Page 160 of Knotting the Cowboys

Cole's eyes close as he chews, something like reverence crossing his features. River makes a sound that's borderline indecent. Mavi just stares at his plate like it holds the secrets of the universe.

"Holy shit," Austin breathes, then immediately glances at Luna. "I mean, holy shirt. This is incredible."

"You brined it," Cole says, not a question but a statement of wonder. "You actually brined the turkey."

"The cookbook said to," I admit, fidgeting with my fork. "Is it okay? I worried it might be too salty, or maybe not salty enough, and the timer went off but the thermometer said?—"

"Willa." River's voice cuts through my rambling. "It's perfect. Everything is perfect. Where did you learn to cook like this?"

Heat floods my cheeks. "I didn't. I mean, I can follow a recipe, but this is my first time making most of these dishes. I might have watched seventeen YouTube videos about gravy alone."

"Seventeen?" Mavi loads his fork with mashed potatoes. "That's dedication."

"That's insanity," I correct. "Do you know how many ways there are to supposedly make perfect gravy? Everyone has opinions. Flour or cornstarch, butter or drippings, to strain or not to strain?—"

"You went with butter and flour," Cole interrupts, already reaching for the gravy boat. "Good choice. Traditional. Like my mom used to make."

The compliment settles warm in my chest.

We eat in comfortable conversation, topics flowing from Luna's check-up results —perfectly healthy, hitting all her milestones— to ranch business —hay delivery scheduled for next week— to town gossip —Mrs. Henderson is apparently dating the new pharmacist, scandal of the century.

Luna provides entertainment between bites.

She's discovered that mashed potatoes make excellent art supplies, painting abstract expressionism across her tray, her face, and somehow the back of her head. Sweet potato ends up in her ear. Green bean casserole becomes a hat.

Through it all, she babbles happily, occasionally offering food-covered fingers to whoever's closest.

"Luna, sweetheart, that's not how we eat green beans," Austin says, trying to intercept her before she can stick one up her nose.

"Let her explore," River argues, camera phone already out. "It's sensory development."

"It's a mess is what it is," Cole grumbles, but he's smiling as Luna offers him a fistful of something unidentifiable.

"I'll get more napkins," I start to rise, but Mavi's already moving.

"Sit," he orders gently. "You've done enough. Let us take care of things for a bit."

And they do.

That's what strikes me as the meal continues—how seamlessly they work together.

River notices my water glass is empty and fills it without being asked. Cole carves more turkey when the platter runs low, making sure everyone gets the pieces they prefer. Austin manages Luna's chaos with practiced ease, somehow eating his own meal between cleanup attempts. Mavi clears empty dishes as they accumulate, keeping the table from becoming cluttered.

There's no hierarchy here, no rigid roles or expectations.

They move around each other like dancers who've long memorized the steps, each contributing what's needed when it's needed.

Even Luna plays her part, her joy infectious enough to keep everyone smiling despite the sweet potato now decorating the wall behind her chair.

"Pass the stuffing?" River asks, and Cole's already handing it over before the words fully form.

"Anyone want the last of the turkey?" Austin offers, and Mavi's plate appears beneath the serving fork.

It's like watching a well-oiled machine, except machines don't laugh at baby antics or tease each other about portion sizes or share quiet smiles over successful recipes.

This is organic, natural, the way puzzle pieces don't force themselves together but simply fit.

This is how a pack is supposed to be.

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