Page 115 of Knotting the Cowboys

I do know how he is, and the image of Mavi hunched in his truck, probably running surveillance on every person who walked past Wendolyn's shop, makes something protective and fond unfurl in my chest. We might tease him about his paranoia, but when it comes to Willa's safety, I'm grateful for his particular brand of crazy.

"He means well," I say, finally finding my voice properly. "Even if his methods are a little?—"

"Creepy? Invasive? Completely over the top?" She grins, and I notice she's wearing lipstick that doesn't smudge when she smiles. How do I know this? Because I'm staring at her mouth like it holds the secrets of the universe. "I know. It's actually kind of sweet, in a 'please don't put cameras in my shower' kind of way."

"He wouldn't." I pause. "Probably."

That makes her laugh again, head tilting back slightly, and the crystals on her hat catch the light in a way that's almost hypnotic. When she looks back at me, there's something soft in her expression.

"Do you like it?" She gestures at the dress, doing another slow turn that's definitely going to feature in my dreams tonight. "I know it's a lot. The boutique owner—Suzie?—she insisted I borrow it for tonight. It's from some fancy new collection she's trying to advertise, way out of my price range normally, but she said having someone wear it to the festival would be better than any traditional marketing."

She's nervous, I realize. Under all that stunning presentation, she's worried about our reaction. About my reaction. The vulnerability in her voice when she mentions the price makes my chest tight. How many times did Blake and IronRidge make her feel guilty for needing things? How many times did they treat basic care like a burden?

"We're buying it," I say, the words out before I can think them through. "The dress, the shoes, the hat—all of it."

"Austin, no, it's seriously expensive?—"

But I'm already moving, unable to stand the distance between us another second. My arms wrap around her, pulling her against my chest in a hug that surprises us both. She makes a small sound—not protest, just surprise—and then melts into me, her arms coming up to circle my waist.

She fits perfectly, even in the heels. Her head tucks under my chin like it was made to rest there, and I can feel the warmth of her through the thin fabric of her dress. The crystals press into my chest, probably leaving marks on my shirt, but I couldn't care less. All I care about is the way she sighs and relaxes, tension I hadn't even noticed draining from her shoulders.

"You okay?" she asks against my chest, and I realize I'm holding her tighter than strictly necessary for a greeting hug. But she's not pulling away, seems content to stand here wrapped in my arms while the festival swirls around us.

"Yeah," I say into her hair, breathing in that intoxicating scent. "Just glad you're here."

The words carry more weight than they should, and we both know it. This isn't just about tonight or the festival. It's about her being here, with us, choosing to help with something that matters to me when she could have stayed safe at the ranch. It's about her standing up to the town's judgment in a dress that cost more than most people's monthly salary, not because she needs to impress anyone but because she wants to.

"Austin," she says softly, and I force myself to loosen my grip enough that she can look up at me. The angle puts her face heartbreakingly close to mine, those wine-red lips parted slightly. "Are you sure you're okay? You seem..."

Overwhelmed. Grateful. Completely gone on you.

"I'm good," I assure her, managing what I hope is a normal smile despite the riot in my chest. "You just look... God, Willa, you look incredible."

The blush that spreads across her cheeks is definitely not makeup, and it's possibly the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. She ducks her head, blonde curls sliding forward, and I have to physically stop myself from tucking them back, from using it as an excuse to touch her face.

"It's just a dress," she mumbles, but she's smiling.

"It's not just the dress," I tell her honestly. "It's you. The way you carry yourself. The way you light up. The way you make everything around you better just by being there."

Her eyes fly to mine, wide with surprise, and I realize I've said too much. Shown too much. But I can't take it back, don't want to take it back. Because someone needs to tell her these things, needs to make her understand that she's not too much or too difficult or too anything except too good for this world that keeps trying to dim her light.

"We should probably go in," she says after a moment that stretches like taffy between us. But she doesn't move to leave my arms, and I don't move to let her go.

"In a minute," I say, and pull her close again, just needing to hold her a little longer before we face whatever tonight brings.

I should let her go. Should step back and act normal and not dump my emotional baggage on her before we've even made it through the gates.

But my arms won't cooperate, and the words are already building in my throat like flood water against a dam.

"This rodeo means a lot to me," I hear myself say, voice muffled against her hair. The admission feels ripped from somewhere deep, some guarded place I've kept locked for years."I've been trying not to show it, trying to act like it's just another festival, but..."

She pulls back just enough to see my face, those extraordinary eyes searching mine. "But?"

The concern in her voice nearly undoes me. When's the last time someone looked at me like this? Not like the perpetual optimist, the baby of the pack who needs protecting, but like someone whose pain matters?

"I come every year," I continue, the words flowing easier now that I've started. "Haven't missed one since I was seventeen. No matter where work took me, no matter what else was happening, I always made it back for the Harvest Rodeo."

"Why?" she asks softly, and there's no pushiness in it, just gentle curiosity. Her hands have moved to rest on my chest, and I wonder if she can feel how hard my heart is pounding.

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