Page 105 of Knotting the Cowboys

Willow surges forward beneath me, smooth as water, and the world transforms into a blur of sensation. Wind tears at my hair, whipping auburn strands across my face like silk fingers. The romper's skirt flutters and snaps against my thighs, and I'm grateful for the new boots' solid grip in the stirrups.

This is flying while staying earthbound. This is freedom with four hooves drumming rhythm into the earth. My body remembers more than I gave it credit for—the slight forward lean, the give and take of the reins, the way my hips roll with Willow's movement like we're dancing partners who never forgot the steps.

"That's it!" River's voice carries over the thunder of hooves, bright with approval. "Let her run!"

So I do.

We streak across the pasture, dodging sage brushes and jumping small streams with an ease that makes me laugh—actually laugh, wild and uncontained. The sound gets stolen by the wind, but the joy remains, bubbling up from some deep well I'd capped years ago.

The landscape unfolds around us like a secret being revealed. What looked like simple fields from the ranch gate shows its true face in motion—hidden valleys carpeted in late wildflowers, ancient cottonwoods marking water sources, rock formationsthat catch the afternoon light and throw it back in shades of amber and rose.

Sweetwater Falls isn't just pretty. It's raw beauty that doesn't need human approval, that exists whether we witness it or not.

I understand now why River brought me here, why he knew I needed this. In the boutique, he gave me permission to want. Out here, he's giving me permission to be. No walls, no witnesses except the red-tailed hawk circling overhead. No expectations except to stay mounted and keep breathing.

The sun tracks lower as we ride, painting longer shadows that race alongside us. My thighs burn from gripping, my lungs work harder than they have in months, but I feel more alive than I have since—since before.

Before the fire.

Before Iron Ridge.

Before I learned to make myself small enough to swallow.

"Up here!" River points toward a hill that rises above the others, its crest catching the last direct rays of sun. "Best view in the county!"

We slow to a walk for the climb, giving the horses a chance to catch their breath. My heart still pounds, but it's the good kind of racing—exertion and exhilaration rather than panic. As we ascend, the view expands exponentially. The town of Sweetwater Falls spreads below us like a miniature, complete with toy cars and dollhouse buildings. Beyond it, mountains rise in layers of blue and purple, their peaks already touched with snow.

"Oh," I breathe when we reach the summit.

The inadequacy of words in the face of this vista makes my chest tight.

River dismounts first, then moves to help me down. His hands find my waist, and even through fabric, even with careful control, the contact sparks.

He lowers me slowly, making sure my legs are steady before letting go. We stand side by side, horses ground-tied behind us, watching the sun begin its descent toward the mountain peaks.

The silence wraps around us, comfortable as an old quilt.

Minutes pass.

The sky starts its evening performance—blue fading to purple at the edges, orange and pink beginning their dance across the clouds. It's the kind of beauty that makes you feel small but not insignificant.

Part of something larger. Bigger than my mind dares to envision for myself.

"I almost died watching a sunset," I say, the words sliding out without permission.

River doesn't startle, doesn't rush to respond. He just shifts slightly closer, near enough that I can feel his warmth without touching. An invitation to continue if I want. A promise to listen if I need.

"The fire started at dusk." My voice sounds strange to my own ears, detached like I'm narrating someone else's story. "Blake—my ex—he knew I loved watching the sun set from our bedroom window. Said he had a surprise for me."

My hands clench involuntarily, nails digging crescents into my palms. River notices—of course he does—but doesn't reach for me. He knows I need to get this out without the distraction of comfort.

"The surprise was accelerant. And matches. And a deadbolt on the outside of the door I didn't know he'd installed." The words taste like ash. "They wanted it to look like an accident. Omega gets careless with candles, old house goes up quick. Tragic but not suspicious."

"They?" River's voice is carefully neutral, but I hear the steel underneath.

"The whole pack. Iron Ridge." I laugh, but it's bitter as burnt coffee. "See, the thing nobody talks about is how financially lucrative a dead Omega can be. Life insurance, sure, but also the sympathy factor. The grieving Alpha pack who lost their beloved mate? Donations pour in. Business partnerships solidify. Other packs rally around to support."

The sun sinks lower, painting everything in shades of blood and gold. How's that for poetic irony.

---