Page 1 of Song Bird Hearts
Prologue
Valerie
The Boot Skoot is packed tonight, so full, people are spilling out into the street in the hopes of being let in before the show starts. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many people inside the small bar and dance hall. Hank assured me the bar would be full, but I didn’t realize it would be like this.
I’m behind the bar, mostly because there isn’t really anywhere else to stand. If I were out on the floor, it would be damn near impossible to make it anywhere without someone stopping me to share memories of my youth. Of which there are many. I’m sure every person in this bar right now has a story about the trouble I used to get up to. Steele is a small town. There ain’t much to do out here, and it’s very easy to go the wrong way. I respected my mama too much to try drugs when she did as much for me as she did, but that didn’t mean I didn’t make her pull her hair out when the sheriff would bring me back home after getting in trouble for stealing a tractor for a joy ride or throwing toilet paper in old man Reynold’s trees. If I’d been in any other town, I might have messed up real bad, but here in the Green River Basin, we take care of our own. I may have been the troublemaker kid from White Stag Pastures, but I was their troublemaker kid.
And now, they’re all here to listen to my song about that very topic.
But tonight, something is different. There are a few new faces in this bar, a few strangers who are here for one reason and one reason only.
To see if I have what it takes.
And I’m damn sure gonna show them I have it. That don’t mean my nerves aren’t ready to crack through. I’m as nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.
“You alright there, Val?” Hank asks, his eyes seeing a little too much as I stand at the bar, a glass of whiskey in my hands that I haven’t touched. “You’re so tense, you could tune a fiddle on your spine.”
I snort and glance over at Hank. “Bout to have a come-apart is all.” My eyes flick around the overpacked bar. “The fire marshal’s gonna come shut this down if you ain’t careful.”
“Nah,” he laughs before squeezing my shoulders. “He’s here, too. Over in the corner nursing his third beer. He mentioned how excited he was to see you play tonight.”
My eyes crinkle. “Hard to believe that. He was awfully mad at me for stealing his tractor that one time.”
Hank laughs. “Even then, we all knew how great you were gonna be.” He pats me on the hand. “It’s hard to be mad when you rode down Main Street singing at the top of your lungs on that very same tractor.”
“Steele’s very own troublemaker,” I tease.
His eyes squeeze in amusement. “Steele’s very own star, you mean.”
“Nah. I’m just Valerie Decatur,” I shrug. “This is just another Saturday night.”
Hank snorts. “And that group of executives that I’m giving free alcohol to are just a couple of strangers passing through.” But his expression grows serious for a moment. “Val, I just want you to know, no matter what happens here tonight, we’re all very proud of you. Your mama would be damn near?—”
He chokes off, his words strangled until he can’t seem to get the words out. I blink back tears, knowing it’s too hard of a topic to discuss. The basin takes care of our own, but sometimes, it don’t matter who’s in your corner. Cancer still takes you.
“She’s here,” I croak. I tap my black guitar where it leans against the back of the bar. It’s the very same guitar my mama had given me when I was getting into all heaps of trouble. After the tractor incident, actually. She told me to put my energy into something that’ll matter. So, I did. And now here I am, one step away from a record deal. The little songbird motif gracing the front of the guitar is my reminder of her. She always called me her little songbird.
Hank clears his throat. Him and mama had been close, the best of friends for so long, I often wonder how he handled her death so bravely. “You’re right.” He glances at his watch, changing the subject. “You’re on in a few minutes. You outta start making your way through the crowd. It’s gonna take a minute.”
I nod and grab my guitar before making my way through the crowd in the direction of the raised dais. He’s right. It does take me far longer than a few minutes, and at some point, he has to shout across the room for everyone to let me through. I’m too nice to not talk to those who stop me to share memories. These are the people I owe everything to. When Mama died last year, they were the ones who kept me on the straight and narrow. They were the ones who kept booking me to play, who kept suggesting I keep going. I’m wearing Mama’s denim jacket tonight, too. It almost makes it feel like she really is here. She wouldn’t have missed this for the world.
When I finally make my way onto the small raised dais that counts as the stage in the Boot Skoot, the crowd cheers and I’m floored to realize the cheers come from outside on the street as well. The Boot Skoot isn’t meant for this many people crammed inside here, but they’re definitely trying.
“Hey, y’all,” I say into the mic and whistles call back to me. “You all know who I am, but in case you don’t, I’m Valerie Decatur. Most of you know me as the troublemaker growing up, and, well, I can’t thank you enough for keeping me on the straight and narrow during those years.” I strum my guitar and the crowd shifts. “Now, I expect y’all to sing along with this one,” I tease, grinning at the familiar faces in the crowd. “This is ‘White Stag Way.’”
They cheer and whistle while I glance over my shoulder at Wayne and Diane, my drummer and bassist. We launch into the song, my fingers moving along my fret and playing the notes that are second nature by now.
My lips hover over the microphone before I start to sing.
“I was raised on hand-me-down lace and leather,
Mud on my boots beneath that wild Wyoming weather.
Mama worked double at the diner and the gate,
Still packed my lunch and never showed up late.”
The song is rich and full of nostalgia. Hank swears it’ll be the one that makes me big, that it will make people feel it. It’s my “this is where I’m from and who made me” anthem, a staple for all country singers. I trust Hank’s opinion more than anyone, so I know I made the right decision to sing it. He’s pretty much been the only father figure in my life that hasn’t ever made me feel like a silly little kid.
