Page 203 of Knotting the Cowboys

"You ready for this, mama?" Cole murmurs beside me, his hand warm on my lower back. He's traded his usual work clothes for his dress uniform from his firefighting days, the crisp lines making him look both official and achingly handsome.

"Ready," I confirm, though my voice wavers with emotion rather than nerves. Behind us, River adjusts Luna's dress for the tenth time while she squirms with toddler impatience. Austin checks his notes one more time—he'll speak after me about the medical programs. Mavi scans the crowd with habitual vigilance, though today his protective instincts seem more relaxed, trusting.

Chief Reyes steps to the microphone first, her uniform sharp in the morning sun. "Ladies and gentlemen, neighbors and friends, welcome to the grand opening of the Celeste Torres Foundation." Applause ripples through the crowd, and I see tissues already coming out of pockets. "Before we begin, I want to acknowledge that we stand on ground made sacred by loss but sanctified by love. What you've built here—what we've all built together—stands as proof that our community refuses to let violence have the final word."

She steps aside, gesturing for me to take the podium. The walk feels both endless and too quick, my body ungainly with late pregnancy but my purpose crystal clear. The microphone adjusts easily—Cole made sure of that earlier, testing everything twice.

"Good morning," I begin, my voice carrying across the gathered crowd. "My name is Willa James Montgomery-Stone-Cross-Bishop." Soft laughter at the quadruple surname, which we've decided to embrace rather than untangle. "Eight months ago, I arrived in Sweetwater Falls running from a man who tried to kill me rather than let me leave. I was broken, terrified, certain that safety was a luxury I'd never afford again."

I pause, finding faces in the crowd. Pearl Chen-Morrison, who sold me supplies that first week with aggressive kindness. Buck Jennings, who taught me to ride when my hands shook too hard to hold reins. Dr. Sylvie, who documented my healing with patient precision.

"But this town, these people, my pack—you all taught me different. You showed me that surviving violence doesn't define your worth. That trauma might shape you but doesn't have to limit you. That choosing to heal is the ultimate act of rebellion against those who tried to break us."

My hand finds my belly as the twins shift, probably responding to my elevated heartbeat. "What was meant to destroy us has instead given us purpose. Every beam in these buildings was placed by someone who understands that shelter is sacred. Every safety feature was designed by people who know what it costs to feel trapped. Every program exists because someone said 'never again' and meant it."

I can see tears flowing freely now—Wendolyn's mascara is already a lost cause, and even Buck's weathered face shows moisture. But these are tears of recognition, of release, of understanding that pain shared becomes strength multiplied.

"Celeste Torres came to Cactus Rose Ranch seeking shelter and found family. She trusted four men with her daughter, believing they could show Luna that protection doesn't require possession, that love doesn't demand ownership. She was right." I turn slightly to look at my men, standing in formation like honor guards for this moment. "These four alphas, along with all of you, have proven that true strength lies not in dominance but in creating spaces where others can discover their own power."

Luna chooses that moment to escape River's hold, toddling over to wrap herself around my leg. "Mama speech!" she announces to the crowd, generating warm laughter. I stroke her hair, continuing without missing a beat—we've learned to integrate her interruptions into life's rhythm.

"The Celeste Torres Foundation stands as a living memorial to a woman who refused to let abuse define her story. But more than that, it stands as a promise. To every omega who's been told they're property. To every person who's been convinced theironly value lies in submission. To every survivor who wonders if healing is possible." My voice strengthens with each word. "We promise you shelter without shame. Healing without judgment. Time to remember who you were before someone tried to remake you in their image."

The silence that follows is complete, sacred, heavy with recognition and resolve. Then Father Michael stands in the front row, his applause ringing out clear and strong. Others follow, the sound building like thunder, like acclaim, like collective commitment to the vision we've built.

"Thank you," I say when the applause finally fades. "Thank you for believing that broken people deserve beautiful things. Thank you for building Celeste's garden with your own hands. Thank you for proving that community means showing up, again and again, especially when it's hard."

I grip the scissors Cole hands me—specially chosen for being easy to handle with swollen fingers. The yellow ribbon stretches across the entrance to the main building, bright as hope against the weathered wood Cole insisted on using. "I officially declare the Celeste Torres Foundation open for healing, for hope, for home."

The ribbon parts cleanly, floating to the ground in two pieces that Luna immediately pounces on. The cheer that goes up could probably be heard in the next county, but I'm lost in Cole's arms as he helps me down from the stage, in River's kiss to my temple, in Austin's gentle squeeze of my hand, in Mavi's protective hover as we move toward the buildings.

"Tours begin now!" Austin announces, taking over MC duties with his natural warmth. "Small groups, please. Our residents arrive next week, so this is your chance to see everything before privacy protocols go into effect."

We separate to lead different groups, though Cole stays close to me—no one argues with an alpha protecting his heavilypregnant omega, even if I could probably still take down threats with the moves Mavi taught me.

The therapy rooms come first, designed with soft colors and natural light. "Every room has multiple exits," I explain to my group. "Windows that open fully, doors that lock only from inside. The furniture is comfortable but deliberately lightweight—nothing that could be used to barricade or trap."

"Smart," someone murmurs, and I recognize a woman from the grocery store whose eyes carry the same shadows mine once did.

River leads his group through the animal areas, enthusiasm brightening his whole demeanor. "We have six horses so far, all rescues with their own stories of survival. The connecting path between the barn and the therapy building is covered—weather protected but open-sided, so no one feels trapped while transitioning between spaces."

His group includes several young people who've already volunteered to help with the animals. I can see their dedication in how they listen, absorbing not just the practical details but the philosophy behind them.

Austin's medical wing tour draws the most questions. "Trauma-informed care means understanding that healing happens at different paces," he explains, showing off treatment rooms that feel more like cozy dens than clinical spaces. "We have traditional medical equipment, of course, but also quiet rooms for processing, art therapy spaces, movement areas for those who need to physically work through their experiences."

"Is it true you're the new medical director for the whole town?" someone asks, and Austin's blush is visible even from across the courtyard.

"The clinic offered, and I accepted," he confirms. "But the Foundation remains my primary focus. Healing trauma is my calling—the town position just helps fund it."

Mavi's security tour is perhaps the most powerful, showing how protection can exist without imprisonment. "Every camera feed is encrypted and auto-deletes after 72 hours unless specifically saved for legal reasons," he explains. "The security office is staffed 24/7, but our guards are trained in de-escalation, not force. Many are survivors themselves who understand the difference between safety and control."

"And you're the new head deputy?" Chief Reyes asks with a knowing smile, though clearly she's asking for the crowd's benefit.

"Someone has to keep this town in line," Mavi replies dryly, generating laughter. "But yes, I've accepted the position. Protecting and serving takes many forms."

As the tours conclude, people drift through the grounds with the quiet reverence usually reserved for churches. And maybe that's what we've built—a temple to second chances, a cathedral of becoming, a place where resurrection happens one small choice at a time.

"Cole's the new volunteer fire chief," someone mentions as groups reconvene. "River's expanding the vet clinic to serve the whole valley. Austin's running the medical center. Mavi's head deputy. And Willa?—"

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