Page 140 of Knot Your Problem, Cowboy
You don’t get to skip to the happy ending.
Sometimes you just have to saddle up and ride the damn bull.
Even if it might kill you.
(God, I really hope that’s just a metaphor.)
City Omega out.(Still fighting. Still terrified. Still asking the universe, WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?)
PS: If any of you know how to organize a massive fundraising event in four weeks, slide into my DMs. I’ll trade you homemade cookies and eternal gratitude.
PPS: Or if you just want to donate to the “Save Sophia’s Sanity and Also Her Ranch” fund, that works too.
PPPS: Seriously, though, we’re going to pull off something incredible. Stay tuned. It’s about to get WILD at Wild Hearts Ranch.
26
SOPHIA
Three days of nonstop planning, phone calls, and design work for the fundraiser. My fingers are cramped from creating promotional materials, posters, social media graphics, donation trackers. My voice is hoarse from coordinating with vendors, sweet-talking local businesses into sponsorships, explaining over and over why this matters. I even managed to publish a detailed blog post to my followers, laying out exactly what the event is, why we’re fighting so hard, and how they can get involved. But we’re making progress. The event is coming together piece by piece, and for the first time since the lawyers showed up with their devastating news, I feel like we might actually pull this off.
The house is quiet, too quiet. The kind that makes every small sound echo. The guys left this morning before dawn to pick up a mechanical bull from a ranchover two hours away. The one Ridge had been planning to practice on, the one Cash swore was in working condition, turned out to be broken beyond repair. Rusted through at the joints, hydraulics shot, dangerous enough that even looking at it wrong might cause tetanus. So all three of them piled into Cash’s truck with the trailer attached, promising to be back by evening.
Perhaps I should have gone with them, as I miss them terribly. But someone needed to stay and manage the social media campaign preparations. Respond to donation inquiries. Answer the phone. Keep everything moving forward because we have limited time to make this a success.
I’m in my room, my nest, arranging and rearranging the pillows for the hundredth time. It’s a nervous habit I’ve developed, this compulsive need to perfect my space. The sun streams through the windows, lighting up the room. The hanging chair sways gently in the breeze from the cracked window, and Chonkarella and her kittens are running around somewhere in the house.
My laptop is open on the bed, showing the donation tracker we set up. We’ve raised eight thousand dollars in three days. It’s good, but nowhere near enough. I refresh the page obsessively, watching the number tick up in five- and ten-dollar increments. Every donation feels like a tiny victory, but the mountain we need to climb is still impossibly high.
A sudden ache flutters low in my belly, different from menstrual cramps, different from hunger, different from anxiety. It’s deeper, primal, spreading through my core like someone lit a match in my bloodstream. My skin suddenly feels too hot, like I’m burning from the inside out.
Then comes the gush of slick, warm and sudden, soaking through my underwear and pajama shorts in an instant.
My hand flies to the wall for support, knees already trembling. The laptop slides off the bed, hitting the floor with a crack I barely register.
“Fuck. No. Not now. Not fucking now.”
I know this feeling. Know exactly what’s happening when my heat charges forward—it’s not approaching anymore. It’s here. Full force. No warning. No gradual buildup like usual. Just zero to a hundred in seconds.
My phone. Where’s my phone?
I fumble for it on the nightstand, knocking over a book in the process. It hits the floor with a thump. A moan escapes as another wave of need crashes through me, this one strong enough to bring me to my knees.
My fingers shake so badly I can barely unlock the screen. The numbers blur, swimming in and out of focus. Last number called. Walker. Thank God.
It rings once. My thighs are trembling, more slick pooling between them.
Twice. I’m panting now, short, desperate breaths that do nothing to cool the fire.
Three times. By the third ring, I’m on my knees properly, forehead pressed to the cool hardwood floor, phone clutched in a death grip.
“Hey, darlin’, everything okay? Did the donation site crash again?”
His voice, warm and steady, breaks something in me.
“Walker,” I whimper. “Heat. It’s here. Now. Full heat.”
I hear his sharp intake of breath, then muffled cursing as he must have pulled the phone away. I hear him telling the others.
