On a hot, sultry night, the door to the Southern Arizona steakhouse and bar stood propped open, revealing a lively scene within. The traffic buzzed just ten feet away, while the jukebox played a George Strait song, providing the soundtrack for couples sashaying around the dance floor. Enter a man in dusty denim pants, Justin boots, and a red-and-white checkered shirt, a tear marking one sleeve. His black felt hat pulled low, he surveyed the joint, spotting an empty table just inside the bar. With a slight limp, he walked over, pulled out a chair – a man in his late forties, dark hair streaked with gray, a deep, eternal weariness etched across his face. For two decades, he'd traversed the Western part of America, a rodeo cowboy with a reputation that had waned over time. Once a name whispered with anticipation, now met with questions like, "man, he ain't quit yet?" As he waited for his beer, his eyes fell on an attractive blonde a couple of tables over. Feeling his gaze, she looked over, her blue eyes meeting his as he ordered her a fresh drink, and a nod of thanks passed between them.