Page 201 of Knotting the Cowboys

"This was taken two weeks before she left," River says quietly, setting it on the table among all our plans. "She'd just gotten those roses to bloom—said it was proof that broken things could still create beauty."

We all stare at the photo, this woman whose death brought us together, whose daughter brought us purpose, whose memory now shapes our future. Luna crawls over to investigate, patting the table leg with chubby hands.

"Mama?" she asks, though she's looking at me, not the photo.

"That's your first mama," I tell her gently, lifting her so she can see. "Celeste. She loved you so much she made sure you had four daddies and a new mama to take care of you."

Luna studies the photo with that serious expression she gets sometimes, like she's seeing more than a toddler should. Then she pats the frame gently. "Pretty mama."

"Yeah, star girl," Maverick agrees, voice wrecked. "The prettiest. And the bravest."

River props the photo against the blueprints, and suddenly all our plans feel blessed. Celeste Torres presiding over the foundation that will bear her name, watching over the dreams we're building from the ashes of loss.

"She would have loved this," River repeats, stronger this time. "Would have been so proud that her story becomes hope for others."

"Then let's build her something worthy of that pride," Cole says, determination replacing tears. "Every board, every brick, every life we help save—it's all for her. For Luna. For everyone who needs what we needed."

I lean back in my chair, both hands cradling my growing belly while my chosen family plans salvation for others. The sun slants lower, painting Celeste's photo in golden light, and I swear I can feel her approval in the warmth.

We're building more than a therapy center. We're building a monument to survival, a temple to second chances, a garden where broken things can bloom.

And somewhere, I know Celeste is smiling.

The ranch sounds like hope being hammered into existence. Power tools whir, volunteers call measurements across the construction site, and someone's radio plays country music that mingles with the rhythmic pounding of hammers. I adjust the cushion behind my back, grateful for the shade of the old oak tree where Austin insisted I set up my supervision station. At six months pregnant, my center of gravity has shifted enough that standing for long periods feels like a Olympic sport I'm destined to lose.

"Mama, look!" Luna points with a juice-sticky finger at the organized chaos before us. "Daddy Cole build!"

She's right—Cole stands atop the frame of what will be the main therapy building, directing crews with the easy authority of someone born to create rather than destroy. His tool belt sits low on his hips, and even from here I can see the satisfaction in every line of his body. This is Cole in his element, building something that matters with hands that have learned gentleness through necessity.

"Higher!" someone shouts, and I recognize Pearl Chen-Morrison's voice. The seventy-year-old store owner stands below, directing the placement of support beams like she's been in construction her whole life instead of running the general store. "My husband built half this town, God rest him. I know a crooked beam when I see one!"

Cole grins and adjusts the beam to her specifications, no trace of condescension in his deference to her experience. That's Sweetwater Falls for you—everyone has expertise, and wisdom comes in unexpected packages.

Across the site, River works with a group of volunteers to set up the fencing for the therapy paddocks. His movements are sure and gentle as he shows them how to properly tension the wire, how to ensure no sharp edges could harm horse or human. Three of his veterinary clients have shown up with their own tools, returning the care he's shown their animals by helping build this space for healing.

"The gate needs to swing both ways," River explains patiently to a teenage volunteer. "Sometimes people need to leave quickly. Feeling trapped can trigger panic attacks, so every exit has to work flawlessly."

The kid nods solemnly, adjusting his work with newfound understanding. That's the beautiful thing about this project—it's teaching the whole town about trauma, about healing, about the thousand small considerations that make a space feel safe instead of confined.

Maverick's voice carries from the main building where he's installing the security system with the help of two off-duty deputies. His explanations are clear, professional, but I catch the emotion underneath when he describes the panic buttons. "Silent alarm straight to the security office," he says. "But also a choice of alerts—sometimes people need help without sirens."

Because he understands that sometimes the cavalry arriving can be as triggering as the threat itself. Every detail thought through by people who've lived these fears, who know the weight of needing help but being afraid to ask for it.

"Where do you want the medical supplies?" Dr. Sylvie calls out, arriving with a truck full of donated equipment. Austin emerges from the medical wing, already dusty from organizing treatment rooms, his smile bright with purpose.

"Treatment room first," he directs, jogging over to help unload. "We've got three residents starting next month—want to be fully operational before they arrive."

Three residents already. Word has spread through channels I don't fully understand—omega networks, survivor underground railroads, whispers of a place where broken doesn't mean worthless. We haven't even officially opened and already the calls come daily, tentative voices asking if it's real, if there's space, if hope comes with a price tag.

It doesn't. That's the point. Healing shouldn't be a luxury available only to those who can afford it.

"Quite the operation you've got here."

I turn to find Father Michael Torres approaching, his clerical collar slightly askew, dust on his black shoes from the construction site. His eyes are already finding the building taking shape, and I see the moment he understands what we're creating in his cousin's name.

"Father," I greet, starting to stand, but he waves me back down.

"Please, don't get up on my account. Austin would never forgive me if I disturbed his carefully orchestrated prenatal rest schedule." His smile is gentle, but his eyes shine with unshed tears as he takes in the scene. "The Celeste Torres Foundation. She would have been... overwhelmed."

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