“Careful,” she said, eyeing him.“Don’t be startin’ somethin’ you can’t finish.”
His mouth brushed her ear.“Wouldn’t be the first time you tackled me in a crowd.”
She turned into him like she meant to shove him off—
—and he caught her mouth, teeth grazing her lower lip.
The violin case knocked against her leg, fingers twisting in his shirt while she dragged him closer, kissing him harder.
“Jesus, get a goddamn room, ya sluts!”
Luanne’s voice carried from behind them, followed by a sharp smack across Cassie’s ass.
Cassie jerked, breath breaking as she twisted.“Mind your business!”she shot, Nash still clutching her close.
“Easy to mind it when it ain’t right in front of God and everybody,” Luanne hollered back, spinning just out of reach.
Becca was already in the grass, snapping a blanket out before lowering the baby onto it.Brady came up behind her, dragging the cooler, the toddlers riding on top.Boone followed a few steps back, favoring his leg.Crusher wasn’t far off, his attention still locked on Luanne, who was making a point of not looking at the guy.
“Cold one?”Brady asked, popping the cooler.
“Got sandwiches, too, y’all,” Becca called.
“Who is it?”Junie pushed up on her toes beside Margie, craning toward the stage.“Do we know yet?”
The music swelled fuller, a guitar line carrying across the field before a fiddle joined in, conversations around them dropping off as heads turned toward the stage.
“Hey there, Redwater County—how we doin’ tonight?”
The answering roar rolled through the fairgrounds as a figure in a flowy dress stepped into the lights.
“Oh my god,” Cassie breathed, her grip catching in Nash’s shirt.“Holy shit, that’sSierra-fuckin'-Ferrell.”
The crowd had shifted hours ago.Families gone, kids hauled home half-asleep, the fairgrounds settling into something freer, a little meaner.What remained of River Days circled the bonfire—a second concert in the making, smoke lifting into a clear stretch of night where the stars sat sharp overhead.
Nash stood just outside the ring with a bottle of somebody’s shine, watching bodies press in, hands clasping, turning.
Darlene stood near the center, mason jar in one hand, the other cutting through the air as she sang, her deep voice rolling over the strings and thump of boots in the dirt—
“—don’t you wait up, darlin’, I ain’t comin’ home—”
A banjo picked up beside her, bright and driving.A guitar answered low.Another voice slid in, grittier, catching harmony just off the beat.All around them, bones slapped together, the dry clack threading through it.
Then the fiddle rose—loud, fast, riding the edge of control.
Just like the woman wielding it.
“Stay with her!”someone barked.
“Hell, I’m tryin’!”
“Run it, Berry!”
She wasn’t playing perfect, not like she had at Con’s funeral—but it didn’t matter.It was fast, damn near feverish, always one step from coming apart but never quite tipping over.The way she leaned into it—back and forth, side to side—sweat shining at her temples and along her collarbone, bow biting as she drove the tempo higher while the rest of them scrambled to keep up—
It hit harder than any fancy-ass concert hall ever could.
Because this was the real thing.Dirt and fire and people who didn’t give a damn if it rang out clean, long as it rang true.
