Page 183 of Knotting the Cowboys

There's one of her on the porch swing with Cole, wrapped in what looks like his flannel shirt. Another with Maverick, both of them focused on something he's showing her on a laptop—probably the security system he was installing. Each image shows a woman slowly coming back to life, finding her place in this makeshift family.

I trace my finger over her face in the photos, this woman whose path I'm following in ways I never anticipated. Luna makes a grab for one, and Austin lets her touch it gently, watching as she pats her mother's face with innocent recognition.

"Read the last one," Cole says gruffly. "The one at the bottom."

River retrieves a letter that's been folded and refolded so many times the creases are soft as cloth. His hands tremble as he opens it, and I can see it's longer than the others, covered in Celeste's careful script.

"'My beloved pack,'" River begins, then has to stop, clearing his throat. "'I know that's not what we are officially. Four alphas and an omega without bonds or ceremonies or any of the traditional markers. But in my heart, you became my pack the moment you chose protection over possession, kindness over control.'"

My own throat tightens at the words, at how perfectly they capture what I've found here too. River continues, voice growing stronger: "'I'm pregnant. I found out this morning, and I've spent all day walking the property, trying to find the right words. This child—our child, because I already think of her as ours—will know a different life than I did. She'll know that strength comes in many forms. That gentleness is not weakness. That love doesn't require ownership.'"

"She knew it was a girl?" Maverick asks, voice rough. "She never told us she knew."

"'I'm scared,'" River continues reading. "'Not of you, never of you. But of what I might bring to your door. Of who might come looking. Of whether I'm selfish for wanting this child to know the safety you've given me. But then I watch you all—Cole standing guard without realizing it, River teaching patience through horses, Maverick creating security that feels like care, Austin healing with tea and quiet words—and I know. This child will be loved. Will be protected. Will grow up knowing that real alphas build safe spaces instead of cages.'"

Luna babbles something that sounds almost like words, reaching for the letter with determined hands. This time Riverlets her have it, watching as she crumples the edge with baby enthusiasm. Somehow it feels right—Celeste's daughter claiming her mother's words, making them real and present instead of just memory.

"She trusted us," Austin whispers, adjusting Luna against his chest. "With everything. With her daughter."

"And we failed her," Cole says flatly.

"No." The word comes out sharper than I intend, making everyone look at me. "No, you gave her something she'd never had before. Safety to choose. Love without conditions. Time to heal, even if it wasn't enough time." I meet each of their eyes in turn. "She knew the risks. She writes it right there—she was afraid of what might follow her. But she chose to trust you anyway. That's not failure. That's faith."

River carefully gathers the letters, photos, and tiny bracelet, handling them like the treasures they are. Luna watches with solemn baby eyes, occasionally patting the papers like she's saying goodbye. Or hello. Or both.

"There's one more thing," River says, reaching into the box. He pulls out a small velvet pouch, the kind that might hold jewelry. "Should we?—"

"Open it," Austin says. "She wanted us to find this. All of it."

River tips the pouch into his palm, and we all lean forward to see. It's a ring—simple silver with a small moonstone that catches the light. Nothing expensive or flashy, just quietly beautiful.

"Her mother's," Cole breathes. "She told me once it was the only thing of her mother's she managed to save."

"For Luna," River says with certainty. "She left it for Luna."

We sit in silence for a moment, surrounded by the pieces of a life cut short but not unloved. Luna yawns hugely, finally tired from all the emotion and exploration. The afternoon light has gone amber, painting us all in warm tones that feel like blessing.

"We should keep these safe," Maverick says finally. "For Luna. For when she's old enough to understand."

"The box goes back where we found it," River decides. "Celeste chose that spot for a reason. It's protected there."

As they carefully repack the treasures, handling each item with reverent care, I think about the patterns we're all trapped in. Celeste running from an abusive alpha, finding safety here, leaving behind these words of love and trust. Me following the same path, finding the same men, building the same connections.

But maybe that's not a pattern to break. Maybe it's a legacy to honor—the knowledge that some places, some people, will always open their doors to those seeking shelter from storms.

Luna's eyes drift closed as Austin rocks her gently, and I reach over to smooth her dark hair. Somewhere in these letters and photos and treasured objects, her mother's love lives on. And somewhere in this ranch, with these men who understand that protection and possession aren't the same thing, we're all finding our way toward healing.

Maverick's hands still as he lifts one final envelope from the bottom of the box, this one sealed with wax like something out of another century. The red seal bears the impression of a rose—Celeste marking her most important words with the symbol that decorates this house. Unlike the other letters with their soft, worn edges, this one looks barely touched, as if even Celeste couldn't bear to revisit what she'd written.

"It's addressed to all of you," I observe, reading the careful script across the front: 'For Cole, River, Maverick, and Austin—My Chosen Pack.'

"The seal's never been broken," River says quietly. "She wrote this and hid it away, meant for?—"

"For after," Cole finishes grimly. "She knew. Somehow she knew we'd be reading this without her."

Maverick breaks the seal with careful fingers, the wax crumbling like dried blood. The letter inside is several pages, covered in Celeste's handwriting, but this time the words seem rushed, urgent, like she was racing against time or fear or both.

"Dated three weeks before she left," Maverick notes, his investigation instincts cataloging details even through emotion. He clears his throat, adjusts Luna where she's drowsing against Austin, and begins to read.

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