Page 10 of Knotting the Cowboys

"He does that?"

"About once a month. Man can't remember his own head, but sure, let's put him in charge of deciding who's worthy of shelter." She offers me her hand. "Come on. Let's get you off this curb before the evening joggers start using you as a hurdle."

I look at her outstretched hand—manicured nails, steady grip, offering help without pity—and feel something crack in my chest. This woman fought literal fires, dealt with the same Alpha bullshit I've faced, and chose to find peace instead of burning out. Maybe there's a lesson in that.

"I don't know why you're being so nice to me," I say, but I take her hand anyway.

"Because rebels stick together, remember?" She pulls me up with surprising strength. "Plus, anyone who makes Harold that mad is someone I want to know better. The man's vein was practically throbbing—I saw him through the window. Quality entertainment."

Standing feels strange after sitting on cold concrete, and I sway slightly.

Wendolyn steadies me without making a big deal of it, just a hand on my elbow until I find my balance. Like she's done this before.

Like maybe she's been the one sitting on the curb too, once upon a time.

"For what it's worth," I say, "I think those firefighters were idiots. Their loss."

"Oh, I know they were." She links her arm through mine like we're old friends. "But sometimes the best revenge is finding happiness they said we couldn't have. Living well, and all that."

She could be right.

That there's strength in choosing peace over war, in victory rolls instead of battle scars.

Or maybe I'm just tired enough to want to believe her.

Yearning For A Home

~WILLA~

The walk to Wildflower & Wren takes us deeper into Sweetwater Falls, and despite everything, I find myself cataloging details like I'm trying to memorize a dream before waking.

Street lamps flicker on one by one, old-fashioned things that look like they've been standing guard since the town's founding. Their golden light catches on shop windows, turning ordinary glass into pools of honey.

Wendolyn keeps up a gentle commentary as we walk, her heels clicking a rhythm on the sidewalk.

"That's the hardware store—Mr. Chen's owned it for thirty years and can find you any screw, bolt, or widget known to man. Over there's the barber shop where all the old-timers gather to solve the world's problems over coffee and gossip."

The buildings press close together like friends sharing secrets, painted in colors that shouldn't work but do—butter yellow next to sage green, dusty blue beside brick red.

Flower boxes hang from windows despite the October chill, still blooming with mums and pansies in defiant bursts of purple and gold.

It's aggressively quaint, like the town got together and decided to be a postcards photographer's wet dream.

My inner turmoil feels out of place here, too sharp and ugly for all this small-town perfection.

I'm a discord note in their harmony, a smudge on their pretty picture. But Wendolyn walks beside me like I belong, pointing out the veterinary clinic — "Dr. Patel is a miracle worker with animals and has the gentlest hands you've ever seen" — and the tiny post office —"Martha runs it like a naval operation, but she'll hold your packages if you're running late".

"Population?" I ask, trying to ground myself in facts.

"About three thousand, give or take. Swells during rodeo season and the harvest festival." She navigates around a crack in the sidewalk without breaking stride. "Big enough to have everything you need, small enough that everyone knows everyone's business. It's a blessing and a curse, depending on the day."

We pass a young couple walking their dog, and they both nod to Wendolyn, their eyes sliding over me with curiosity but not hostility. The dog—some kind of setter—wags its entire body at us before being tugged along. Normal people living normal lives in their normal town, while I'm held together with spite and stubbornness.

The bookstore comes into view again, and this time I really look at it.

The building itself is old, probably from the town's founding era, with good bones under its cheerful paint.

The wraparound porch sags slightly in the middle like it's been well-loved. Fairy lights twine through the railings and around the support posts, creating a constellation of warm whitestars. The window boxes overflow with wildflowers that have no business blooming this late in the season, but there they are anyway—cosmos and black-eyed Susans and something purple I can't identify.

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