Page 85 of Knotting the Cowboys

They come out of nowhere—well, not nowhere, because I suppose this is exactly where two years of self-loathing, misplaced obedience, and covert hope stack up like kindling—but I don't expect them to hit so hard, or so fast. My vision blurs. It takes all of three seconds after Dr. Sylvie finishes speaking for my throat to tighten and water to spill down my cheeks, slow at first, then in fat, humiliating drops. I don't even try to wipe them away. I just let them track down my jaw, pooling at the edge of my chin and darkening the collar of the absurdly soft paper gown they gave me. It's not a sobbing, ugly cry—more like my body is wringing out some toxin I've been stewing in unawares. I don't make a sound, but my chest shudders and my hands startto shake so hard I have to clasp them between my knees to keep from rattling apart entirely.

Wendolyn doesn't smother me with a hug, which I'm grateful for because touch is lava right now, but she scoots her chair closer and gently sets the back of her hand against my shoulder, grounding me just enough. She doesn't say "there, there" or "it's okay"—she just hums a low, soothing note that makes my skin goosebump all over. Dr. Sylvie hands me a box of tissues, the good kind with lotion, and sits back on her stool with a patient, nonjudgmental air, like this is just another step in the physical exam. The most natural thing in the world.

I cry until my vision clears and I can breathe slow again. When I look up, neither of them are watching me with pity. If anything, there's a kind of pride in Dr. Sylvie's posture, and a knowing, gentle smugness in the quirk of Wendolyn's smile. For the first time in my life, something inside me slides back into place. Not all the way, but enough to make me feel like I could build on it, like maybe I'm not irreparably broken after all.

By the time I can speak, the only thing I manage is a hoarse, "Thank you," but it feels like more than enough.

"You know what we need?" Wendolyn announces as we gather our things, her ability to pivot from rage to enthusiasm whiplash-inducing but somehow perfect. "A girls' night. Proper one, with wine and terrible movies and someone teaching Willa about nesting who isn't a medical professional—no offense, Doc."

Dr. Sylvie pauses in washing her hands, looking genuinely surprised. "Are you... inviting me?"

"Hell yes I am!" Wendolyn bounces on her toes like an excited puppy. "When's the last time you did something that wasn't work? We don't exactly have a massive female friend group around here. It's basically me, Willa, and whoever we can kidnap from town."

The doctor's professional mask softens into something almost vulnerable. "I... don't really do social things. Most people find me too..."

"Badass? Intimidating? Likely to destroy any Alpha who looks at us wrong?" Wendolyn grins. "Sounds like exactly what our friend group needs. Plus, you need to meet Luna—she's Cactus Rose's baby mascot. Eight months of pure sunshine who's already got four wrapped-around-her-finger daddies."

"The Luna from the Bishop-Cross-Stone-Montgomery household?" Dr. Sylvie's eyes sharpen with interest. "I've been curious about that arrangement. Four-Alpha households are rare enough, but successfully raising an infant..."

"Oh, they're magnificent at it," I find myself saying, warmth spreading through my chest. "Luna's the most loved baby I've ever seen. And she's got them all trained—one cry and they're tripping over each other to help."

"Then I definitely need to meet her." Dr. Sylvie pulls out her phone, fingers hesitating over the screen. "I don't usually give out my personal number..."

"But you're going to because we're going to be best friends," Wendolyn declares with the confidence of someone who's never met a social boundary she couldn't cheerfully bulldoze. "Plus, we could invite Chief Martinez! She probably needs something fun and girly after dealing with entitled Alphas all day."

The image of Sweetwater Falls' formidable police chief at a girls' night makes me snort. "Something tells me her idea of fun might involve target practice."

"Even better!" Wendolyn's enthusiasm could power small cities. "Wine and weapons—what could go wrong?"

Dr. Sylvie shakes her head but she's smiling as she types her number into Wendolyn's phone. "Text me the details. And remember—" she looks at me seriously "—this is for social things only. Medical questions go through the office."

"Social things only," I promise, clutching my prescriptions like lifelines.

The drive back to Cactus Rose feels different, charged with possibility. Wendolyn hums something that might be Taylor Swift while I stare out the window, trying to process everything.

Natural blockers that work with my body.

A doctor who says I'm not broken.

Friends who want to teach me about nesting—whatever that actually means. It's almost too much good after so many years of barely survivable.

"You okay over there?" Wendolyn asks as we turn onto the ranch road. "You've got that shell-shocked look people get when they realize the world doesn't have to be shit."

"Something like that." I press my hand to my stomach where cramps still pulse in steady waves. "I just... I didn't know medical care could be like that. Respectful. Affirming."

"Yeah, well, welcome to the revolution, baby. We're taking care of ourselves now, and any Alpha who doesn't like it can eat rocks."

The house comes into view, and even from here I can see movement through the kitchen windows. Multiple figures working in what looks like coordinated chaos—lunch preparation in full swing.

My stomach growls, reminding me I skipped breakfast in my anxiety.

As we approach the kitchen, the scent hits first—real food, something warm and meaty, garlic and roasting root vegetables, the acid whisper of tomatoes giving way to something subtly sweet and caramelized at the edges. There’s a thump as someone sets a heavy pan down, then laughter, overlapping as the four men move around each other in choreographed chaos, elbowing for utensils and fridge space like they do this every day and somehow nobody’s ever gotten stabbed.

River is manning the stove, a streak of flour on his jaw, while Austin slices bread with surgical precision and Maverick picks basil leaves off the stem, muttering curses at the stubborn bits that refuse to detach. Cole stands at the head of the island, delegating with a steady authority that somehow doesn’t feel like barking orders but like keeping a big ship on course. The whole tableau would be domestic as a Norman Rockwell painting if it weren't for the energy crackling between them, a livewire charge of rivalry and unspoken inside jokes and—if I’m honest—something that looks a lot like care.

Wendolyn surveys the scene, arms folded over her chest, and grins with queenly satisfaction.

"Looks like your men are feeding you," she announces, loud enough that every head in the room turns our way. "About damn time someone put some weight back on you, Willa. Last week, I nearly got a paper cut brushing your elbow."

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