Page 93 of Knotting the Cowboys

River swings up onto the painted gelding with the fluid grace of someone who learned to ride before walk. He keeps space between us as we start down the street, but I can feel his constant awareness, the way he monitors my comfort without being obvious.

"Let's do one more thing first," he says as we near the edge of town, and there's something in his gentle eyes that makes my breath catch—a promise, a question, a possibility I'm not sure I'm ready for but desperately want to explore.

"What's that?" I manage, proud when my voice comes out steady.

His smile is soft, almost secretive. "Trust me?"

And despite everything—my body's rebellion, the history I don't fully understand, the careful distance we're maintaining—I find that I do.

Completely.

"Lead the way," I tell him, and follow him into whatever comes next.

Be Wild And Free, My Dandelion

~RIVER~

The boutique appears like a mirage at the end of Main Street, all soft pastels and feminine promise, and I guide the horses to the hitching post with hands that want to shake.

Willa's presence burns behind me, even with the careful feet of space between our mounts.

Twenty-four hours since her doctor visit, twenty-four more to go, and every breath I take carries her scent—honeyed need barely masked by the new blockers, making my jaw clench with the effort of control.

"Easy," I murmur, though I'm not sure if I'm talking to the horses or myself. My fingers work the knots with practiced ease while my mind races through every reason this is a terrible idea. Taking her shopping, being alone with her, pretending I can handle the sight of her trying on clothes when just watching her exist makes my blood run hot.

But she'd looked so lost this morning, fleeing the ranch like the house itself was suffocating her. And maybe it was—four Alphas trying to give space in a home that suddenly feels too small, our scents layering despite our best efforts. At least out here, with the October breeze and the normal sounds of town life, we can pretend at normalcy.

"I've never been in there," Willa says, studying the boutique's window display with curiosity tinged with wariness. "Looks expensive."

"Suzie loves it," I tell her, referring to the owner who's become a friend over the years. "She has good taste, carries quality pieces. Thought you might want something... lighter. For the heat."

The word hangs between us, loaded with double meaning. The October heat wave, yes, but also the biological fire burning through her system, making her skin glow with perspiration that has nothing to do with temperature. I force myself to look away from the damp curls clinging to her neck.

Inside, the boutique smells like lavender and possibility. Sarah greets us with professional warmth that sharpens into real delight when she recognizes me. Her Beta scent is thankfully neutral, not adding to the pheromone soup already threatening to drown me.

"River! And you must be Willa." She extends a hand, and I notice how Willa takes it carefully, like she's relearning how to exist in the world. "What are we looking for today?"

"Everything," I say before Willa can downplay her needs. "She needs a full wardrobe. Starting with things suitable for this heat."

I move through the store with purpose, selecting items while Willa trails behind making soft sounds of protest at the growing pile. A white romper catches my eye—innocent and delicate, the kind of thing that will torture me with how much skin it revealswhile technically being modest. I add it to the stack along with sundresses, light blouses, things that will let her skin breathe while her body adjusts.

"River, this is too much?—"

"You need clothes," I interrupt gently, meeting her orange-gold eyes. "Let me do this."

Something flickers in her expression—vulnerability, maybe, or recognition of care she's not used to receiving. She nods slowly, and I have to clench my fists to keep from reaching for her.

"I'll be right back," I tell her, needing space before I do something stupid like pull her against me right here in the shop. "Saw some boots across the street that would be perfect."

The boot store is a blessed reprieve, letting me breathe air that doesn't carry her scent. I select a pair of cognac leather cowboy boots, butter-soft and practical, imagining how they'll look with that white romper. The image makes heat pool low in my belly, and I have to count to ten before heading back.

By the time I return, Willa's in the changing room. Sarah gives me a knowing look but doesn't comment on the way I position myself on the bench outside—close enough to hear the rustle of fabric, far enough to maintain some semblance of control.

"How's it going in there?" I call, voice rougher than intended.

"Fine," comes the muffled response, followed by more rustling. "Just... give me a minute."

I close my eyes, trying not to imagine her undressing, trying not to think about pale skin and soft curves and the way she'd looked yesterday, flushed and panting after our ride. My hands grip the bench hard enough to leave marks in my palms.

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