Page 113 of Knotting the Cowboys

My hands won't stop moving—checking my phone, smoothing my shirt, adjusting the collar that feels too tight despite being unbuttoned at the throat.

The October evening should be cooling down by now, but the crush of bodies at the festival entrance traps heat like a living thing, making my palms sweat against the phone screen. I shift my weight from foot to foot, probably looking like an idiot to anyone paying attention, but I can't help it. She should be here by now.

The Harvest Rodeo Festival spreads before me in all its chaotic glory. Monster trucks rev their engines in the distance, the growl of machinery mixing with carnival music and the general roar of too many people crammed into Sweetwater Falls' tiny fairgrounds. Dust kicks up with every footstep, coating everything in a fine layer of grit that'll take days to wash out of clothes and hair. The smell hits in waves—fried food, hay, diesel exhaust, and underneath it all, the mingled scents of hundreds of people enjoying their Friday night.

A family pushes past me, the kids sticky with cotton candy and practically vibrating with sugar-fueled excitement.The mother's wearing pristine white jeans that won't stay that way for long, and the father's got on a cowboy hat so new it still has the price tag dangling from the brim. Tourists. They flood in every October, turning our sleepy town into something unrecognizable. The locals dress different—worn boots that have seen actual ranch work, hats shaped by years of weather rather than factory molds, jeans faded from sun rather than fashion.

I check my phone again. Nothing new since Mavi's last text five minutes ago.

The traffic situation makes me want to punch something, preferably the mayor's smug face.

Who schedules road construction during the biggest tourist weekend of the year?

Every route between the ranch and town is clogged with out-of-state plates and RVs moving at glacial pace. I should have left earlier, should have fought through the mess to pick Willa up properly instead of meeting her here like some teenager afraid to meet his date's parents.

Except this isn't a date.

Not officially.

The medical restrictions might have lifted yesterday, but that doesn't mean—I shake my head, trying to derail that dangerous train of thought.

My phone buzzes.

Mavi again:*She's two blocks out. Walking from Wendolyn's shop. ETA 3 minutes.*

I can't help the eye roll.

Of course he's tracking her. Probably convinced himself it's for her safety, but we all know Mavi's particular brand of paranoia runs deeper than simple protection. He needs to know where his people are at all times, needs that control to keep his anxiety at bay. Still doesn't explain how he got a tracker on her without her knowing.

*How?*I text back, already knowing I'll regret asking.

*Hair tie. The sparkly one I gave her yesterday. Has a micro GPS in the elastic.*

Jesus Christ.

Only Mavi would think to bug hair accessories. I'm torn between being impressed by the innovation and concerned about the violation of privacy. Though knowing Willa, she'll either find it endearing or use it to torment him by leaving the hair tie random places just to watch him panic.

The thought makes me smile despite the nervous energy crawling under my skin.

She's good for us that way—matching our quirks with her own, giving as good as she gets. Like last night when she caught Mavi's ear and scolded him for blackmailing the mayor.

The memory of her kissing him after, just a soft press of lips that left him speechless and blushing, makes something warm unfurl in my chest.

Another buzz:

*River says the Morrison family is interested in breeding rights for Dusty. Potential 10K deal.*

Good.

River's always been our secret weapon at these events.

While everyone else sees the quiet veterinarian, he's actually brilliant at reading people, knowing exactly when to mention our prize stallion's bloodline or offer a tour of the ranch. By the end of the night, he'll have secured enough deals to cover feed costs through spring.

A third text, this time from Cole:

Luna's down for the night. Stop fretting and enjoy yourself.*

Easy for him to say.

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