why should a chicken bother him any? He's never been afraid to spill blood, especially not for the good of his family. Willa wanted a dead chicken, and Rodeo was only too glad to provide.
"You had to do some schoolin' for that job, though, huh? How many years that take? Would you believe me if I told you I got the most schoolin' outta anybody in my family?" Rodeo's aware it seems unlikely. It's easy to assume he's never read anything beyond the sparse copy in the margins of a porn magazine. The fact that he excelled in school before being expelled at sixteen is something not many folks know, or would likely believe. "Sometimes I wonder what mighta happened if I'd been able to stick with it, but I hadda take care of my mama and sister and I wasn't makin' any money writin' book reports. Got a GED and a tech degree from West Tennessee State, though-- Penitentiary, that is. First Hawkins with my name on a diploma, that's me."