Page 157 of Knotting the Cowboys

I'm theirs. They're mine.

And for the first time in my life, I have a nest to prove it.

First Thankful Taste Of Home

~WILLA~

The oven timer beeps just as I ease the turkey onto the stovetop, twenty-two pounds of golden-brown perfection that fills the kitchen with the scent of rosemary and butter.

My hands shake slightly as I set down the roasting pan, not from the weight but from the magnitude of what I'm attempting here. The meat thermometer reads exactly 165 degrees—I've checked it three times because apparently when you've never cooked a whole turkey before, paranoia becomes your sous chef.

Steam rises from the bird in delicate wisps, and I breathe it in, letting the familiar smell of sage and thyme calm my racing heart. The kitchen looks like a bomb went off, but a productive bomb—the kind that leaves behind green bean casserole and sweet potato pie instead of destruction.

Every burner on the stove has been working overtime, pots and pans rotating through like some complicated dance I've been choreographing since dawn.

I wipe my hands on the apron Cole bought me last week, the one with'Queen of the Kitchen'embroidered across the front in ridiculous cursive. He'd presented it with such seriousness that I couldn't tell if it was a joke or not, but the way his ears turned pink when I actually wore it told me everything.

Now it's streaked with flour and splattered with cranberry sauce, battle scars from a day spent trying to create something I've never had.

That's the thing about growing up in a pack that treats you like furniture—you miss out on things other people take for granted.

Thanksgiving was just another Thursday in Iron Ridge, with Blake insisting that "successful packs don't take breaks for arbitrary holidays." I'd spend the day cleaning while he and his inner circle worked deals, the smell of other families' dinners drifting through windows like a taunt.

But not today. Today, I woke up at five in the morning with a determination that surprised me.

Today, I commandeered this kitchen like it was my personal kingdom, following recipes from the cookbook River's mother left behind, the pages yellowed and splattered with evidence of holidays past.

Today, I'm creating something from nothing but stubbornness and a desperate need to give these men who've given me everything a memory worth keeping.

The kitchen tells the story of my ambition and inexperience in equal measure. Mixing bowls tower in the sink like a precarious skyline, each one bearing the remnants of a different dish.

Potato peels overflow from the trash can because I definitely underestimated how many potatoes six people could eat. The cookbook lies open on the counter, held flat by a stick of butter,turned to a pie recipe that I followed with the intensity of someone defusing a bomb.

Flour dusts most surfaces despite my best efforts, and there's definitely stuffing stuck to the ceiling from an incident I'm choosing not to think about.

But the counters—God, the counters are beautiful in their chaos.

The green bean casserole bubbles gently, those crispy onions on top golden and perfect. Mashed potatoes wait in Cole's largest pot, whipped with enough butter and cream to cause a cardiac event. The sweet potato pie cools on a rack, its surface only slightly cracked because I might have opened the oven door too many times to check on it. Gravy simmers on the back burner, and I've tasted it so many times I've lost all sense of whether it needs more salt.

The cranberry sauce gave me the most trouble. Who knew something so simple could be so vindictive? The first batch burned. The second refused to gel. The third looked perfect until I added orange zest with the enthusiasm of someone who didn't understand that a little goes a long way. The fourth batch, currently chilling in the fridge, might actually be edible.

Maybe.

Through the window, I catch the dust cloud that signals their return before I hear the engines.

Two trucks today—they'd split up this morning for various errands, leaving me with the perfect opportunity to execute this plan.

My stomach flips with a combination of excitement and terror.

What if they think this is too much? What if I've overstepped? What if the turkey is dry or the stuffing is bland or?—

The rumble of engines cuts off my spiral. Truck doors slam, and I hear Austin's voice carrying across the yard, something about Luna's check-up going well. My hands automatically smooth down the apron, tuck loose strands of hair behind my ears.

I grab the turkey platter with hands that definitely aren't steady and position myself where the afternoon light from the window will hit just right.

The front door opens with its familiar creak, and Austin enters first, Luna balanced on his hip in a pink dress that's already sporting suspicious stains. She lights up when she sees me, hands reaching with that baby determination that suggests she thinks she can fly if she wants it badly enough.

"There's our girl," Austin starts to say, then stops dead in his tracks. His hazel eyes go wide, tracking from the turkey in my hands to the feast spread across every available surface. "What in the?—"

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