Page 200 of Knotting the Cowboys

"Babies!" Luna shouts one more time, just in case anyone forgot the morning's headline news.

And surrounded by laughter and love and the controlled chaos of our pack, I let myself believe in this future we're building—one baby (or two) at a time.

My hand rests on the small swell of my belly as I watch my men transform our dining table into a command center of dreams and blueprints. Twelve weeks along now, and the morning sickness has finally eased enough for me to think about something beyond crackers and ginger tea. The late afternoon sun streams through the windows, illuminating their plans like holy documents—which maybe they are, in their own way.

"The main therapy building should go here," Cole says, his finger tracing lines across the largest blueprint. "Far enough from the main house for privacy, but close enough that residents feel connected, not isolated." His construction foremanexperience shows in every precise measurement, every carefully considered angle. "I'm thinking craftsman style to match the existing structures. Big windows for natural light—studies show it helps with healing."

The table groans under the weight of possibility. Architectural drawings compete for space with River's veterinary journals, Mavi's security catalogs, and Austin's medical supply lists. Luna plays in her expanded playpen nearby, alternating between stacking blocks and demolishing them with enthusiastic glee—a fitting metaphor for what we're trying to build.

"We'll need at least six stalls for the horse therapy program," River adds, pulling out his own sketches. "Different horses for different needs—some people respond better to the gentle ones, but sometimes it's the difficult horses that create breakthroughs. Shared brokenness recognizing itself." His voice carries the weight of personal experience, all those hours he spent with Celeste in the stables.

"What about dogs?" I ask, shifting to find a more comfortable position. These days, comfortable is relative—the twins Cole swears we're having seem determined to rearrange my internal organs. "Therapy dogs could stay with residents who aren't ready for the horses."

River's face lights up. "I've already reached out to a trainer in Helena. She works specifically with rescues, teaching them to be emotional support animals. Giving purpose to dogs who've been abandoned or abused."

"Everything comes back to second chances," Austin murmurs, looking up from his medical protocols. "Which is perfect for what we're building."

Maverick spreads out his security proposals with the same care Cole showed with the blueprints. "Protection without imprisonment," he says, pointing to various features. "Camerasat entry points but not in personal spaces. Panic buttons in every room that connect directly to a security office—staffed 24/7, but by people trained in de-escalation, not force."

"No locks on the outside of doors," I add quietly, remembering my own terror at being trapped. "Ever."

"Never," Mavi agrees firmly. "Every door opens from the inside. Every window functions as an emergency exit. The secured areas are to keep threats out, not to keep residents in."

Cole reaches over to squeeze my hand, understanding the weight of those specifications. His thumb traces circles on my palm as Mavi continues outlining his vision—motion sensors that track approach, not departure. Safe rooms that lock from inside only. A security system designed by someone who understands that sometimes the real danger comes from those who claim to love you.

"The medical wing needs to be more than just an infirmary," Austin says, taking his turn. "Full trauma-informed care means understanding that healing isn't just physical. We need spaces for therapy—individual and group. Quiet rooms for when everything becomes too much. Medical staff trained to recognize panic attacks versus drug-seeking behavior."

He pulls out a folder thick with research, statistics, certifications. "I've been talking to Dr. Sylvie about partnering. She's willing to do rotations, train other staff in omega-specific trauma responses. And Dr. Whitehorse wants to volunteer for general medical care."

"The whole town wants to help," I realize, warmth spreading through my chest. "This isn't just our project anymore."

"Never was," Cole says gruffly. "Sweetwater Falls takes care of its own. And everyone who comes here for healing—they become ours too."

Luna chooses that moment to knock over her block tower with particular enthusiasm, shouting "Down!" with glee. We allturn to watch her, this bright spot of joy who has no idea she's the seed from which this whole idea grew.

"Speaking of which," I say, taking a breath as I prepare to voice the thought that's been building since we started planning. "I think we should call it the Celeste Torres Foundation."

The room goes still, that particular quality of silence that comes when grief and love collide. River's hands freeze over his sketches. Austin sets down his pen with careful precision. Cole's fingers tighten around mine, and Mavi—Mavi stares at the security plans like they hold answers to questions he's afraid to ask.

"Willa," Austin starts, voice thick with emotion.

"She never got to build her garden," I continue, one hand on my belly where new life grows. "Never got to see Luna grow up. Never got to know that her trust in you four would create all this. But we can honor her. Every person who finds healing here, every woman who learns she's worth protecting, every child who grows up knowing love doesn't require ownership—they're all flowers in Celeste's garden."

River makes a sound—half sob, half laugh. "She would have loved this. Would have been right in the middle of it all, probably trying to plant herbs between the therapy buildings."

"Singing off-key while she worked," Austin adds, tears flowing freely now. "Making everyone help even if they didn't know a rose from a daisy."

"Hiding encouraging notes for residents to find," Mavi contributes, his voice rough. "Little reminders that they're stronger than they know."

Cole clears his throat, but his eyes shine with moisture. "The Celeste Torres Foundation. It's perfect. She saved us all, in her way. Brought us together. Made us see what family could really be."

"Wait," River says suddenly, pushing back from the table. "I need—just wait."

He disappears upstairs, footsteps heavy with purpose. We sit in weighted silence, Luna providing a soundtrack of happy babble as she begins rebuilding her block empire.

When River returns, he's carrying something with infinite care—a framed photo I've never seen before.

It's Celeste in the garden, soil-stained hands holding a pot of blooming roses. Her smile is radiant, unguarded in a way that speaks of a perfect moment of peace. The photo itself is slightly worn at the edges, like it's been held often, treasured through grief.

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