Page 185 of Knotting the Cowboys

I lean forward, drawn by instinct and emotion, and place my hand gently on Maverick's arm. The touch grounds us both, connects me to this moment of promise and pain. "From men like Blake," I add quietly. "Because the patterns don't have to repeat. Because we choose differently."

Luna stirs then, those miraculous mismatched eyes blinking open. She looks around our circle with baby solemnity, then reaches out with both hands—not for any one person but for all of us, those grabby baby gestures that mean 'closer' and 'comfort' and 'mine' all at once.

She pats Maverick's face with one tiny hand while the other clutches at the letter, and I swear there's understanding in her gaze. Too much understanding for a baby, but then Luna's always been extraordinary. Born from trauma but raised in love, carrying her mother's strength and her fathers' protection in equal measure.

"We should frame this one," Austin suggests, voice steady again. "The guardian letter. Put it somewhere safe but visible, so she always knows how much her mother loved her. How much thought went into choosing her family."

"The office," Cole decides. "In the safe with the legal documents. But we'll make copies first. One for each of us."

They begin discussing practicalities—preservation methods, safety deposit boxes, digital backups—but I watch Luna. She's fully awake now, those impossible eyes taking in everythingwith that unnerving baby wisdom. When she looks at me, I see Celeste's courage reflected there, the strength to choose love over fear.

"You're going to be amazing," I whisper to her. "Just like your mama."

Luna grins, gummy and perfect, and reaches for my hair with typical baby enthusiasm. The men pause their planning to watch us, and I see the same thought reflected in all their faces: Celeste's daughter will know she was chosen. Will know she was loved. Will know that family isn't about blood or bonds or biology, but about the choice to show up, stay present, and build something worth protecting.

Even when the storms come calling again.

Sunset paints the ranch in shades of amber and rose, the kind of light that makes everything look blessed. I stand on the back porch with Luna warm against my chest, watching as the men arrange this impromptu memorial with the same care they brought to reading Celeste's letters. The air smells of approaching winter and freshly turned earth where Cole has begun digging beside the porch steps.

The keepsake box sits on the small table Austin dragged outside, its rose-carved surface catching the dying light. Next to it, a rosebush waits in its nursery pot—River disappeared for an hour after we finished with the letters, returning with this living memorial that seems perfect in its simplicity. The leaves are deep green tinged with purple, and even dormant for winter, I can see the thorns that promise protection alongside beauty.

"Deep enough?" Cole asks, pausing in his digging to gauge the hole. Soil streaks his forearms where he's rolled up his sleeves, and there's something ancient in the image—a man preparing the earth to hold something precious.

"A little more," River suggests, setting aside the watering can he's prepared. "Roses need room to spread their roots. To really anchor."

Cole nods and returns to digging, each shovelful deliberate. There's ritual in this, though none of us have named it as such. We're creating something sacred in the ordinary—a grave marker for someone whose actual resting place is three states away, a living monument to a woman whose greatest fear was being forgotten.

Luna babbles against my shoulder, tiny hands playing with the ends of my hair. She's been remarkably content since we found the letters, as if some restless part of her has settled now that we know her mother's story. Or maybe that's me projecting, seeing meaning where there's only baby contentment. Either way, her presence feels essential to whatever we're doing here.

"That's good," Austin declares, leaving his post by the box to inspect Cole's work. "She would have liked this spot. Right by the house, where she could see it from the kitchen window."

"She loved that window," Maverick adds quietly. He's been standing guard at the porch rail, watching the property line with habitual vigilance, but even he's been drawn into the gentleness of this moment. "Said it was the first kitchen window she'd ever looked out of without fear."

Such a simple thing—a window, a view, the ability to daydream while washing dishes without constantly checking for threats. But I understand the profound gift of that ordinariness. My own kitchen window here has become a favorite spot, somewhere I can watch the seasons change without calculating escape routes.

"Ready?" River asks, lifting the rosebush with careful hands. The pot releases it reluctantly, roots and soil holding the shape of their former container before River loosens them gently. "Come see, little star. This is for your mama."

He crouches down to Luna's level, and I shift her in my arms so she can see properly. Her eyes track the movement as River shows her the plant, those impossible mismatched irises bright with interest.

"It's called a Celeste rose," River explains to her solemnly, as if she can understand every word. Maybe she can—Luna's always seemed to comprehend more than her age suggests. "It'll bloom pale pink in the spring, like sunrise clouds. Your mama would have loved that it shares her name."

Luna reaches out with one chubby hand, patting the leaves with surprising gentleness. River smiles, the expression soft with grief and purpose combined. "That's right. Gentle touches. It's going to grow strong and beautiful, just like you."

Austin clears his throat, pulling a small leather journal from his pocket. Unlike the hidden letters, this is something I've seen before—Celeste's garden journal, left openly on the bookshelf where anyone could read her thoughts on soil and seasons. "I marked a passage," he says quietly. "From last spring, when she was planning what to plant."

He opens to a page marked with a pressed flower—a wild rose, its petals faded but still holding their shape. His voice wavers slightly as he reads: "'I want Luna to grow up surrounded by living things. To understand that growth takes time and patience and the right conditions. To know that even plants that seem delicate can be surprisingly strong, that thorns exist not from meanness but for protection. I want her to put her hands in soil and understand that we're all just tending gardens, trying to leave beauty behind.'"

"She did," Cole says roughly. "She left beauty behind."

Austin continues reading, this passage more personal: "'Sometimes I dream about the garden I'll plant when I'm truly free. Roses for beauty, herbs for healing, vegetables for sustenance. Luna will toddle between the rows, getting dirt under her tiny fingernails, learning that the best things require both tenderness and strength. The boys will help—Cole building raised beds, River managing the water systems, Mavi installing protection from pests, Austin choosing medicinal plants. My chosen family, helping me grow something that can't be destroyed by one man's rage.'"

He closes the journal, pressing it briefly to his chest. "She never got to plant that garden. But we can plant this piece of it."

Maverick abandons his watch to join us, forming a loose circle around the prepared hole. Without discussion, River lowers the rosebush into place, its roots spreading into the space Cole created. The symbolism isn't lost on any of us—Celeste planting roots here even after death, becoming part of the ranch she loved.

"We should each..." Cole starts, then pauses, searching for words. "In Jewish tradition, mourners help fill the grave. It's participation in the burial, in the goodbye. Maybe we could..."

"Yes," River says simply, understanding immediately. He scoops a handful of loose soil, letting it fall around the rose's roots. "For Celeste, who found peace with the horses."

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