Page 52 of Knotting the Cowboys

"Willa James."

The voice comes from everywhere and nowhere, and then a woman materializes from between shelves like she's been summoned.

Pearl Chen-Morrison is compact energy wrapped in a floral apron, her black hair streaked with silver and pulled back in a no-nonsense bun. Her eyes are sharp behind wire-rimmed glasses, and she's looking at me like I'm a puzzle she's just solved.

"I'd know you anywhere," she continues, closing the distance with quick steps. "You have your grandmother's eyes and your grandfather's stubborn chin. William showed me every picture you ever sent him. Kept them in chronological order in a photo album he carried everywhere."

The words hit unexpectedly hard. Grandpa, carrying my pictures like a talisman. I swallow past the sudden tightness in my throat.

"Mrs. Chen-Morrison?—"

"Pearl," she corrects, reaching out to clasp my hands in hers. They're small but strong, calloused from decades of work. "Just Pearl. And you're our girl, finally come home."

Our girl.

The possession in it should rankle, but instead, it wraps around me like a blanket. Cole shifts closer, and I feel rather than see his satisfaction at Pearl's welcome.

"Your grandfather was very specific about your preferences," Pearl continues, still holding my hands. "Vanilla creamer, not plain. Sharp cheddar, never mild. That organic peanut butter that costs a fortune but you loved the texture. I've kept it all in stock, just in case."

"You..." My voice breaks slightly. "You stocked things for me?"

"Of course." She pats my hands before releasing them. "William said you'd come when you were ready. My job was to make sure you'd find what you needed when you did."

Wendolyn makes a soft sound beside me, and when I glance over, her eyes are suspiciously bright.

Cole's hand finds my back again, steady and warm through my sweater.

"Thank you," I manage. "That's... thank you."

Pearl waves off the gratitude.

"You need anything for that ranch, you call. I know every supplier in three states, and most of them owe me favors. We take care of our own here."

Our own.

There it is again, that casual claim of belonging.

We make our purchases—Cole insisting on paying despite my protests—and Pearl loads us down with extras.

"Samples," she calls them, though the bag of homemade cookies and jar of local honey seem excessive for samples.

The veterinary clinic sits two blocks down, a converted craftsman house with a modern addition that somehow manages not to look grafted on.

The waiting room smells like disinfectant and the peculiar musk of nervous animals, but it's clean and calming with its pale blue walls and thriving plants.

"Can I help—Cole!" The receptionist, a young man who can't be out of college, practically lights up. "Is Luna okay? Did something happen?"

"Just showing Willa around," Cole assures him. "Is Elena available?"

"For you? Always." The receptionist's eyes dart to me with curious intensity. "I'll let her know you're here."

Dr. Elena Vasquez emerges within minutes, and I understand immediately why River chose to work with her. She carries authority like a second skin, silver threading through dark hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. Her handshake is firm, professional, but her eyes warm when they land on me.

"Ms. James. I've been waiting to meet you." Her accent carries traces of somewhere farther south, softening the formal words. "Your grandfather spoke of you often. He was very proud."

There's that tightness in my throat again.

"The ranch animals are all in excellent health," she continues. "River's exceptional with preventive care. But if you need anything—emergencies, routine visits, or just advice—we're here."

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