Page 50 of Song Bird Hearts

Out on the porch, I find John leaning against the railing, sipping coffee from a chipped mug that says World’s Okayest Sheriff. I’d given it to him when he’d been elected five years ago. It makes my chest warm to see he still uses it.

The air outside smells like hay and gun oil, like home and war all at once. Distantly, I wonder if the smell of hay comes from Fifty Shades of Hay or if someone just managed to get a delivery close by recently. Depending on the way the wind blows, it could be either option.

John doesn’t look at me when he finally speaks, his eyes on the mountains in the distance like he can’t quite get enough of the view. “So this is what stardom is, huh?”

I snort softly and join him at the railing. “Yeah.Realglamorous.”

He tilts his head, watching a couple of the ranch hands finish reinforcing the north fence. “You always wanted big things. Remember tellin’ me you were gonna sing at the Super Bowl one day?”

“I did,” I remind him. “National Anthem. Last year.”

“And how was it?” he asks, finally looking at me.

I hesitate, not sure if I should be honest or lie like everyone expects me to. It’s cliché to say anything other than, “it was amazing,” but damn it, I’m a walking billboard for you get what you ask for these days.

Sighing, I take a seat on the steps and wait until John follows.

“Lonely,” I admit softly. “I thought it’d feel like flying. Instead, it felt like I was on strings. Like I was being paraded in front of cameras at a show I didn’t even wanna be at.”

He doesn’t respond right away, so I continue, my voice even quieter now.

“People keep telling me who I’m supposed to be. What I should say. How I should act. What I should want. And I let ‘em. I let ‘em dress me up like a goddamn cheetah print doll and push me on stage. And the whole time, I kept thinkin’. . . if I stop singin’, if I never set foot on stage again, would anybody even notice I was gone?”

John’s head tilts toward me, and his eyes are softer than I expected. Sad, maybe, but proud, too.

“This livestream. . .” he starts, “. . .you’re not doin’ it for them, are you?”

“No,” I answer honestly. “I’m doin’ it for me, to take it back. To takemeback.”

He smiles faintly. “That sounds more like the Valerie I know.”

I blink. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says. “The one I know? She once threw a mic stand at a drunk guy who grabbed her guitar. She built a fence line by herself because the boys said she couldn’t. She’s not a puppet. She’s a shotgun. With damn good aim.”

I laugh, tears stinging behind my eyes. “You really think I can do this?”

He looks out over the yard again, at the people who’d come, at the way the town had closed ranks around me without question.

“I think you already have.” He sets down his mug and stands before offering me a hand. “We’re proud of you, Val. All of us. No matter what happens after this.”

I take his hand and rise to my feet before hugging him close, glad to have a friend like him in my corner. “Then I guess it’s time to make some noise,” I tell him when we part.

It’s time for this shotgun to reload.

Chapter25

Gilden

I’ve seen a lot of things in my life—wars, hurricanes, men broken and rebuilt into ghosts—but I’ve never seen anything quite like Valerie Decatur standing in front of a camera, just moments before going live to call out the most dangerous people in the goddamn world.

She’s lit from one side by the rigged ring lights, soft and gold like firelight on her skin, while the window behind her glows blue with the dying light outside. Her shoulders are square, her jaw set like stone, and her hands only tremble when she thinks no one is lookin’.

But I’m lookin’.

I’m always lookin’.

“You got this,cher,” I whisper to her.

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