Page 182 of Knotting the Cowboys

"Should I—" River asks, looking around our circle. "Should I keep reading?"

"Yes," Maverick says roughly. "We need to hear it. All of it."

River nods, finding his place again. The letter continues, detailing those first weeks at the ranch, how each of the men showed her kindness in different ways. How River taught her to gentle the horses. How Maverick installed new locks without being asked. How Austin shared late-night tea and listened to her fears. How Cole stood between her and every perceived threat, appointing himself guardian without making her feel weak.

Luna's babbling provides a strange counterpoint to her mother's words, like she's adding her own commentary to the story. When she finally manages to grab the edge of the paper, River doesn't pull it away. Instead, he lets her touch it gently, this tangible piece of the mother she'll never remember but whose love shaped the life she knows.

"Read the next one," Cole says when River finishes the first letter. His voice is gravel and glass, but determined. "We need to know what she couldn't tell us."

River reaches for the next bundle, and I settle in closer to Austin and Luna, my heart heavy with the weight of secretsrevealed too late and love that transcends death. Outside, December wind rattles the windows, but here in this nursery filled with sawdust and sorrow and unexpected grace, we're about to meet Celeste again through the words she left behind.

Luna pats the letter with one chubby hand, and I swear I feel something shift in the air—like approval, like blessing, like a mother's ghost saying yes, finally, let them know who I really was.

Let them forgive themselves for not being able to save me.

I wonder if the bundle of letters feels heavier in River's hands, or maybe it's just the weight of anticipation pressing down on all of us.

Luna has settled against Austin's chest, somehow sensing this is a moment for quiet, though her little fingers still reach occasionally for the papers that smell like her mother's secrets.

"This one's dated two weeks after she arrived," River says, unfolding the aged paper with careful fingers. The afternoon light has shifted, painting golden stripes across the nursery floor where we sit like children at story time, if children's stories came with this much grief.

"'I can't stop thinking about that first night,'" River reads, his voice finding the rhythm of Celeste's words. "'The storm was so violent I thought my car would flip. Every lightning strike felt like him finding me, like the sky itself was angry I'd dared to run. When I saw your porch light through the rain, I almost didn't stop. What right did I have to bring my darkness to someone else's door?'"

River pauses, swallowing hard, then continues. "'But Cole answered like he'd been waiting for me. Not just that night, but all his life. He took one look at me—soaked, shaking, probably half-feral with fear—and said 'You're safe now' with such certainty I almost believed him. He didn't know me, didn't know what I was running from, but he stood in that doorway like he could hold back the whole storm if it tried to follow me inside.'"

I glance at Cole, watching his hands clench and unclench where they rest on his thighs. His jaw works like he's fighting words that want to escape, and I shift slightly closer, letting my knee touch his in silent support. He doesn't pull away.

"'He made me tea,'" River continues reading. "'Said his mother used to say that all problems looked smaller through steam from a proper cup. His hands were so gentle, setting the mug in front of me, never moving too fast or getting too close. Like he knew without being told that I'd been taught to fear quick movements and reaching hands.'"

"She noticed everything," Cole says roughly. "Even that first night, terrified and exhausted, she was cataloging exits and reading body language and—" He stops, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. "I should have known then she was running from something serious."

"You gave her what she needed," I say softly. "Safety first, questions later."

River shuffles to the next letter, dated a month later. "'The horses know I'm broken,'" he reads. "'River says that's nonsense, that they just recognize someone who understands what it's like to be scared. But I see how they settle when I'm in the barn, how even that half-wild mare in stall seven will take carrots from my hand now. River watches from the corners, pretending to fix tack or measure feed, but I know he's making sure I'm okay. He moves like water, all smooth motion and careful distance, never making me feel trapped even in enclosed spaces.'"

River's voice catches on his own name, and I watch him blink rapidly. "She helped me gentle that mare. Said broken things recognized each other, knew how to be patient with the healing process."

The next letter makes Maverick shift uncomfortably before River even starts reading. "'I found the new locks this morning. Maverick must have installed them during the night—I never heard a thing. Two deadbolts on my bedroom door, the kind that lock from inside. A chain too, positioned where I can reach it easily. He didn't say anything, didn't make a production of it. Just left the keys on my dresser with a note: 'Your space. Your control.' I cried for an hour.'"

Maverick's looking at the floor, shoulders rigid with tension. "She'd been checking the windows obsessively. Testing the doors. I could see her jumping every time the house settled."

"So you gave her control," Austin says softly. "Without making her ask."

"Everyone deserves to feel safe in their own room," Maverick mutters, but I hear the pain underneath the practicality.

River finds another letter, this one with Austin's name prominently mentioned. "'Austin makes tea at 2 AM like it's perfectly normal to find someone crying in the kitchen. He never asks why I'm awake—just puts the kettle on and pulls out the chamomile. Last night he told me about his rotation in the burn unit, how he learned that healing isn't linear. 'Some days you progress, some days you just survive,' he said. 'Both are victories.' I wanted to tell him then about the bruises that took months to fade, about the words that left scars no one could see. Instead, I just drank my tea and let him refill my cup three times without comment.'"

Austin presses his face into Luna's hair, and I can see his shoulders shaking slightly. Luna pats his cheek with one tiny hand, offering baby comfort with innocent grace. The parallel tomy own late-night kitchen encounters with Austin isn't lost on me—how many times has he sat with me, offering tea and quiet company while I battled demons he didn't fully understand?

"There are photos," River says, setting aside the letters to reach for the small stack of Polaroids. The rubber band disintegrates as he touches it, perished with age, and the photos fan out across the floor like memories made manifest.

The first shows Celeste by the stables, smiling at something off-camera. Her dark hair catches the light, and even in the faded photo, I can see the careful way she holds herself—ready to run if needed. But there's peace in her expression too, the kind that comes from finally feeling safe enough to lower your guard.

"I took that one," River says quietly. "She'd just gotten the mare to eat from her hand for the first time."

Another photo:Celeste in the kitchen with Austin, both of them flour-dusted and laughing. A mixing bowl sits between them, and Luna's baby quilt is visible in the background—they must have been baking while planning for her arrival.

"Mavi's birthday cake," Austin identifies, voice thick. "She insisted on making it from scratch. Said store-bought didn't show proper appreciation."

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