Page 114 of Knotting the Cowboys

He's back at the ranch with Mavi, probably going over livestock schedules and pretending he's not checking his phone every thirty seconds for updates.

We're all nervous about tonight, about Willa making her first real public appearance as part of our pack.

The town's been buzzing with speculation since she arrived—the mysterious woman living with the Iron Ridge pack, the one who survived a fire and divorced her previous Alphas.

They don't know the half of it.

Don't know about Blake's attempted murder or Iron Ridge's greed or the way she rebuilds herself a little more each day, becoming someone magnificent. They just see an unmated Omega with a complicated past, and in a small town, that's enough to set tongues wagging.

*Tell Cole I'm fine,*

I type back, knowing Cole will see right through the lie but appreciate the effort anyway.

The omega brunch was Wendolyn's idea, and brilliant in its simplicity. Get Willa around other Omegas in a safe, supportive environment. Let her build connections that aren't filtered through us. When she'd mentioned it yesterday, hesitant like we might object, all four of us had practically fallen over ourselves encouraging her to go. She needs friends, needs a life outside our pack dynamics, needs to remember she's more than just our potential mate.

Though Christ, when she'd come down the stairs this morning in that sundress River bought her, hair still messy fromsleep and smelling like honey and home, it had taken every ounce of control not to crowd her against the wall and?—

Stop. Not helping.

I force myself to scan the crowd instead of dwelling on dangerous thoughts.

The festival's bigger this year, spillover from some canceled event in Wyoming drawing extra visitors. Good for the town's economy, good for our ranch's bottom line, hell on anyone trying to navigate the streets. The mayor's probably preening like a peacock over the turnout, taking credit for drawing tourism while simultaneously making life hell for anyone who doesn't fit his narrow vision of propriety.

My phone shows 7:47. She'll be here any minute.

I straighten my shirt again—the navy button-down she said brings out my eyes—and try to look casual despite the hurricane in my chest. This matters. Not just the tradition or showing up the mayor, but proving to Willa that we're worth the risk she's taking. That we're nothing like Iron Ridge. That when we make promises, we keep them.

Movement catches my eye near the ticket booth, and my breath catches. Through the crowd, I spot a familiar figure moving with surprising grace despite the packed fairgrounds. My heart does something complicated and painful and perfect, and I know—know with absolute certainty—that tonight's going to change everything.

"Austin!" Her voice cuts through the carnival noise like it's meant just for me, and I turn toward the sound with my heart already climbing into my throat.

And then I see her.

The world doesn't stop—that would be too cliché—but it definitely stutters, like a film reel catching and skipping frames.

Because Willa James, the woman who usually favors practical jeans and tank tops that smell faintly of hay and horse,has transformed into something that makes my brain short-circuit.

The dress is cream-colored silk that catches every light—the setting sun, the string of bulbs over the entrance, the neon from the midway—and throws it back in subtle sparkles from what must be hundreds of tiny gems sewn into the fabric. It's short enough to be daring, ending mid-thigh in a way that makes my mouth go dry, but the cut is so elegant she looks like she stepped out of a magazine spread about rich cowboys' wives. The neckline dips just low enough to hint at the shadow between her breasts without being obvious about it, and the way the fabric clings to her waist before flaring slightly—fuck, I need to look somewhere else before I embarrass myself.

But there's nowhere safe to look. Her legs seem to go on forever, bare and glowing with some kind of shimmer that catches the light when she moves. The heels—Christ, the heels—are these delicate strappy things that somehow she's navigating the dirt and gravel in like she was born in them. They make her legs look impossibly long, muscles in her calves defined with each step.

Her hair is what really scrambles my circuits though. The auburn waves I'm used to seeing pulled back in practical ponytails or messy buns have been transformed into these Hollywood-perfect curls that bounce with each step. They're longer too—extensions, my brain supplies helpfully—and threaded through with tiny crystals or glitter that catch the light like stars. The way they frame her face makes her look younger and older at the same time, sophisticated but touchable.

And her face.God, her face.The makeup is there but subtle, enhancing rather than hiding. Her cheeks have this perfect rosy glow that makes me wonder if it's blush or just Willa being Willa. Her lips are red—not bright fire-engine red but this deep, rich color that makes me think of wine and berries and thingsI definitely shouldn't be thinking about in public. Her eyes seem bigger, the unusual orange-gold color emphasized with something that makes them almost glow in the festival lights.

The cowboy hat is the perfect finishing touch—white felt with a band of crystals that matches her dress, tilted at an angle that's both playful and sexy. Little strands of crystal dangle from the brim, catching the light with every movement of her head.

My jaw literally drops. I feel it happen, mouth falling open like some cartoon character, and I can't even be embarrassed about it because how else is a man supposed to react when his—when Willa looks like that?

She's close enough now that her scent reaches me, cutting through the fried food and dust and sweat of the crowd. Honey and wildflowers, but tonight there's something else—some perfume that adds notes of vanilla and spice, making my head spin and my dick take immediate, embarrassing interest.

"Hi," she says, and even her voice sounds different. More confident, like the clothes have given her permission to be this version of herself. She does a little turn, the dress flaring out to reveal even more leg, and I swear I forget how to breathe. "Sorry I'm late. I tried to text but the signal is absolute garbage today. It was driving Mavi crazy in the truck—he kept trying to refresh the GPS and cursing when it wouldn't load."

I blink, trying to restart my brain enough to form words. She's looking at me expectantly, probably wondering if I've had a stroke, and I need to say something that isn't"please let me die with my face between your thighs."

"Mavi drove you?" I manage, voice coming out rougher than intended.

"Oh yeah," she laughs, and the sound goes straight to my chest. "He was parked outside Wendolyn's place for like two hours, just sitting there in the truck like some kind of stalker.Wendolyn kept offering to drive me herself, said it was no trouble, but you know how he is."

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