Page 90 of Knotting the Cowboys

"—four Alphas letting an Omega run things?—"

"—heard she's got a head for business?—"

"—changing everything?—"

Gossip surely runs these towns, but let them wonder and whisper and try to make sense of something that doesn't fit their neat categories.

I take another sip of my latte, the bitter coffee mixing with sweet foam in perfect balance, and let myself exist in this moment.

An Omega alone but not lonely, claimed by none but belonging to something bigger than tradition or expectation.

The heat presses closer, making my skin glow with perspiration that has nothing to do with exertion. My body prepares itself despite the blockers, despite my will, despite the medical restrictions that keep me safe but slowly driving me insane.

Soon, I'll have to go back to the ranch, face those four sets of eyes that track my every movement with barely leashed hunger.

But for now, I sit in the morning sun, letting my presence be its own small revolution, counting down hours until I can stop pretending I don't want exactly what they're offering.

"You have the most intriguing smile," a voice says, and I look up to find a woman hovering near my table like a hummingbird who's discovered premium nectar.

She's all animated energy despite the heat, wearing a sundress that looks vintage but probably cost more than my truck payment, her dark hair pinned up in a style that manages to be both professional and slightly chaotic.

"I'm sorry?" I blink against the sun, trying to place her. Something about her screams 'I know everyone's business and I'm not sorry about it.'

"Your smile," she repeats, gesturing with hands that never stop moving. "It's got this quality—like you're thinking of a secret joke but also maybe planning someone's demise. Perfect for portraiture. You should model for our art club." She pulls out a chair without invitation, settling across from me with the confidence of someone who's never met a boundary she couldn't cheerfully ignore. "I'm Patty Summers, by the way. Localjournalist, gossip columnist, occasional investigative reporter, and full-time pain in the ass, depending on who you ask."

The name clicks—Wendolyn mentioned her. Something about being too curious for her own good. Looking at her now, with sharp brown eyes that seem to catalog every detail of my appearance, I believe it.

"Willa James," I offer, though something tells me she already knows exactly who I am.

"Oh, I know." She grins, producing a small notebook and pen from her purse like a magician with rabbits. The pen taps against the paper in a rhythm that matches her barely contained energy. "Everyone knows about Cole Montgomery's mysterious new Omega who inherited old man Garrett's ranch. You're the most interesting thing to happen to this town since Chief Martinez arrested the mayor's son for drunk driving."

I stiffen at being called Cole's Omega again, but Patty's already moving on, her pen now twirling between her fingers like a tiny baton. "Which brings me to my question—why are you here alone? Those possessive Alphas of yours usually don't let their precious cargo out of sight, especially not..." She pauses, nostrils flaring slightly as she catches my scent. "Oh. Oh, you're close to heat, aren't you? That explains the sweat. I thought it was just this ridiculous October heat wave."

My face flames hotter than the sun.

"How do you—why would you?—"

"Know about them?" Patty laughs, a bright sound that carries across the patio. "Honey, it's my job to know everything about everyone in this town. Plus, those four are hardly subtle. Do you have any idea how long I've been watching them orbit each other like planets afraid to collide?"

I lean forward despite myself, the cold latte forgotten.

"You know them well?"

"Know them? I've been documenting them for years." Her pen stops twirling as she fixes me with those sharp eyes. "Cole Montgomery—pack Alpha in everything but official paperwork, owner of more land than God and shoulders that could carry the world. Problem is, he thinks he has to. Man won't let a fly go by without emphasizing what is his, so even the little critter stays away from what he's marked."

The accuracy of it makes my breath catch. Just yesterday, he'd stood between me and an angry bull without hesitation, claiming the danger as his to handle.

"Then there's Maverick Cross," Patty continues, warming to her subject. "His best buddy in crime, though 'buddy' might be too gentle a word. Mavi's an over-possessive analytical man of muscle and brains. Sees threats in shadows and shadows in sunshine. The kind of man who'd burn down the world to protect what's his, then build a better one from the ashes just to prove he could."

I think of this morning's security check, the way Maverick had appeared from nowhere in the hallway, how he'd shown me every vulnerability in the ranch's defenses with the intensity of someone preparing for war.

"They need River and Austin to blend the two out," Patty says, pen now sketching abstract patterns on her notebook, "or else they'll probably drive each other insane with how crazy they are."

"River and Austin balance them?" I prompt, desperate to understand these men who've tangled themselves so thoroughly into my life.

"River Stone," she says, voice softening with something like fondness, "is earth and water made flesh. Steady as the mountains, gentle as rain. He's the one who reminds them they're human, not just protectors or providers. Keeps themgrounded when Cole tries to Atlas the whole world and Mavi starts seeing conspiracies in cloud formations."

The description is so perfect I can almost see River in the stables, hands gentle on damaged horses, teaching me patience through touch.

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