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"Downtown Chicago is a world away from Montana," Trad thought to himself as he briskly walked down the street.
Trad stood out like a sore thumb, in his well worn cowboy boots, tight blue jeans, heavy Carhartt jacket and dark brown Stetson hat. Despite being in his thirties, his eyes had begun to show the signs of life on the ranch - crow's feet when he smiled. A girl once described his eyes as "a lost ocean", whatever that meant.
He was late as usual, and he knew his father would be furious. The quarterly meetings with the shareholders were very important - but since moving to rural Montana three years ago, time seemed more and more unimportant.
Sometimes he would smile thinking back to the life he had before becoming a rancher. Pushed by his father to excel, Trad worked both as an i
