playing a game. Arthur Pendelton was a true warrior.
Jake picked up his phone and called his manager. "Cancel the
Vegas fight. I'm not ready."
"What? Jake, you're crazy, this is your shot!"
"I'm not ready," Jake repeated softly. "I have a lot to learn."
Three months later, the doors of 'The Rusty Plow' swung open
again. The weather had turned, a crisp autumn chill replacing the
summer heat.
Jake Vance walked in. He looked different. The swagger was
gone. The aggressive tattoos were covered by a simple long-sleeved
flannel shirt. He moved with a quiet purpose, his eyes respectful
rather than contemptuous.
He walked up to the bar. Elias, the feed store owner, was sitting
nearby and eyed him warily.
"I'm looking for Arthur Pendelton," Jake said to the bartender.
"Artie's out at his farm," the bartender replied cautiously.
"Harvesting."
Jake nodded his thanks and walked out. He drove his truck down
the winding dirt roads until he found the Pendelton farm. It was
modest but meticulously kept.
Out in the fields, he saw the old man, wearing the same faded
overalls and the same heavy boots, working under the hood of an
aging green tractor.
Jake parked his truck and walked across the field. Arthur looked
up, wiping grease from his hands with a rag. He didn't look
surprised to see the young fighter.