Page 2 of Let Her Buck

“Delaney Dawson to the main stage,” a crackling voice calls out over the loudspeaker. “Laney, you’re up, sweetheart!”

The nervous butterflies in my stomach morph into panicked pigeons. I glance back toward the stranger, but he’s already melted into the crowd.

Darn it.

I shuffle toward the stage where a large crowd has already gathered, my boots thudding softly against the wood as I climb up the steps. I swallow, blaming the evening summer sun for the beads of sweat on my temple. I set up my mic, nerves tangled around my fingers like barbed wire.

This stage—this old, sun-warped platform…it means something to me. It always has.

My nana used to sing right here. Back when Sweetheart Bend was a little smaller, the crowds a little kinder, and music came from the soul, not a screen. I remember standing in the grass below her with my hands wrapped around a cup of lemonade, watching her shine like she owned the stars. She had that voice…the kind that wrapped around your heart and made everything else disappear.

I miss her now, wish she was here to hear me sing. Wish she was here so I could make her proud.

People say I’ve got her voice…that it’s a gift. Something special. But I don’t know. Sometimes, I feel like I could never live up to her legacy.

But maybe I can create my own legacy. Nana used to say, “We are the authors of our destinies.” Maybe it’s time to take my destiny into my own hands, create my own path…

I know this song. I’ve sung it a hundred times in my bedroom, to the horses in the barn, to the stars from the rooftop of my little apartment. But here? In front of all these people? My voice feels like it might bolt and leave me standing here, empty.

I strum once, settle the rhythm, and start to sing.

Soft and low at first. My own little secret.

Then I see him again, standing near the sound booth, leaned up against the fencing like he’s watching the world fall apart. He’s not looking directly at me. His hat is still low, and there’s a coil of shadow across his jaw, but I know it’s him. The stranger in the crowd. The storm in a black hat.

My breath falters.

I can’t seem to look away from him. I watch as he tilts his head, and his fingers tap the railing. I keep singing, but something’s changing. The words that have always flowed like water now feel stuck, thick in my throat.

His lifts his face and his eyes meet mine. Steel-gray. Sharp as a blade.

Oh no.

Everything stops.

I forget the line. The chord. My own name. Everything. I’m frozen in the middle of the stage, staring like a fool into a pair of eyes that seem to see directly into my soul.

Just then, the power trips off. Just in time.

Oh, thank you, Mother Universe!

The speakers go dead. The mic sizzles once before fading into silence. A few folks boo. Some laugh. The lights above me dim, everything disappearing under a wave of surprised murmurs and a ripple of confusion.

But I’m still staring. At him.

He tips his head just slightly and I catch the subtle curve of his lips. A smile? Maybe. Or it could be the shadows playing tricks on me. Before I can decide what I saw, someone tugs me toward the backstage area, and the moment is gone.

But my heart’s still pounding, and as the curtains fall, somewhere deep inside me, I hope to God I get to see him again.

The second I’m behind the curtain, the fair noise floods back in, boots scuffing, someone hollering for a generator check, the distant hum of country music from another stall. But it all feels muffled, like I’m underwater.

“Laney!” Sadie barrels toward me like a sequined cannonball, cheeks flushed and curls bouncing. “Oh my God, are you okay? What happened out there?” She grabs my arms, eyes scanning me like I might’ve been shot instead of just stage-struck.

“I…I don’t know,” I breathe, still staring past her, like my mystery man might materialize in the shadowed corners backstage.

“You froze, girl. Mid-note. Like a deer in the world’s brightest headlights. Then boom! Blackout.” She leans in. “Did you faint with your eyes open? Because it looked like you saw a ghost.”

“No,” I murmur, with a distracted shake of my head. “I just…forgot the words.”

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