Free A Nashville Collection by Rachel Hauck

sacrifice for you. I don’t know what to say.”
    â€œAll right, all right. So I like licorice.” He jerks my suitcase from the porch floor, chuckling.
    We load up and drive in silence to Mitch’s, where Ricky stowed my truck for the weekend, the only sound the click of Daddy’s tongue as he chews on his toothpick. I’m homesick already. By the time we turn in to Pearce Paint & Body Shop, my eyes are battling tears.
    Daddy cuts the engine and says, “I’m gonna miss you.”
    â€œSame here, Daddy.” A few tears escape and slip down my cheeks.
    He reaches for my hand. “My firstborn. You’re the most special, but I’ll deny it if Eliza or Steve catch wind.”
    â€œIt’s our little secret.”
    â€œI know you’re scared, but I’m proud of you.” He squeezes my hand as if to give me a shot of confidence. “Courage isn’t the absence of fear but the ability to confront it. You’re showing courage here, Robin Rae.”
    â€œThank you,” I whisper, wiping the edge of my face where the tears drop off.
    â€œYou have a bit to overcome, but learning to fly with your own wings will make you strong. Listen to your old daddy— you are a great songwriter. The Lord is with you.”
    Old daddy? At forty-eight, his hair is still thick and black, and his crisp brown eyes look at Momma with youthful love. He’s the steady, ever-present man. A man of his word. A man of the Word.
    I lunge across the seat into his arms. “How did I get so blessed to have a daddy like you?”
    He coughs and sputters, patting my shoulder. “I think I’m the lucky one. Now, we’d better see what Ricky and Mitch have done to your truck.” He kisses my forehead before letting me go.
    Outside, Daddy pounds the heavy, sliding doors with his fist. “Hello, it’s Dean and Robin.”
    Ricky answers through a crack. “Not quite ready.”
    â€œFine, son, but let us in. We can get a cup of coffee while we wait.” Daddy shrugs at me with a glance at his watch.
    â€œRicky, what’s going on?” I holler. “There better not be one flame . . . Or antlers. No bull or deer antlers. Or moose.” One set of antlers or yellow flames, and I promise, pow , right in the kisser.
    The garage doors open. There, in the bright shop lights, is my ’69 Chevy, it’s midnight-blue body polished to a mirrorlike shine.
    â€œHoly cow.” I walk beside the truck. “Ricky, it’s beautiful.” Inside the cab, my white seats are whiter than fresh snow, and the small tear on the driver’s side is gone. “You fixed my seat and detailed the interior . . . Is that a new roof lining?”
    â€œYeah, couldn’t let you—” A cough chokes off his thought.
    Daddy props one arm over the door. “You must have worked all weekend. This is mighty nice of you and Mitch, son.”
    Ricky waves off Daddy’s comment with a sigh. And his eyes are on me. “Couldn’t send Robin off to Nashville looking like a country bumpkin.”
    I laugh. “But I am a country bumpkin. And proud of it.”
    â€œRobin,” Daddy calls from the other side of the truck. “Look here.”
    I walk around. There on the driver’s side of the truck bed is the most beautiful red bird, wings spread, soaring above a white, fleecy cloud. Underneath, Ricky has airbrushed the words Freedom’s Song .
    I fly into his arms, bury my face in his chest, and bawl like a baby.

7
    A steady rain pelts my windshield as I cruise north on I-65 just past the Cool Springs exits. The truck’s wipers grunt and groan, and despite blasting the defrost, a thin layer of fog creeps up the inside of the glass. Wiping it down with an Arby’s napkin, I glimpse the road signs. Nashville’s up ahead.
    My insides quiver and my leg shakes a little. “Getting closer—”
    Holy cow! I slam on the