Page 44 of Song Bird Hearts (Green River Hearts #4)

Valerie

T he city of Steele is bruised, but not broken.

The sidewalks are littered with crushed signs and debris, but someone has already swept the blood off the steps of the courthouse.

White Stag Pastures has taken in more bodies than I can count—people with no homes to return to, journalists who never expected to become part of the story, fighters with trembling hands still stained red.

The Big Ranch Inn had been damaged in the fight, so all the big thirteen ranches have opened their doors to those who need it.

I heard even Udder Nonsense opened their doors, a rarity for the dairy farm.

Steele comes together, like it always does.

I stand on the porch of White Stag in borrowed flannel, watching a windblown copy of the Steele Gazette flutter in the wind. My face is on the front page of it, just beneath the headline.

COUNTRY MUSIC, CONSPIRACY, AND THE WOMAN WHO LIT THE FUSE

Below those words is a photo of me in the middle of the streets of Steele, blood streaking down my arm, my mouth open in defiance mid-livestream.

I don’t even recognize myself in the image.

I don’t even know when it was taken. There’d been so much stuff happening, I didn’t even realize Indie had been snapping pictures in the midst of chaos.

Inside, the radio hums. One of the local stations now loops my songs between bursts of updates.

My voice has been playing nonstop since the livestream ended.

Even national outlets are running the story despite the danger.

It’s too big of a deal not to report on at this point, especially when the rumors are going viral on social media.

Everyone has something to say about the girl with a guitar who took on the empire and lived to tell the tale.

There are murals now. It’s been only three days and there are whole ass murals of my face around the country.

The fan art that’s come across my feed has both blown me away and grounded me.

A girl with a tattoo of my signature already inked across her collarbone had sobbed in my arms outside of Ugly Mugz early this morning.

“You made me feel brave,” the girl had whispered.

I hadn’t known what to say to that. I’m not brave. I was terrified the entire time.

But the man from the Foundation had been right. I’ve become a brand of a sort, a symbol, and. . . I’m not prepared for everyone to see me as the symbol they need. I was only being selfish and trying to earn my own freedom at first. Now, it’s turned into something more.

“Hey.”

I turn at the quiet voice. Gilden stands at the porch screen door with two cups of coffee in his hands.

His curls are a mess, and instead of his loafers and Miami flare, he’s dressed more casual today.

Boot cut jeans that look damn good on him and a plaid, button-down shirt that makes him fit right in.

He’s barefoot right now, his feet padding across the wooden slates.

Someone had given him a mug that says “World’s Okayest Cowboy.

” It was probably Knox. Where he got it, I don’t know, but it’s clearly a spin on John’s own coffee mug I gave him. I like it.

I take the other mug he offers. “Thanks.”

“Everyone’s up at the barn. They’re unloading another shipment of supplies and getting ready to hand it out. You’re supposed to take it easy though. Sheriff’s orders.”

“Is he. . .?”

“He’s awake.” Gilden’s smile is gentle. “He’s bitching about the hospital food and demanding his badge back, but he’s gon’ be just fine.”

I swallow. There hadn’t been enough time to look deeper at John’s wound, not before the fight.

It’d been bandaged but there’d been some pieces left behind.

Apparently, despite it being in his shoulder, it had barely missed his lung, and fighting afterwards had angered it.

He’s been in the hospital while they keep an eye out for infection that had started and they were forced to address.

He’d waited too long to get checked out apparently.

I’ve been taking him flowers the last two days, an action that John fussed over me doing, but also secretly loves. I don’t think many people realize the sheriff really likes sunflowers.

I sit down heavily on the porch steps, the world spinning in quiet circles around me. It’s not over. It might never be over. And I’m already exhausted. I need some time to recuperate.

The media trucks still haven’t left. The Foundation may have retreated, but it isn’t a loss on their part. It’s just a recalibration. And I’m still standing in the spotlight, with every camera in the country pointed at my chest, waiting to see what I’ll do next.

“Did you see what the LA Times called you?” Gilden asks.

I don’t look up. “Something flattering, I bet.”

He pulls out his phone and reads, “ Valerie Decatur: Country Music’s Joan of Arc .”

I groan and press my hands to my face. “God, shoot me.”

Gilden chuckles. “Bit late for that, cher .”

I peek between my fingers at him. “I never wanted this.”

“I know.”

“I just wanted to play music and sing songs that mean something. I didn’t ask to be this famous, or a symbol, or a weapon.”

“You didn’t ask,” Gilden says with a nod. “But you are all of those things, mon rossignol . You did what no one else could. You forced them into the light and people needed a face for the fight. They chose yours.”

I shake my head slowly. “It’s not over.”

“Nope.”

“I made the world look at me.”

“Sure did,” he nods.

“And now I can’t run,” I croak.

“Nope again.” Gilden nudges me with his shoulder. “But you can choose how to stand.”

His words land deep, rocking my core and making me realize that I may not have chosen this outcome, but it’s what I have to work with, and I still can choose how to face it. I’m not in a cage, but I am on a pedestal now. That comes with responsibility.

I sip my coffee and stare out at the low mountains beyond White Stag.

Out here, I’m away from the sounds of repairs happening in Steele, but not out of the bustle of activity from those staying at the ranch to help.

The grass is trampled in places, but new shoots are already poking through.

Kevin meanders around the yard, looking for anyone to give him food.

Goosey is nestled in the house, sitting prime and proper beside Knox where he cleans everyone’s guns.

I think he’s developed a soft spot for the goose in the last few days.

As Gilden sits beside me, Sir Spits-a-Lot pokes around a few yards away, waiting for him to let his guard down so he can harass him again.

I swear him and that llama have it out for each other.

When Knox and Wolf join me on the porch, everything locks into place. I know, in my bones, they aren’t going anywhere. However I choose to handle this, they’ll be by my side. Forever.

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

Stagborn. . . or die. . .