Page 164 of Knotting the Cowboys

"Willa," he says, and my name sounds like a vow. "Look at me."

I force my eyes up to his, expecting to see pity or worry or that careful distance people maintain when they realize just how complicated your baggage really is.

Instead, I find determination so fierce it takes my breath away.

"He just made his last mistake," Cole says quietly. "Trust us. Trust me. We've got this."

But staring at those legal documents, at Blake's confident signature claiming ownership of the only home I've ever known, I can't silence the voice in my head that sounds too much like Blake himself:

*You always were too trusting, Willa. That's what made you so easy to break.*

The dishes sit forgotten in cooling water, Thanksgiving's warmth already feeling like a distant dream.

Outside, November wind rattles the windows, and I shiver despite Cole's warmth surrounding me.

The war for Cactus Rose Ranch has officially begun.

Legal Troubles In Cozy Paradise

~WILLA~

The law office smells wrong—all leather polish and old paper and that particular brand of aggressive air freshener that screams 'we're trying to hide something.'

I shift in the too-soft chair, missing the worn kitchen stools at home where at least the discomfort is honest. My fingers twist in my lap, finding and releasing the same fold in my jeans over and over while Attorney Margaret Pierce adjusts her reading glasses and spreads another stack of documents across her mahogany desk like she's dealing cards in the world's worst poker game.

Everything here is designed to intimidate. The walls lined with leather-bound books no one's touched in decades. The certificates framed in gold that probably cost more than our monthly feed bill. The way Ms. Pierce—"Call me Maggie," she'd said, though her severe gray suit suggests she's never been a Maggie in her life—peers over those glasses like she's dissecting our souls for billable hours.

"The bad news," she begins, and I already want to run, "is that Mr. Harrison has retained Caldwell & Associates. They're... aggressive. Known for dragging cases out, bleeding the opposition dry through legal fees alone."

Cole's hand finds mine under the desk, his calluses rough against my palm. The contact grounds me, keeps me from bolting for the door like my omega instincts are screaming to do. On my other side, River shifts closer, his knee pressing against mine in silent support. Behind us, Mavi and Austin form a wall of presence, their scents mingling into something protective and fierce.

"The worse news," Ms. Pierce continues, sliding a document toward us, "is that Montana law gives him grounds to contest. The ranch being inherited property acquired during the marriage creates a gray area. If he can prove he contributed to its maintenance or improvement..."

"He never lifted a finger," I interrupt, heat flashing through me. "He saw it as beneath him. Manual labor was omega work."

Ms. Pierce's expression softens fractionally. "I believe you. But believing and proving in court are different animals. Especially in small-town circuits where everyone knows everyone." She taps a manicured nail on the papers. "Iron Ridge Pack has connections in three neighboring counties. Judges who owe favors. Court clerks whose kids got scholarships from pack foundations."

River leans forward, his voice steady despite the tension radiating from his shoulders. "What kind of legal fees are we looking at?"

The number she quotes makes my stomach drop through the floor. It's more than the ranch makes in six months. More than these men should ever have to spend on my mistakes.

"I have savings," River says immediately. "From my time with the forestry service. It's not much, but?—"

"My parents left me some bonds," Austin adds from behind me. "And there's Mom's jewelry. I was keeping it for Luna, but this is more important."

"No." The word tears from my throat, raw and desperate. "No, you can't—I can't let you?—"

"The hell you can't," Cole growls, his hand tightening on mine. "We're pack. Your fight is our fight."

But the guilt is already spreading through my chest like spilled ink, staining everything it touches. I hunch forward, making myself smaller, the same instinct that kept me safe in Iron Ridge now trying to minimize the damage I'm causing here. These men who took me in, who built me a nest, who gave me a home—and this is how I repay them? By draining their accounts and pawning their memories?

"There might be another angle." Mavi's voice cuts through my spiral, sharp with the kind of focus I've only heard when he's in full investigator mode. "I've got contacts. People who owe me favors from my time working arson cases. If Blake's pack is as dirty as I think they are..."

Ms. Pierce's eyebrows climb toward her steel-gray hairline. "Mr. Cross, I can't advocate for anything illegal?—"

"Nothing illegal," Mavi assures her, though his smile has too many teeth to be comforting. "Just thorough. Very, very thorough background investigation. The kind that might turn up interesting patterns in insurance claims or financial records."

"Hypothetically," Ms. Pierce says carefully, "if such patterns existed, they could certainly influence negotiations. No one wants a messy public trial. Especially not people with things to hide."

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