Page 107 of Knotting the Cowboys

"Why?" No judgment in the question, just quiet curiosity.

"Because Cactus Rose was sacred." My voice drops to barely above a whisper. "It was my sanctuary. Where I ran when Mom's expectations got too heavy or Dad's disappointment too sharp. Where I could just... exist. Be messy and imperfect and wild."

Memories flood in—hiding in the hayloft with a book and an apple, crying into Buttercup's mane after my first heartbreak, helping Grandpa mend fences while he listened to my teenage dreams without mockery.This place had held all my unformed self, kept it safe when the world demanded I compress into acceptable shapes.

"I knew if I came back, it would either heal me or break me completely. And honestly?" I laugh, short and sharp. "I wasn't sure I deserved healing. Not after everything. Not after I'd let myself become what they wanted—this hollowed-out thing that looked like an Omega but had no center, no self."

The tears come then, hot and sudden, tracking down my cheeks like rain on drought-cracked earth. I don't try to stop them.

The sun blurs into watercolor smears of orange and gold, and I let myself feel the full weight of it—the grief, the rage, the bone-deep exhaustion of carrying this alone.

"I forgot," I whisper, tasting salt. "Forgot that I was allowed to be a whole person. Forgot that submission didn't mean erasure. That belonging didn't require disappearing. Iron Ridge trained it out of me so well that even now, even here where I'm safe, I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For you all to realize I'm too damaged, too difficult, too?—"

"Too extraordinary."

River's interruption makes me hiccup mid-sob.

I turn to look at him, and the expression on his face steals what's left of my breath.

There's no pity there, no savior complex.

Just recognition.

Like he sees every broken piece and finds them beautiful not despite the damage but because of how they've reformed.

"You're not too anything, Willa. You're exactly enough. Exactly right." He shifts, maintaining that careful distance but somehow making it feel like an embrace. "You want to know what we see when we look at you? Not a project to fix or a pretty thing to own. We see a woman who survived what should have killed her. Who built an empire for ungrateful bastards and had the strength to walk away when they tried to burn her. Who came back to the one place that knew her true self and had the courage to start becoming her again."

The tears fall faster now, but they're changing, shifting from grief to something that might be release.

"But here," I manage between sobs, "here I can be whoever I've always wanted to be. Me. Fierce. Determined. Worthy of happiness and love."

The words hang in the air between us, a declaration and a question and a prayer all at once. The sun is almost gone now, just a sliver of fire painting the clouds in shades of glory.

River extends his hand then, slow and deliberate. An offering, not a demand. I stare at it—this hand that's gentle with horses and firm with boundaries, that played my body like an instrument but now offers simple human connection.

I take it.

His fingers close around mine, warm and solid and real. He lifts our joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles that somehow feels more intimate than everything we did in that changing room.

When he speaks, his voice carries the weight of vows.

"Here, you can be exactly who you've always been destined to be. Fierce and vulnerable. Determined and soft. A businesswoman and a dreamer. An Omega and a force of nature." His thumb strokes across my knuckles, grounding me. "And I swear—we all swear—our pack will always accept you. All of you. We'll never ask you to shrink or pretend or be anything but gloriously, completely yourself."

"Even when I'm difficult?"

"Especially then." His smile holds mischief and promise. "Cole likes a challenge. Mavi appreciates someone who can match his stubbornness. Austin needs someone who'll mother-hen him right back. And me?" He squeezes my hand gently. "I just like you, Dandelion. Thorns and all."

The last sliver of sun disappears behind the mountains, but the sky continues its light show—purple deepening to indigo, stars beginning their tentative emergence.

We stand there, hands linked, watching day transform into night. The temperature drops further, and River steps closer, still not quite touching but sharing warmth.

"Thank you," I whisper. For listening. For not trying to fix. For seeing me.

"Thank you," he echoes, "for trusting me with this. For letting me see who you really are."

We don't move as full dark approaches, just stand witness to the day's ending. But it doesn't feel like an ending.

It feels like that moment before dawn—dark, yes, but with the absolute certainty that light will come.

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