Page 202 of Knotting the Cowboys

"In a good way, I hope," I say softly, watching Luna toddle over to investigate this new person.

"Up!" she demands, arms raised imperiously. Father Michael chuckles and obliges, settling her on his hip with practiced ease.

"Hi!" Luna chirps, patting his face with her usual lack of personal space awareness. "You nice!"

"Thank you, little one. You know, you have your mother's eyes. Different colors, but the same spirit. The same way of seeing right through to people's hearts."

He carries Luna closer to the construction, and I follow slowly, one hand supporting my belly. Workers pause to greet him—Father Michael has been part of this community far longer than we have, baptized half the volunteers, married the other half.

"Tell me about it," he says quietly, eyes taking in every detail. "Tell me how you're honoring her."

So I do. I tell him about the therapy programs, the security that protects without imprisoning, the medical care that treats the whole person. I explain how each of my men has poured their expertise into creating something that would have saved Celeste if it had existed then. How the whole town has rallied to build what should have been.

"She wrote about you," Father Michael says suddenly, still watching the construction but clearly seeing memories. "In her letters. Said you were the family she chose, the ones who showed her that alphas could be protectors instead of predators."

"She saved us too," I tell him, meaning it completely. "Brought us together. Gave us Luna. Showed us what we could be."

He nods slowly, then shifts Luna to one arm and pulls out a worn prayer book. "I'd like to bless the foundation, if you'll allow it. Not just when it opens, but now, while it's being built. Foundations matter, in buildings and in life."

"We'd be honored."

He raises his voice, and work gradually stops as people notice. "Friends, if you could spare a moment?"

They gather—construction workers and volunteers, my pack abandoning their various projects to form a protective semi-circle around Luna and me. Wendolyn appears from somewhere with her flower shop crew, Buck Jennings climbs down from a ladder, even Chief Reyes emerges from where she's been consulting on safety protocols.

"We gather to bless not just buildings, but purpose," Father Michael begins, Luna still perched on his hip like she belongs there. "To honor Celeste Marie Torres, whose journey through darkness lights the way for others. To celebrate those who build with hammers and hearts alike."

His words wash over the assembled crowd, speaking of sanctuary and second chances, of wounds that become wisdom, of love that transcends death. When he mentions Celeste's name, I see tears on weathered faces, see hands reach for each other in shared purpose.

"May these walls shelter the scared," he continues. "May these doors open to hope. May every soul who enters broken leave believing in their own worth. And may Celeste's daughter—" he bounces Luna gently, making her giggle, "—grow up seeing her mother's love made manifest in every life saved here."

"Amen," the crowd murmurs, and then Buck Jennings adds loudly, "Now let's build something Celeste would be proud of!"

The cheer that goes up could probably be heard in town. Work resumes with renewed energy, but now there's something sacred in it. Every nail driven is a prayer, every board placed an offering to the woman whose death demands this answer.

"Thank you," I tell Father Michael as he hands Luna back to me.

"Thank me by filling this place," he says simply. "By proving that tragedy doesn't get the final word. Celeste believed that, even when believing seemed impossible." His eyes find the building again. "Make her faith real."

As the afternoon wears on, more townspeople arrive. The diner sends lunch for all the workers. The hardware store delivers supplies "on account," which everyone knows means donated. High school kids show up after classes to help with painting. The garden club arrives with plans for therapeutic plant spaces.

This is Sweetwater Falls at its finest—a town that knows community isn't just a word but a verb, requiring action and presence and the choice to show up for each other.

"You built something bigger than a therapy center," Wendolyn tells me as the sun starts its descent toward the mountains. "You built proof that belonging is possible. That families can be chosen and communities can heal."

I watch my men—Cole now consulting with the electrical crew, River training volunteers on horse handling, Mavi triple-checking every security feature, Austin organizing medical supplies with obsessive care. They move with purpose that goes beyond construction, building redemption one board at a time.

Luna plays in the dirt nearby, "helping" by moving small rocks from one pile to another with toddler determination. My twins shift inside me, future additions to this unlikely family, this chosen pack that refuses to let pain have the last word.

"We all built it," I correct Wendolyn. "That's the only way it works."

And as the mountains turn purple with approaching evening, as the framework of Celeste's legacy rises from Montana soil, I know it's true. We're building more than sanctuary.

We're building home—not just for us, but for everyone who needs to remember that broken doesn't mean worthless, that survival can become thriving, that sometimes the most profound act of rebellion is choosing to heal.

The stage ribbons flutter in the mountain breeze like prayers made visible, their soft yellow matching the late spring wildflowers that Wendolyn's team arranged around the podium. Every chair holds someone who helped build this dream—weathered ranchers next to teenage volunteers, shop owners beside off-duty officers, the whole tapestry of Sweetwater Falls gathered to witness what we've woven from loss.

I stand at the podium's edge, one hand supporting my heavy belly where the twins perform their daily acrobatics. Eight months along now, and every movement feels monumental. But I wouldn't miss this for anything—not when Celeste's photo watches from its place of honor, wreathed in the roses that finally bloomed from the bush we planted by the porch.

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