Page 12 of Knotting the Cowboys

It looks like every bookstore I've ever wanted to disappear into, every safe haven I've imagined but never quite found.

"The morning rush really is brutal, though," Wendolyn continues, and I realize she's giving me space to think by filling the silence. "Soccer moms desperate for their skinny vanilla lattes, contractors who want their coffee black as their truck tires, and don't even get me started on the teenagers who think 'extra extra extra caramel' is a valid order description."

"You weren't kidding about the pumpkin spice?" I manage, trying to match her lighter tone while my insides wage war.

"Oh honey, I've got pumpkin spice everything. Lattes, muffins, scones, cookies—I even experimented with pumpkin spice hot chocolate last week, which was either genius or sacrilege depending on who you ask." She wrinkles her nose.

I want to say yes.

Want it so badly my chest aches with it.

But wanting things has always been dangerous for me.

"What if—" I start, then stop.

What if what?

What if she's genuinely kind?

What if I'm so broken I can't recognize generosity without suspicion anymore?

"What if you just try it for tonight?" Wendolyn suggests. "No commitment, no obligations. Just a bed that's not a car seat and a door that locks from the inside. Tomorrow you can go back to being all independent and suspicious if you want."

"I'm not suspicious," I protest weakly.

"Course not. You're just carefully evaluating the tactical disadvantages of accepting help from a strange woman ina cherry-print dress." Her tone is teasing but kind. "Which, honestly, fair. I could be a serial killer who lures victims with vintage fashion and caffeine addiction."

Despite everything, I feel my lips twitch.

"That would be a very specific M.O."

"Right? CSI would have a field day." She grows serious again, and her voice drops to something softer. "Look, I know trust doesn't come easy. Whatever sent you running to—or from—Sweetwater Falls with everything you own in one bag, I'm guessing it wasn't pretty. But sometime, somehow, you're going to have to decide if you'll let anyone in again. Might as well be someone with excellent taste in shoes and a truly embarrassing collection of romance novels."

The fight goes out of me all at once, like air from a punctured tire.

I'm so tired—of running, of fighting, of pretending I don't need what everyone else takes for granted.And this woman with her victory rolls and her easy kindness is offering me something I desperately need without making me beg for it.

"Just for tonight," I say, the words feeling like surrender and relief all at once.

"Just for tonight," she agrees, but her smile suggests she knows better. "Come on, let's get you settled before Fitzgerald decides you're an intruder and goes into full attack mode. Fair warning—his version of attack is aggressive leg-rubbing until you pet him."

As she unlocks the bookstore door, I catch her scent again—sweet peas and vanilla, mixed with coffee and something indefinable that might just be hope.

For the first time since my car died, since Harold threw me out, since I left everything behind, I feel something loosen in my chest.

Maybe it's not weakness to accept help.

Or maybe it's its own kind of strength, recognizing when you've hit your limits and letting someone offer you a hand up instead of drowning in your own pride.

"Thank you," I whisper, and mean it more than two words should be able to convey.

"That's what rebels do," Wendolyn says simply, holding the door open for me. "We look out for each other."

"I can't keep anything alive," I admit, gesturing at the flowers. "Even houseplants take one look at me and give up."

"That's what everyone says until they find the right plant." Wendolyn climbs the porch steps, wood creaking a welcome under her heels. "It's all about matching the plant to the person. High-maintenance people need low-maintenance plants, and vice versa. We'll find you something indestructible."

The door chimes when she opens it, a proper bell sound that rings through my bones.

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