Rodeo's mood isn't anything like the first time he came by Willa's for dinner. That time she had found him belting out a silly song while strumming his old guitar, and his spirits had been lifted even higher by the invitation to a hot meal with a pretty woman. But the man who had chased a chicken around for near a half hour like a big goofy puppy ain't the man who shows up at Willa's door tonight. His mood is somber and that smirking, arrogant demeanor is nowhere to be seen. There's a file folder tucked under his arm, and when he steps inside it's clear that the stresses of the past few days are weighing heavily on his shoulders. His blue eyes are tired and, if one looks hard enough for it, tormented by something on his mind. He ducks through the doorway, too tall to enter without bowing his head. He straightens back up as he heads into the small kitchen of Willa's trailer, bringing one hand up to take off the plain black baseball cap he wears as he comes inside. It leaves his hair a rumpled mess, and he doesn't bother fixing it.
"Hey, darlin'," he says in greeting, setting the file he's carrying down on her kitchen table. The smell of the food already has his stomach snarling audibly. He hasn't taken time to eat today, and the hunger hits him full force once he eyes what Willa's fixing on the stove. "Sorry for holdin' up your supper," he says, pressing a hand to his grumbling belly. "Was a real rough day for us out there."