Page 53 of Knotting the Cowboys

Cole hovers throughout the interaction, not quite touching but close enough that his presence is unmistakable. Claiming space around me like he's drawing invisible boundaries. Dr. Vasquez notices—her lips twitch with what might be amusement—but says nothing.

The Rusty Spur squats on Main Street like a watchful toad, all weathered wood and neon beer signs that probably haven't been turned off since installation. Even in mid-afternoon, the parking lot holds a respectable collection of trucks and motorcycles.

The kind of place that serves as office, therapy couch, and social club for half the town.

Inside, the atmosphere is pure honky-tonk trying to age into respectability. Peanut shells crunch underfoot despite the "Please Use Provided Receptacles" signs. The air tastes like decades of cigarette smoke that no amount of deep cleaning can fully exorcise.

A jukebox in the corner plays something twangy about trucks and heartbreak.

The man behind the bar looks up from polishing a glass, and his face splits into a grin that transforms his weathered features. Buck Jennings is exactly what a saloon owner should be—handlebar mustache, vest that's seen better decades, and eyes that miss nothing.

"Well, I'll be damned," he says, already reaching for a glass. "Henry James's granddaughter, as I live and breathe."

He slides a sweet tea across the bar before I can even ask, the glass sweating in the afternoon heat. It's perfect—not too sweet, plenty of ice, with that particular restaurant quality that can't be replicated at home.

"How did you?—"

"Know your order?" Buck's mustache twitches. "Girl, your grandpa talked about you every time he came in. How you liked your tea, how you took your steak, how you could out-stubborn a mule when you set your mind to something. I'd know Henry James's granddaughter anywhere."

Henry.Not William.It takes me a moment to realize he's using my middle name, the one Grandpa insisted on despite my parents' protests. "Henry after my father," he'd said. "So she'll always know she comes from strong stock."

I sip the tea to hide the emotion threatening to spill over.

It tastes like summer afternoons on the porch, Grandpa teaching me to play poker while Grandma pretended not to notice.

"Your money's no good here," Buck adds when Cole reaches for his wallet. "First drink's always free for family coming home."

Family.

Home.

The words keep hitting like stones in a pond, each ripple spreading further.

We don't stay long—we need to bring back the formula for Luna before dinner time—but Buck makes me promise to come back "when you can stay awhile and tell me how you really are."

The walk back to the truck takes us past the Sweetwater Falls Hotel, and I can't help glancing through the window. The same sour-faced clerk from my arrival sits behind the desk, but what catches my eye is the policy binder open on the counter.

Even from here, I can read the bold type:

"Omegas unaccompanied? No."

My steps falter.

After the warmth of the other welcomes, this reminder of systemic prejudice hits like cold water. Cole sees it too—hiswhole body goes rigid, jaw clenching with the kind of anger that reshapes atmosphere.

"Archaic assholes," Wendolyn mutters. "That policy's been illegal for twenty years, but Harold keeps it on the books because 'tradition.'"

"We'll deal with it," Cole says, and something in his tone suggests 'dealing with it' might involve more than strongly worded letters.

Back in the truck, I process the afternoon's whiplash of experiences. The judgment at the hardware store versus the welcome everywhere else. The signs of progress are next to policies from another century. A town that held space for me while simultaneously clinging to prejudices that would see me as less than.

"It's a lot," I finally say, watching storefronts slide past. "The town, I mean. Some people act like I've always belonged here, others look at me like I'm an invasive species."

"That's small towns for you," Wendolyn sighs from the backseat. "Everyone's in your business, everyone has opinions, and God help you if you don't fit their narrow definitions. But the good ones, the people like Pearl and Buck? They make it worth it."

"The judgmental ones are just louder," Cole adds, navigating around a tractor that's decided Main Street is the perfect place for a leisurely drive. "Doesn't make them the majority."

"Still," I mutter, thinking of the hotel's policy, the hardware store women, all the micro-aggressions that death by a thousand cuts. "Sometimes I wonder if I'm just trading one type of cage for another."

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