Page 159 of Knotting the Cowboys

Inviting warmth in our loving home.

The dining table looks nothing like the magazine spreads I used to flip through at the grocery store, but somehow that makes it better.

I arrange the last fork—part of a set Cole inherited from his parents that doesn't match anything else we own—and step back to survey my handiwork. Mismatched plates create a rainbow of ceramic across the dark wood, some chipped at the edges, others faded from decades of use.

The water glasses are an exercise in chaos theory:mason jars mixed with actual glassware mixed with one coffee mug because we're apparently short on drinking vessels.

The centerpiece makes me smile every time I look at it.

This afternoon, while the turkey rested, I'd wandered the property with an old basket, collecting pinecones and late-blooming wildflowers, arranging them with sprigs of sage from the herb garden River pretends he doesn't tend obsessively. It's nothing fancy—no florist would claim it—but it smells like the ranch and looks like autumn decided to take up residence on our table.

"Our table." The words slip out before I can catch them, and I have to press my hand to my chest where something flutterslike a caged bird. When did I start thinking of things in terms of "ours"?

"Looks beautiful," Austin says from the doorway, Luna perched on his hip like she owns the place. Which, honestly, she does. "Very homey."

"Homey is code for 'I had no idea what I was doing,'" I admit, adjusting a fork that doesn't need adjusting. "Martha Stewart would weep."

"Martha Stewart can bite me," Cole rumbles as he carries in the turkey platter. The sight of him in his good flannel—the dark green one without any visible stains—handling my attempts at poultry with such care makes my throat tight. "This is better than anything from a magazine."

River and Mavi appear with various dishes, and suddenly the table transforms from my makeshift attempt at festive to something that actually looks like Thanksgiving. Steam rises from the dishes in delicate spirals, carrying scents that make my stomach growl despite the fact that I've been taste-testing all day.

"Let's get the princess situated," Austin says, moving to Luna's high chair.

What follows is a production worthy of Broadway—Luna decides she doesn't want to sit, arching her back and making sounds of protest that echo off the walls. River tries distraction with a spoon. Mavi makes faces. Cole attempts reasoning with her like she's a tiny adult who understands logic.

"You're all ridiculous," I mutter, hiding my smile as I approach with secret weapon:a small piece of turkey.

Luna's protests cease immediately, her mouth opening like a baby bird.

"See? Simple."

"Bribery," River says solemnly. "The foundation of all good parenting."

Once Luna's secured and happily gumming her turkey piece, I start serving.

This feels important somehow, ladling food onto their plates, making sure everyone has what they need. In Iron Ridge, omegas served because it was expected, demanded. Here, I serve because I want to see their faces when they taste what I've made, want to be the one who provides this comfort.

I catch myself giving Cole extra stuffing because he mentioned once that it was his favorite. River gets the crispy skin from the turkey because I've seen him sneak it when he thinks no one's looking. Mavi gets the biggest helping of mashed potatoes because the man has an unholy relationship with carbs. Austin gets a little of everything because he'll eat whatever's put in front of him with genuine enthusiasm.

Luna gets a dollop of everything soft enough for her developing teeth, arranged on her tray like a painter's palette of beige and orange foods. She immediately smashes her palm into the sweet potatoes, giggling at the squish between her fingers.

"Hands," Austin says once I've served myself and taken my seat. "Family tradition."

My breathing hitches as they all extend their hands. Cole's calloused palm engulfs mine on one side, River's gentle grip on the other. The circle completes with Austin reaching across to Mavi, Luna included by virtue of Austin's other hand resting on her tiny shoulder.

We're connected, all six of us, and I have to blink hard against the sudden burn in my eyes.

"I'll keep it short," Cole says, his voice dropping into that register that makes my omega instincts purr. "We're thankful for this food, for this home, for this pack." His thumb brushes across my knuckles. "For new beginnings and second chances. For family, both blood and chosen."

"For Luna," River adds softly. "Who brought us together."

"For Willa," Austin continues, and I have to look down at my plate. "Who makes us complete."

"For all of us," Mavi finishes. "Broken pieces that somehow fit."

"Amen," we say in unison, though it comes out wobbly on my end.

The first bite of turkey renders them silent.

---