Page 117 of Knotting the Cowboys

"So," she says, voice slightly breathless, "ready to go show this town what the Bishop-Cross-Stone-Montgomery pack is made of?"

Hearing her include herself in our pack designation makes my heart soar. "Ready," I confirm, finally letting her go enough to offer my arm. "Let's go make some memories."

She threads her hand through my elbow, and together we walk through the festival gates. Whatever tonight brings—Sarah's inevitable appearance, the Mayor's disapproval, the town's gossip—we'll face it together. And somehow, with Willa beside me in her borrowed finery and fierce loyalty, I think Rose and Lily would approve.

The Ferris wheel lights blink in the distance, and for the first time in eleven years, I'm not walking toward it alone.

Wild Loving Nesting Part One

~WILLA~

My boots strike the wooden dance floor in perfect time with the pounding bass, heel-toe-heel-stomp, the pattern burned into muscle memory I didn't know I still possessed.

Sweat runs down my spine, soaking through the silk of this borrowed dress until it clings to every curve, but I don't care—can't care—not when the fiddle screams through the speakers and Austin's hand finds mine for the next spin.

The barn's strung lights blur into streaks of gold as I whirl, hair extensions whipping around my face, crystals catching and throwing back light like tiny fireworks. My thighs burn from the constant movement, lungs working harder than they have in months, but I feel more alive than I have in years.

"And turn!" Austin shouts over the music, guiding me through a complicated pretzel move that has us tangled together for a breathless moment before spinning apart again. His face glows with exertion and pure joy, shirt soaked through and clinging to his chest, but that grin—God, that grin could power the entire festival.

The crowd presses close on all sides, a mass of bodies moving in synchronized chaos to "Cotton-Eyed Joe" or something equally ridiculous, but all I can focus on is the way Austin moves. He's different here, transformed by the music and movement into someone I've never seen before. Gone is the careful caretaker who rocks Luna to sleep with infinite patience, the responsible Alpha who manages ranch schedules and medical emergencies with equal competence. This Austin is all fluid grace and boyish enthusiasm, throwing his whole body into every stomp and slide like the dance floor is the only place that matters.

"You're thinking too hard!" he yells, catching my waist and dipping me backward until my hair brushes the floor. "Just feel it!"

He's right. I am thinking—about how I spent years watching this exact scene from the outside, nose pressed against the glass of other people's freedom. In Iron Ridge, unmated Omegas weren't allowed in the clubs after nine. We could serve drinks, clean up after parties, watch from the doorways as bonded Omegas lost themselves in music and movement and the simple joy of existing in their bodies without shame or restriction. I used to wonder what it felt like, this abandon I saw in their faces. What was the "hype" about dancing until your feet bled and your voice went hoarse from singing along to songs you only half knew?

Now I understand. It's this—this complete surrender to the moment, this permission to take up space, to be loud and messy and imperfect. It's Austin's hands on my waist, firm but not possessive, guiding but not controlling. It's the way my body knows these steps despite years of disuse, muscle memory overriding the careful control I've wrapped around myself like armor.

The song shifts to something faster, more complex, and Austin grabs both my hands, pulling me into a pattern I definitely don't know. But it doesn't matter because he's laughing—really laughing, head thrown back, dimples deep enough to hold secrets—and I'm laughing too, messing up the steps and not caring because everyone else is just as drunk on movement and music and Friday night freedom.

"Like this!" He demonstrates a complicated heel-kick combination that my brain can't quite parse, but my body tries anyway, resulting in something that's probably illegal in most states. "Close enough!"

We're both disasters, really. My carefully styled hair has given up any pretense of Hollywood glamour, hanging in sweat-dampened strings around my face. His shirt has come untucked, revealing flashes of toned stomach when he lifts his arms. We probably look like we've been wrestling in a sauna, but neither of us suggests stopping. Not when the music keeps flowing and our bodies keep finding new ways to move together.

I spin under his raised arm, using the momentum to really fly, and catch sight of our reflection in the mirror ball hanging from the rafters. We're glowing—actually glowing—lit up from inside by something more than exertion. He catches me looking and winks, pulling me back against his chest for a series of quick steps that has us moving as one body, his breath hot against my ear.

This is what I missed, all those years of watching from doorways and making excuses about early mornings. Not just the dancing but the connection, the way two bodies can have entire conversations without words. The way Austin's hand on my lower back says "I've got you" and my hand on his shoulder answers "I trust you" and neither of us has to speak it aloud.

The music slows incrementally, the fiddle giving way to steel guitar, and I realize we've been dancing for over an hour. My legsshake with exhaustion, good exhaustion, the kind that comes from using your body for joy instead of just survival. Austin must feel it too because he pulls me closer, our steps naturally shifting from line dancing to something more intimate.

"Water break?" he asks, but makes no move to leave the floor.

"In a minute," I breathe back, not ready to let this go yet.

Because I understand now why he needed this tonight, why the rodeo tradition matters so much. It's not just about honoring his sisters' memory—it's about proving he's still capable of joy despite the grief. Every laugh, every wild spin, every moment of pure abandon is a middle finger to tragedy, a declaration that loss doesn't get to win. And I think about little Luna back at the ranch, how she'll grow up with a father who knows how to find light in darkness, who'll teach her that dancing badly is better than not dancing at all.

"Thank you," I tell him as we sway to the slower tempo, my head finding that perfect spot against his chest where I can hear his heartbeat thundering from exertion.

"For what?" His voice vibrates through me, warm and curious.

"For sharing this with me. For letting me see this version of you."

His arms tighten fractionally, and I feel him press a kiss to the top of my head, crystals from my disheveled hat probably poking him in the face. "Thank you for dancing with me. For getting it."

And I do get it. Get why he carries so much weight day-to-day, why he tries to be everything for everyone. He's living for three—himself and two little girls who never got their chance. Every patient moment with Luna, every careful decision about her future, is his way of making amends for a promise he couldn't keep. The burden of that kind of love would crushmost people, but Austin bears it like he bears everything—with grace and determination and just enough humor to keep from drowning.

The music fades to almost nothing, the DJ's voice crackling through the speakers, and suddenly I'm aware of the crowd around us. What I hadn't noticed in our dancing bubble was how many people had stopped their own movements to watch us. A ring of spectators presses close, their faces flushed with appreciation and something that might be envy. Someone starts clapping—slow at first, then picking up speed as others join in.

"Y'all seeing this energy?" the DJ booms, and the crowd roars approval. "That's what we call electric, folks! Making me think it's time to announce tonight's dance competition winners!"

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