Page 80 of Song Bird Hearts

After all we’re gonna keep fighting until no one else has to.

Stagborn. . . or die. . .

Epilogue

Valerie

The wind rolls down from the mountains in warm summer gusts, scattering wildflower petals across the hills like confetti. The Green River Drift has already taken place, the thirteen ranches ushering their cattle up to the allotment. White Stag had sent their small herd up with the rest, though ours are mostly for tradition than because we have much to do with cattle anymore. We deal in hogs and eggs these days, though we’ve started experimenting with potatoes, too.

White Stag Pastures is still and peaceful for once, but it’s only on the surface. Beneath the hush, something watches, something sinister. The world has opened its eyes. It will never close them again at this point.

I stand barefoot in the grass, my guitar slung across my back, my hair braised loose down one shoulder. I’m wearing bright colors like I prefer, my makeup equally as bright and glamorous. I can hear Gilden laughing somewhere behind the barn, probably antagonizing Sir Spits-a-Lot again. Wolf had vanished into the woods at dawn, but I’d seen his shadow return just before sunrise, the kitchen coffee pot full and the front door left slightly ajar.

Knox hasn’t left my sight. Not really. I think he’s afraid to leave me alone for too long in case the Foundation changes their mind and shows up to kill me. I half think the same thing, that they’ll show up and tie up their loose ends, but even if I hadn’t accepted the deal, it still stands. And I’ve yet to leave the Green River Basin. Not that I won’t, but we best be prepared for when I do.

I turn toward the house. Knox stands on the porch like a sentinel, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. It’s not because of suspicion, but they’re narrowed in hunger, devotion, and readiness. He’s a live wire, anxious about me performing for the first time since the battle, but this is something that has to happen. It’s not freedom if I don’t spread my wings. It’s not freedom if I still can’t sing.

Hell, I even fired my label, because they’re an unnecessary burden at this point. I’d hired my own manager, someone to help me navigate booking shows and the intricacies that come with it, someone I trust from Steele and I’ll have the whole town behind me. That’s all I need right now. Things are different from here on out, vastly so, but I still want to sing. I’m just choosing what I sing now.

Inside, headlines glow across a laptop screen someone left out.

VALERIE DECATUR:

THE GIRL WHO STARTED A WAR

THE STAGBORN RISE

A STAR WITH A SHOTGUN

My face is literally everywhere, the media outlets who’d initially refused to report on it now joining in due to necessity. It’s become too big to ignore, to pretend it isn’t happening. The last few weeks have made me more than a country singer. Somehow, I’m a movement now, a warning, a name that means “don’t fuck with us.”

And I’d learned that freedom isn’t something you get. It’s something you have to take. Again, and again, and again.

They’d built a stage for me in the back of a pickup truck. It’s not polished or framed by camera rigs, but it’s perfect for my first performance since the fight. They’d had it set up on the west side of White Stag, near my favorite spot, and people fill the pastures by the thousands. Someone had strung up fairy lights, the pretty bulbs blinking in time with the fireflies. I can see it even from here, the murmurs of the crowd filtering across the night air. The guns are out of sight, but they’re there, at the ready should anything happen. Somehow, they’d rigged a speaker system up down there, though I think that miracle has to do with Hank calling in more favors. The man must have a manifest to keep track of them at this point.

The entire town has showed up for the show, mixed in with the fans who came from far and wide to witness the show. The media is here in droves too, all ready to watch me sing. People are seated in the back of pickups at the back of the field. Others are sprawled out on hay bales or quilts. Indie stands at the front of the stage with her cowboys, her eyes bright as she prepares to signal the livestream to begin. She’s taken on the duty of making sure information gets out and I’m grateful for it. I need some time to myself to really enjoy what freedom feels like.

“Ready?” Knox asks, offering me his hand.

I nod. “As I’ll ever be.”

“Before we head out there, I have something I want to give you,” he says, his face flushing when I turn toward him.

“Oh?” I tilt my head. “Is it a gun? I feel like it’s a gun.”

He laughs despite his clear tension. “No,” he says, pulling out a small black velvet box. My heart stops. “Not a gun.”

I stare with wide eyes at it. “That ain’t a ring, is it?”

“Just open it, Trouble,” he says, handing it to me. He doesn’t kneel down or anything so I assume it’s not a ring.

Curious, I flip open the velvet box and take in the small glint of metal inside. When I pull it out, I realize it’s a metal guitar pick. “What?” I rasp, before realizing there are words on it. “I’ll always pick you,” I read out loud. On the other side, a small bird is etched in. “Knox! This is the sweetest thing I’ve ever gotten!”

“It sounds cheesy now that you read it out loud,” he grumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just thought. . . it’s stupid?—”

“It’s not,” I argue, tucking the box into my pocket and holding the pick in my fingers. “I love it. I’m gonna use it tonight. Thank you.”

He flushes under my words and like typical Knox, doesn’t seem to know how to handle it. So he just presses a kiss to my forehead and helps me onto the four-wheeler he has waiting for us.

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