Page 14 of Knotting the Cowboys

He sniffs in my direction, whiskers twitching with imperial assessment.

"He's...substantial," I manage.

"Twenty-two pounds at last vet visit." Wendolyn scratches behind his ears, and his purr starts up like a diesel engine. "Vet says he's 'robust,' which is polite for 'your cat is fat, lady.' But look at him—he's not fat, he's just committed to being the largest personality in any room."

As if to prove her point, Fitzgerald stretches to his full length, which is considerable, and yawns to display an impressive collection of teeth.

Then he head-butts Wendolyn's hand hard enough to make her stumble.

"See? No concept of personal space or appropriate force." She leads me toward a narrow staircase tucked behind the counter, painted the same sage green as the exterior. "Fair warning…he will absolutely try to sleep on your chest tonight. It's like being loved by a fuzzy bowling ball."

The stairs creak a melody under our feet, and I follow her up, noting the photos lining the wall—Wendolyn in her firefighter gear looking fierce and capable, Wendolyn with what must be her family all sporting matching red hair, Wendolyn at various bookstore events surrounded by smiling customers.

"So there I was," she says, launching into a story as we climb, "first week the store was open, trying to impress this very serious book club that had been meeting at the library for twenty years. I'd made fancy cucumber sandwiches, gotten the good tea, even put on my most literary-looking dress—you know, the one that screams 'I've read Proust and understood it.'"

"Did you? Understand Proust?" I ask, finding myself drawn into her storytelling rhythm.

"God no, but the dress didn't know that." She pauses at the landing to catch her breath. "Anyway, everything's going perfectly. They're warming up to me, discussing some very serious literary fiction about men having midlife crises in Connecticut. And then Fitzgerald decides this is the perfectmoment to hack up the world's largest hairball. I'm talking epic. Biblical. The kind of hairball that makes you question the laws of physics."

I can't help it—I snort with laughter.

"Oh no."

"Oh yes. Right in the middle of the circle. On Mrs. Henderson's designer shoes." Wendolyn pushes open a door at the top of the stairs. "The sound alone could've woken the dead. And then—because why stop there—he sat back and looked so proud of himself. Like he'd just contributed to the literary discussion."

"What did you do?"

"What could I do? I looked those ladies dead in the eye and said, 'Well, I guess that's Fitzgerald's review of the protagonist's moral journey.'" She grins at the memory. "Longest silence of my life. Then Mrs. Henderson—whose shoes were definitely ruined—just burst out laughing. Said it was the most honest literary criticism she'd heard in years."

My smile only grows at the heartwarming story.

The spare room is small but clean, with sloped ceilings that speak of attic conversion.

A brass bed takes up most of the space, covered in a quilt that looks handmade. There's a dresser painted white and chipped with age, a tiny bathroom visible through a cracked door, and boxes of books stacked against one wall.

The window looks out over Main Street, fairy lights from the porch creating a soft glow.

"They still meet here every Thursday," Wendolyn continues, smoothing the quilt unnecessarily. "And they always save a chair for Fitzgerald, just in case he has more opinions to share. Turns out, underneath all their pearls and propriety, they're just a bunch of women who appreciate a good hairball story."

"That's..." I sink onto the edge of the bed, something loosening in my chest. "That's actually wonderful."

"Right? Taught me something important about this place." She perches on one of the book boxes, victory rolls still somehow perfect despite the day. "Sweetwater Falls looks all traditional and proper on the surface, but scratch a little and you find people are people everywhere. Weird, wonderful, hairball-appreciating people."

The laughter bubbles up from somewhere deep, surprising me with its genuineness.

When was the last time I really laughed? Not the polite social kind or the bitter kind, but actual joy?

Wendolyn joins in, and soon we're both giggling like teenagers, the absurdity of the hairball story somehow breaking through all my carefully maintained walls.

"Thank you," I say when we finally catch our breath. "For this, for the room, for not being what I expected."

"Honey, expectations are overrated." She stands, heading for the door. "Towels are in the bathroom, extra blankets in the dresser if you need them. Coffee starts brewing at six-fifteen, but I promise to keep the grinder on the lowest setting tomorrow. And Willa?" She pauses in the doorway. "Whatever you're running from, you're safe here. That's not charity or pity—that's just fact. Rebels look out for each other, remember?"

The door closes softly behind her, leaving me alone with the quiet and the fairy lights and the lingering warmth of unexpected friendship. For the first time in longer than I care to admit, I don't feel quite so alone.

The quiet wraps around me like a blanket I'm not sure I deserve.

I sit on the edge of the bed, springs creaking under my weight, and try to process what just happened. A stranger—an unmated Omega stranger—took one look at my disaster of a life and opened her home without hesitation.

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