Page 40 of Knotting the Cowboys

The kitchen tells more stories. Grandpa's cast iron skillet hangs in its place of honor, but the refrigerator is covered in feeding schedules, pediatrician appointments, and a hand-drawn chart tracking who's on night duty. The mundane intimacy of it makes my throat tight.

This is a family, unconventional but real.

I heat a bottle according to Austin's instructions, testing the temperature carefully on my wrist. Luna takes it eagerly, her heterochromatic eyes fixed on mine with unnerving focus. The weight of her trust settles over me like a blanket—warm but suffocating.

Upstairs, I find my grandfather's room untouched, like they've made it a shrine.

His reading glasses still sit on the nightstand, bookmarked Western novel waiting for him to return. The other bedrooms bear clear signs of their occupants—Cole's military-neat, River's with plants on every surface, Mavi's spartan except for an extensive knife collection, Austin's cheerfully chaotic with medical journals stacked everywhere.

But it's the room at the end of the hall that stops my heart.

Luna's nursery is a masterpiece of careful love.

Soft sage walls with hand-painted wildflowers climbing toward the ceiling. A white crib with carved details that I recognize as Cole's handiwork, mimicking the style my grandfather taught him. A rocking chair positioned perfectly to catch morning light. Shelves full of books, toys, stuffed animals that look both new and already loved.

"They did this for you," I tell Luna, emotion thick in my throat. "Four Alpha cowboys turned their lives upside down for one tiny girl."

The changing table has everything organized just so—Austin's influence clear in the labeled containers. A mobile hangs above, handmade with felt animals that look like River's patient work. The window has bars installed at exactly regulation height—Mavi's security consciousness. And everywhere, in every detail, such profound care it makes my chest hurt.

Who was she? This Omega who gave them Luna and then... what? Died? Left?

The questions burn, but there's no one to ask.

I settle Luna in her crib after checking her diaper, proud of managing basic baby care without disaster. She fusses briefly, then settles, tiny fist clutching a stuffed horse that smells like all four of them.

My own bed—Grandpa's bed—feels strange and too large. I lie awake listening to the house settle, trying to distinguishnormal sounds from threats. Every creak could be an intruder. Every whisper of wind sounds like smoke.

My body stays rigid, waiting for danger that doesn't come.

When Luna's cry splits the night, I bolt upright so fast my vision spots. The clock reads 2:47 AM. Her cries escalate quickly from fussy to frantic, and by the time I reach her room, she's red-faced and screaming.

"Hey, hey, it's okay." I lift her out, bouncing like I've seen Austin do. "Shh, sweet girl. What's wrong?"

She arches away from me, shrieking louder. Not hungry—she just ate a few hours ago. Diaper's clean. No fever that I can tell. But the crying intensifies until it's the kind of sound that drills into your skull and makes rational thought impossible.

I try everything.

Walking. Rocking. Singing—which makes her cry harder, possibly from aesthetic offense. The baby books on the shelf offer suggestions that all seem to require equipment I can't locate or techniques I don't understand.

"Please," I beg, tears pricking my own eyes as her distress feeds mine. "I don't know what you need."

Fifteen minutes pass. Twenty. My arms ache from bouncing, and Luna's cries have taken on a desperate quality that speaks of real distress.

I need help. Need someone who actually knows what they're doing.

But I don't have a phone. Don't have their numbers. Don't have?—

The ranch phone.

Austin mentioned it autodials the bunkhouse, but he also left his cell number. I carry a screaming Luna downstairs, finding the sticky note still on the counter. My hands shake as I dial.

He answers on the second ring, voice alert despite the hour.

"Willa? What's wrong?"

"She won't stop crying." The words tumble out in a rush. "I've tried everything, but she's getting worse, and I don't know?—"

"I'm coming." Already I hear movement, boots on floor. "Is she pulling at her ears? Arching her back?"

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