Page 186 of Knotting the Cowboys

Cole follows, his larger hand carrying more earth. "For Celeste, who trusted us with her daughter."

Maverick's movements are precise, almost military in their contained emotion. "For the trust she placed in us, even when trust seemed impossible."

Austin's hand shakes as he adds his portion. "For Luna's mother, who chose love over fear."

They look to me then, and I understand this is my moment too. I've become part of this story, another woman fleeing abuse,finding shelter with these same men. I shift Luna to one arm and scoop the soil with my free hand, the earth cool and slightly damp against my palm.

"For Celeste," I say, letting the soil fall slowly, "who left us all a roadmap to freedom."

The bush stands sentinel in its new home, surrounded by the earth we've each touched. River produces the watering can, circling the plant with careful attention to saturation. The water darkens the soil, settling everything into place.

"One more thing," I say, inspired by sudden certainty. I kneel carefully, still holding Luna, and guide her tiny hand to pat the freshly watered earth. "So you're part of it too, star girl. So you know you helped plant something beautiful for your mama."

Luna pats enthusiastically, getting soil on her pink sleeper, making happy sounds at the texture. The men watch with soft expressions, this baby who carries all their hopes and Celeste's legacy in her tiny form.

As the sun sinks lower, painting the sky in shades of pink that echo the roses to come, we stand together in silent witness. The rosebush looks small and vulnerable in its new home, but I know from my grandfather's teachings that roses are survivors. They sink deep roots, endure harsh winters, and bloom despite adversity.

"She's part of the ranch now," River says quietly. "Celeste. Through this rose, through Luna, through the changes she made in all of us."

"Part of us," Cole agrees, wrapping an arm around my shoulders, drawing me and Luna into his warmth. "Family, always."

A cold breeze stirs, reminding us that December has teeth despite the golden evening light. Luna shivers, and Austin immediately reaches for her. "Inside, little one. Your mama would never forgive us if you caught cold at her memorial."

We file back into the house, leaving the planted rose to begin its work of settling in, spreading roots, preparing for spring. But I linger for a moment on the porch, looking back at what we've created. Such a small thing—one plant beside the steps. But it feels monumental, this physical marker of a life that mattered.

Through the kitchen window, I can see the men moving around inside, Austin heating Luna's bottle while the others clean up from our impromptu ceremony. The domesticity of it strikes me—how seamlessly we've become a unit, how naturally we move around each other. Celeste saw this possibility, named it in her letters. Chose it for her daughter.

"Thank you," I whisper to the evening air, to Celeste's memory, to whatever force brought us all together. "For trusting them. For paving the way. For showing me that running toward something can be as important as running away."

The rosebush stands silent in its new earth, but I imagine I can already see it blooming—pale pink flowers opening to the spring sun, thorns protecting delicate beauty, roots spreading deep and strong through Montana soil. A living reminder that love can bloom from loss, that families can be chosen, that even in death, a mother's fierce devotion can shape the world her daughter inhabits.

Luna's laughter draws me inside, back to warmth and light and the complicated blessing of our assembled family. Tomorrow will bring its challenges—Blake's threats, legal battles, the constant vigilance our situation demands. But tonight, we've honored someone who walked this path before me, who loved these men and trusted them with everything precious.

Tonight, we've planted hope in the form of a rose, and declared with soil-stained hands that some things are worth protecting, worth nurturing, worth believing in despite all evidence to the contrary.

The golden light fades to purple, then gray, and stars begin their nightly emergence. But the rose remains, standing guard beside the steps, promising beauty to come.

The Beauty In Karma

~WILLA~

The porch steps creak under my weight, each footfall heavier than the last as December's cold seeps through my bones.

My body aches with the kind of exhaustion that comes from constant vigilance—a week of jumping at shadows, checking locks, scanning tree lines for black sedans that may or may not be there. Luna's warm weight against my chest is the only thing keeping me upright as I fumble with the door, her soft breaths puffing against my neck in tiny clouds of contentment.

Inside, the house wraps around us like a blanket, warm and sage-scented from whatever Austin's been burning in the kitchen. I can hear water running upstairs—probably River showering after evening rounds. Cole's at the hardware store for another half hour, Mavi's installing cameras at the back perimeter. Normal sounds, normal routines, but nothing feels normal anymore. Not since Blake reminded us that safety is just an illusion we tell ourselves.

Luna stirs as I navigate the hallway, making soft complaints about the change in temperature. "Shh, star girl," I murmur, pressing a kiss to her dark hair. "Almost to your bed."

The nursery door swings open silently—Mavi oiled the hinges last week, eliminating another potential warning sound. Moonlight streams through the gauze curtains, painting everything in silver and shadow. The fairy lights strung around my nest glow soft amber, a constellation of safety the men created when my nightmares got too bad to sleep alone.

I lower Luna into her crib with practiced care, my muscles protesting the movement. She fusses once, tiny fist reaching for me, before settling back into sleep. The sight of her there—safe, warm, surrounded by the soft toys and blankets chosen with such love—makes my chest tight with fierce protectiveness.

My body chooses that moment to remind me of another pressing concern. Heat prickles along my skin, a warning flush that has nothing to do with the warm house. I press the back of my hand to my forehead, feeling the telltale warmth that says my heat is approaching despite the natural blockers I've been taking. Three months of suppressants from Dr. Sylvie have bought me time to heal, to settle, to figure out what I want. But biology doesn't care about trauma recovery timelines.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to steady myself against the wave of want that crashes through me. It's different than before—with Blake, heat was something to endure, to survive. Here, surrounded by alpha scents that promise protection instead of possession, my body responds with embarrassing eagerness. Even exhausted, even terrified, some primal part of me recognizes safety and wants to celebrate it in the most basic way possible.

That's when I smell it.

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